Hlavní nádraží Part Two

It's impossible to write about hlavní nádraží, or hlavák as the Praguers call it, without mentioning the people. The station is a confluence of visitors and locals, the transient and regulars, though who is who is usually a matter of perspective.

I take a bench to the right of the central stairs. Opposite there used to be a newsagent. Now, there's a burger-store and its smell fills the upper hall. The first thing I notice about the people is how straight they walk, regardless of speed. As I tend to meander, often stopping to check out some incidental object or event, I am surprised that most people keep to a straight mental track. Even the woman in the painfully fashionable boots, her feet forced almost vertically straight, doesn't teeter.

This direct movement is all I can see that people share. Otherwise it is a mix of age, social background and I can only assume nations. And it is this blend that makes the place seem ordinary and is it this ordinariness that leads so many friends and acquaintances to be disappointed with Prague, that the city is too far from their lustrous, or dark, presumptions. As I remember one friend opined "Prague is just another international city." An understandable lament when you're passing through. But I'm happy to forsake some "authenticity" if it means meeting different people or finding decent wine, food and other comforts.

Beside me two teenagers chat. The guy is angle toward the girl. The girl is facing forwards but regarding him askance. He's offering her some cola and she's adamant that she doesn't want any. Health food advocates would cheer. Most of the conversation is a verbal tennis match of direct questions and answers, returned short and sharp. It reminds me of a conversation class, and I think they're both going to play the distance. I don't have the patience.

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I head to another knew addition, another Potrefená husa. I take a table by the door and watch the action. It seemed to be a poorer choice. The people maintain their determined private routes, but there's little else. A bad afternoon. I've seen so much here before. People shooting up. Punks wiling away the hours. Working women soliciting customers. People dressed for medieval battles.

A man comes into the pub. He hasn't entirely lost the face he had as a boy. His eyes seem mildly bemused as though this his first day out alone in the big smoke. Along with this there is the caution people have before experience clocks up. He catches me studying him and gives a perplexed, though not threatening, look, I guess the journal I'm writing in isn't so alarming, if only a little odd.

An older woman enters not long after. She smiles at me when I notice her. It's the first time this has happened while doing this blog. The usual reactions a more like the man's. I hear her order Modrý portugal, a variety of grape and the name of the wine made from it. Of course, she's getting the wine. G. and I had a fantastic bottle of St Martin's Modrý portugal last week. I think I'll end with this little coincidence.

Hlavní Nádraží Part 1

There might be more of me than usual in this post. I'm looking at the station through the grainy visors of the sleep deprived. But that's another story.

Aficionados of main train station's past may be disappointed by what they find. The herna bar on the top concourse - gone, the old scummy toilets - gone, the Fornetti shop - gone, the right side of the building - gone. Actually, they've been gone for a while but it's taken me this long to get to he station, which is currently being refurbished.

One thing about construction is that it brings out people's creative side. I'll miss these pics when the panels are removed. I wonder who will get them.









One benefit of these changes is the bookstore. This is the first time I've been inside. Usually, I'm in a rush to get my train or I want to avoid an impulse buy. Today, it's research.

The first book to grab my attention is a book of Nohavica's songs translated into English. I'm a little skeptical about this. I'm not so well versed in Czech that I would say the translation would lose some of the meaning. However, I am disappointed by the loss of mystery. I felt that the magic of his lyrics was something granted to those who took time to learn the language. I can see that I might be guilty of the more Bohemian-than-thou attitude a friend of mine accused other expats of demonstrating. At the same time, it would be a pity for Nohavica to become slotted into mass convenience, which is the fast track to mass indifference.

Beside that book is something by Jiří Gruša's Instructions to Czechia. His The Questionnaire is one of my favourite Czech novels. I was drawn to how rooted it seemed despite the imaginative flights. Again, this is an outsider's opinion and one no doubt formed from reading it here and so knowing the places before reading about them. His Instructions looks amusing and is something to add to my list of books I will try to read in Czech.

One book which everyone knows is Švejk. though I've read it a few times, I stop to flick through the large hard-cover edition. This one is illustrated by Petr Urban. Though Lada may have given us the definitive Švejk, there's something about Urban's scrappy rendtion, which seems more fitting, less an icon and more human. On the back of the book is an illustration of the two Švejks meeting. It seems a perfect image of the old and new Czech I think as I go to get my train home.

