Jiřího z Poděbrad

I take the exit past reliefs of the Bohemian coat of arms and what appears to be Prague castle. It's hard to tell because each piece is rendered in a lazy municipal council version of cubism, which means the reliefs merely look half-finished. There's a park at the top of the stairs. I was about to write another park in reference to last week's entry, but it sounded as though I was fed up with green spaces when in fact I'm delighted to be here.

A deluge of leaves lie on the ground. A stream of them runs down the stairs into the station. I am reminded of the book World with us, which imagines how many of our largest structures would collapse through the action of the smallest agents: seeds, sands, droplets of water, guano and leaves. I fantasize the Prague metro filling with rotten leaves creating a great vein of black humus coursing under the city, crawling with worms, beetles and moles.

Today the leaves are yellow and green. Some fresh ones have followed the autumn fashion and also dropped to the ground. Though I've lived here for five years I can't resist the urge to kick a few into the air. If someone were with me, he or she would get a handful of leaves thrown at him/her. I leaf fight would ensue. But it's just me so I kick some more leaves across the path. The air has a burnishing chill. My cheeks must be red and glowing. It's probably the healthiest I've looked for a while.

Candy apple cheeks as an old friend described them – a friend I'm not in contact with any more. It would be strange, artificial even, to use his or her name. It would imply a connection which dissolved a long time ago. Who'd think such a pleasant image could make me so maudlin?

The park is mostly empty. A woman is smoking on a bench. A young guy cuts over the grass while carrying shopping bags. At the end of the park, roses are unexpectedly blooming. They are intense points of red in this green and yellow. The few that have opened fully look burnt around the edges. On my way back there's a guy with torn jeans, carrying brass guttering. Something about his tough appearance makes me think that there's a sinister motive behind those long pieces of metal, which glisten like ruddy blades in the late afternoon sun, which seem sharp enough to slice off fingers with a single blow. The poor guy is probably just renovating his flat. I'm ashamed to be so easily threatened by a stranger.

I'm in a morbid mood today and I'm ruining this park, so I go to find a coffee.

On the next block, there's a cukrárna. I decide to explore the area a little more. I find some shops, a trendy restaurant. The facades across the street are more interesting. Not as tarted up as in other places. My steps are so slow and small, I become aware of walking in a way I'm usually not. Walking that feels part of the footpath and not just getting from one point to another. Up there live the other 'mes'. The glamourous urbane tangents of possible lives. Those high ceilings and wooden floorboards would make everything come together. Well, that was what I used to think I needed. I turn the corner and say farewell to these lives not lived. My pace quickens. I really want that coffee.

Something I've never understood is why do so many Czech cukrárnas resemble bathrooms: tiles, mirrors, plastic plants and pastels. It gives the entirely wrong impression of the cakes and coffee. I would prefer something antique, but that's no surpise. Apart from an espresso I order a piece sacher, piled high with cream. I take a bite of the cake swallow it down with the coffee and take out my journal.

The crowd are a mix of people. Two university students, an old man and his middle-aged daughter, two council workers, an old woman on my right and a man on my left, who looks like he has been hiking. As much as I dislike the décor, I love the atmosphere. It's sedate and civilised. No music for my thoughts to battle with, no hyperdextrous brewster, no stylish floor staff. An old-world reserves pervades the place despite the newer trappings. The people are engaged in the quiet conversations and the simple indulgence of a cake and coffee. Kaffeeklatsch, I think the Germans call it. But I think there's a more negative connotation, implying gossip or at least idle chatter. However I like the precision of the word, and the alliteration sounds like indistinguishible background chatter. I don't know if there's a Czech equivalent.

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Jiřiho z Poděbrad. When I first arrived, most of my English speaking colleagues refered to this place as the unpronounceable station. I mangled its name pretty badly myself at first. I think I have a better grasp of the sounds now. Or that's what I tell myself.

Most of my friends who have come to visit me have come to Jiřiho z Poděbrad. One reason is that a favourite pub of mine is here. It's unpretentious and relaxed, if smoky. In fact I'm going there later tonight hence the reason I'm writing about this station. I know. I'm cheating again.

When my father first came here I took him to that pub. It was a sweltering August day. We were sitting at the outside benches having a beer. Behind us some old guy was muttering in what sounded like English. I think he was parroting us. I went to a newsagent to get some water for the bus ride home. When I returned dad had befriended this old guy. In conversation with Dad he was lot more lucid. Dad even gave him a cigarette.

