Palmovka

This morning G. said, “Why don't you go to Palmovka?”. It's not exactly random, but it isn't part of my route, so this seemed like sufficient reason. As with many of the stations on the yellow line, Palmovka is characterless. Instead of the daydream inducing paneling there is acrylic and brick. Next week, I'll pull a name out of hat.

Out of the train I can go left or right. I go left. The upper concourse, like many stations, is crammed with small shops. One difference is the coat of arms for Líbeň affixed to one of the walls. I seem to recall that Líbeň was an independent town before it was absorbed into Prague. I could later check this out and incorporate the facts into the post. Right now I'm not sure.

Of the four exits I take the closest. Aboveground is what could've once been a town. The terraces seem to be arranged around a former square. I follow the block behind this exit. At the very first corner a small sculpture sits on the awning. It resembles a word, but none I recognise. By chance I have the camera and go to take picture. Then I change my mind. A camera will establish a different, though not worse, relationship, a more detailed but compartmentalised one. I want to wander around here and absorb the broad and imprecise feel of the place.

Time has gone to work on the buildings, cracking bricks, ripping off plaster, punching out a few windows. Developers are starting to cash in on its efforts. Not as much as elsewhere thankfully. The area is as close to what I imagine Prague would be like all those years ago when I decided to come here.

The path around this block leads back to the supposed square. Prague metro is quite new and cars were not as numerous as they are now. This place could easily have been a place of business where farmers brought goods. Maybe people worked in what looks like the remains of a brewery. That wouldn't have employed too many. Maybe time had been more merciless with some of the other buildings.

I return to the station to go to the next block. A wall runs across the concourse, so I will have to return to the platform to get to the other side. The wall looks new. What made them decide to suddenly cut the two halves off from each other?

The next exit takes me to a bus station. It's a scene anyone at a bus station anywhere knows well - people queuing, a few guys sharing a drink. That's not a bad idea. Summer is pretty much a memory. Those benches aren't going to be so welcoming for the next few months.

Back to the concourse and another exit. I leave and immediately approach a bright red mural. It's a man breathing fire. In the long serrated flame are words. All I can make out is Laďa. That might not be right. I follow the black wrought characters, trying to make out more of them. On an adjacent wall I see 'B. Hrabal' carefully painted and above his name an excerpt. Above on the same wall as the mural is this:

Bohumil Hrabal, *28.3.1914 + 3.2.1997

one of the greatest Czech authors of the 20th century, lived in the years 1950-1973 in the street Na Hrázi in the house no. 326/24, which stood in this place. He considered his stay in this house to be the happiest time of his life. Here he wrote Diving for Pearls, Pábitele, Tales of Those about to Die, today now classic works. Closely Observed Trains and Dancing Lessons for Seniors and Advanced were composed here too. Even later he returned to this neighbourhood in his memoirs and set the plots of his books Tender Barbarian and A Home Wedding. Thanks to the translation of Hrabal's works into dozens of foreign languages this little street, which he called timeless Na Hrázi, has become renowned through the whole world.

Further down is mural with pastel images of the former inhabitants, Hrabal, books, shelves, cats, a frothy capped mug of beer, a giant typewriter. This must be where he lived with Boudník. Tender Barbarian was his memoir about the artist and Boudník died sometime around the time he was here. I could check all this, make it look like I know, but this blog isn't about that.

G. must've known though. No wonder she sent me. Hrabal and Boudník are two people we admire. The blog's name is a pun on one of Hrabal's books. Gifts don't come much better than this – a memory ready formed for me to collect.

So where are his old haunts? Where did he watch the poet philosopher Egon Bondy wring beer from his beard? In which of these pubs if any did he hear Boudník speak at length on sex and art? I don't know. I will know. But not now.

I get out the camera. I want some pictures for me. I want to show G. later. In my enthusiasm I realise I have stepped I am no longer on the footpath. A few more steps and I am on another block. Why not? It's a rule I'm imposing and it's only one more block. But where does it stop? Next week the entry could be anywhere.

But the camera's out. I head back to the first corner and take a picture of the sculpture.