Jinonice

The name of the station reminds me of jitrnice, which I'm quite partial, providing it's prepared well and there's more offal than bread. This is not the only station which reminds me of food. The marbled columns of Můstek reminds me of the marbled appearance of tlačenka. As I once said, food always finds its way into the blog, though I'm not hungry now.

The area around Jinonice is covered in leafless trees, low bushes with gaudy berries and billboard towers. It's urban but totally removed from Prague. I feel as though I've strayed into some dead end around some tightly curled bend. Not that this is at the end of train line. It just doesn't feel part of the city. Háje or Černý most seem to be more apart of Prague though they lie on the outskirts.

Perhaps it's all the traffic which seems unnatural to me. Maybe, it's the building material merchants. One of them is a betonárna. "Beton" is the Czech for concrete and "árna" is added when place is associated with the product. So, a betonárna is a concrete plant, just as a cukrárna is a sweetshop (cukr is the Czech for sugar) and čekárna a waiting room (čekat is the Czech for wait).

As I approach the betonárna I catch a leaf. I suppose anyone my age from the Northern Hemisphere would find this embarrassing yet autumn and its colours remain an annual delight. Catching falling leaves is something I've only recently mastered.

Richard Lopez said in his blog I write like a tourist. At first I was a little dismayed at the comparison. I always hoped a tourist was what I wasn't. I've learnt the language, the culture, the history, keep abreast of current events here. But I suppose in some ways, these small ways, he's right. I am a tourist in that I'll never fully be of this place while this place continues to delight, amuse, confound and frustrate.

At the moment though, there is a feeling of deja vu. I'm sure I've never been here, so it can't be presque vu. Funnily, proof is all that distinguishes a sense of being somewhere you haven't visited from not quite remembering some place you have, except the only proof I have is memory. I guess I can ask G. when I get home.

What finally confirms that it's deja vu is the housing estate ahead. It consists of many square apartment blocks with balconies like soap dishes. I'm sure I would've ranted about something as ugly as that before. My last clue that I've not been here is that I see a bus driver lavatory. Though I doubt I would've noticed it if I hadn't read about it in Andrew's blog "Seldom Asked Questions."

A Quick Note

The following post was from a week ago. I know. I've sunk back into my bad ways.

Českomoravská ==> Vysočanská

I'm struggling to find anything interesting at Českomoravská. The exit is linked to a single block. There is a Dům Šance at the back. In the distance I can see a panelák with silhouettes of animals painted on it. Sorry to digress, but has panelák entered the English language? Wikipedia seems to think so. That would then bring the total up to between two and three depending on who you ask. As you all know, robot derives from the Czech word 'robota' for forced labour. Some suggest that pistol derives from the Czech píšťala, which means whistle. The spelling on the etymological dictionary appears to be wrong.

Anyway, back to Českomoravská. The area is dominated by the squat metallic Sazka arena. Fifties style UFO, giant Frisbee, overturned dog-bowl could all be used to describe, but none of these comparisons would capture its ominous presence, inhuman and sterile amid the flats. I went to a jazz festival there many years ago. Apart from this guy and a Hungarian pianist, whose name escapes me, it was singularly one of the worst musical experiences I've been to. The venue had a lot to do with it. And Van Morrison. Though it's against the rules, I'm going to head to the next station.

Unfortunately, a large shopping centre stands above Vysočanská. At least it's warm inside. I circle around to warm up and, vainly, search for something interesting. The best thing I spot are a group of kids racing in the opposite direction of a pedestrian conveyor belt. A girl with bright leggings wins.

Outside, there's a park with a grammar school opposite. The park is littered with leaves. Whereas last year, the leaves were a bright carpet, today they take the term litter quite literally. Hundreds of discarded brown paper bags come to mind. Admittedly, it is later in the year than when I was at JZP.

Vysočanská is the adjective of Vysočina, the name of the area, which also means highlands. The shopping centre has commandeered the top. The area gets more interesting when I head down. I watch a fishmonger try to catch a pike in his net. Despite the small size of the aquarium, he's having difficulty. The sleek fish glides away from the net. It takes him five attempts before it's caught for the two women waiting patiently.

Nearby is a second-hand shop. I think of my good friend, the writer and second-hand shop connoisseur Vanessa Berry . I think Vanessa may be disappointed by this store. It is not the trove of discarded objects awaiting her imagination to vivify. It's like a clothes store, the items perfectly arranged only faded and musty. It's tempting to imagine that the folds of these clothes contain more than the lining. Were these clothes abandoned by families who had fled in 1968? I suppose that's the typical outsider's perspective - to constantly romanticize this place and keep it always just beyond the finger tips.

Flora

I'm in the mood for a walk through a cemetery, and it's not the time of year. It's the easy quiet and solitude I'm after or at least what I imagine I'll find here. The outside still creeps in over the crumbling walls. There are children here too with their little scooter bikes and some people appear to use it as a short-cut from the tram stop.

Why I'm in this mood I cant' say exactly. I've just felt a sudden need for the sort of sobriety found here. Those that know me can make a pun on that as they wish. Maybe, all I needed was somewhere to let the well-spring of random thoughts surge and flow out. Lately, whatever I've written has been purpose driven. Being in an old cemetery is a pleasure for its aimlessness - and there are fewer people here than in a park.

Czech graveyards bear the marks of the country's changed history. Angels weighed down with cement wings and forlorn Christs with moss coloured robes populate the front section. Further in I find a gravestone in Russian and another in German. Unfortunately, I can't get to visit the Jewish section. A road blocks my access as it when I was in Želivského.

The newer stones are as austere as the older ones are extravagant. Slabs of black marble with only names and dates. A few of them have photos or engravings of the deceased. These engravings are eerie. Grey and translucent, it was as if the family wanted to be haunted. And the images immortalize more than the memory. Double chins, eighties perms, caterpillar mustaches commemorate the dead. But to be loved is to be imperfect. Only idols are flawless.

The blank slabs are an invitation to my imagination. What would I want as my epitaph? To be honest, I'm too distracted by the names to think of anything remotely witty or appropriate. Czech surnames are far more descriptive and imaginative than English ones. Among the gravestones I find a Mr Blackbird (Kos), a Mr Hedgehog (Ježek) a family of hooks (Hák), someone who is black (Černý)and another who is quiet (Tichý). The most interesting was the man whose name means "was having breakfast" (Snídal).

The use of the masculine past tense as a surname is not uncommon. Bohumil Hrabal's surname means "raked" or "was raking" depending on context. Perhaps, his ancestor was a gardener, though I'm not sure why eating breakfast warrants a family name.

As I leave, I notice someone taking photos. On the exterior of the cemetery wall was some stencil art, which I'd like to share with you:

Náměstí Republiky

I need Lt. Hůrka's help with this one. I can't do it alone. So, I'm slipping into my Hůrka suit. Flaky skinned, droopy eyed Bolík Hůrka is on the case, though I'm not sure what the case is. Maybe he'll be able to work it out from the clues he's gathered:

* Photos of tea collectors happily toiling. Pictures by Liptons. Tea leaves are waxier than expected.
* 'Blesk' on the side of a van. Blesk, which means both flash and lightning is the name of his friend's dog. It is one of the few Czech dog names he knows. It's also the name of a tabloid.
* A stray feather. No idea which bird. He once had a feather in his favourite hat but he lost it on the way home.
* Ties in the window look as though they're waiting to be examined by doctors (Ahhhh)
* A leaflet asks "Why are ginger-haired people disappearing?"
* The German for Italian shoes is "Itaienische Schuhe".
* This picture reminds him of his daughter's boyfriend. That's if he existed and actually had a daughter.

* He hears someone whistle. This is the first time in a while.
* A mother calls her child "Little Bug". He called his daughter this too. Still does from time to time.
* He sees the statue of Žižka. He's never been down this block before.
* He's never noticed the tops of those building before either.
* Another man is whistling.
* There's a stain on the wall of the escalator tunnel exactly the same shape and same position as in Narodní třída, except this one is black.
* This statue again.
He doesn't know what it means.
* The leaves still look waxy.
* He lied about the stain.