The other reason I often come here is that it's the location of one of my favourite buildings: the Church of the Greatest Heart of the Lord (Nejsvětějšího Srdce Páně). It was known by most of my early colleagues as the cubist church, though the inspiration was apparently early Christain architecture. This term was used instead of the train station. “Let's meet at the station by the cubist church,” we would say. Despite knowing this is incorrect, I continue to use this term as it was how we knew it.

The most striking feature is of course the clock. It has two faces both made of glass and at the right time of year, and the right point of the day, the sun can be seen through it. I'm here too late today and have to be content with its more ordinary splendour.

In all this time, I've never been inside. All day I wondered if I would go in. I couldn't come here to write about this church and not venture inside. At the front of the church I have second thoughts. I'm not religious but these people have a right to worship in private. As I'm reconsidering an old woman is holding the door open for me. Since there is no facial expression to convey “I'm just here observing stuff for my blog, and since I'm not a Christian I'm not sure if I really should go in,” - I go in.

The ceiling is incredible. Imagine a series of squares, about a metre and half by a metre and a half, with gradually smaller square inside, so that each portion resembles an impression left by a miniature Mayan pyramid. At the front are proud brass looking Christ figures, not as delicate or sickly, nor eternally benign, as the stautes I remember from childhood. There is a stern nobility in the face worthy of worship. From the ceiling hang 34 metallic spheres. Just below the ceiling are stained glass mirrors each with a representation of a heart along with fish and crosses.

It's been five years since I was in a church that is still being used. The last time was at Christmas in Scotland. It's been about seventeen years since I've been in one as a member of the faithful. I can't justify going and sitting a pew, so for once loitering back with the small tourist group is the better option.

People are going to confessional. It's been a long time since I did that too. In one of the four ornate booths, I see a young boy reading from a note book. There's no screen to provide him with any privacy. I wonder how can a young boy fill a note book with his sins. When I went to confession I would just repeat my two standard misdemeanours, “I took biscuits when I shouldn't and I was mean to my sister.” I've made up for it since then.

The boy's younger sister is also taking advantage of the lack of screen and is going into say hello before her mum whisks her away. She doesn't return to see her brother. She's found something better, the entrance to the priest's side. Her mother just manages to grab her before she disappears all the way in. The mother tries to occupy her with the statue of Christ after the crucifixion, when he's slumped in Mary's arms. An image I know better than those aristocratic versions at the front. The little girl is determined to see what's inside this booth.

Her behaviour makes me think how unnatural religion is. All the girl's most human features – her curiousity, her delight in life, her playfulness are inappropriate here.When she's old enough she'll be filling in an exercise book with her wrong doings and no longer smiling so freely.

Suddenly a voice comes through those spheres. I can only make out the word 'otce', which is the fourth case of 'otec', the Czech for father. I assume at first that they are announcing the arrival of the priest. The church has changed a lot in two decades.

Then I realize the woman is reciting the Lord's Prayer followed by the Hail Mary. The people in the pews recite the prayer back in barely audible voices. It's as private as they can be in a crowd. I stay to listen to the woman's voice. I like the sound of Czech, when it is annuciated as softly as this. It's a language which can carry a lot of tenderness and sincerity, though I'm only enjoying the soothing burr of her voice and ignoring the message.

The pleasure doesn't last long. I suddenly become uncomfortable with this whole scene of a prayer broadcast over speakers and the people repeating it back. Even after I stopped believing I would often defend people's religion for the comfort it brought them. The church was guilty of enumerable crimes, but faith at least provided succour even inspiration. At this I only see the drone mentality it engenders. I think of how I used to take part in this. I have to go.

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The closest Czech translation I could find for Kaffeeklatsch was 'klevety', but the use seems to be closer to the English word gossip.

Prosek

After half a bottle of decent Argentinian wine and a glass of just palatable modrý portugal, I'm in Prosek. Until now I've only known it from the metro map. I shouldn't be here though. I intended to start this blog a year ago, when there were only 52 stations, one for each week, and so give the blog a temporal as well as spacial completeness. Procrastination interceded, so now there are three new stations. Prosek is one of them.

The train glides to a stop. I think it's the bold primary coloured freshness that has made me choose that word. I doubt the trains operate any differently here as any other station, though it is easy to imagine that, like the rare occasions when I enter an upmarket bar, this machine is affecting some grace.

Before I look around I head to the newsagent to buy a copy of Reflex and some gum. I noticed on the ride here, that the latest Hana and Hana is in English. For the uninitiated Hana and Hana are two ever youthful high school students who ruminate on the world from an apparently Czech, teenage, female perspective. Sometimes they come across as Socratic fools, expressing great wisdom in their senseless remarks. Sometimes it's just deliciously cruel. I'm curious to see how it works in English. The gum is for my post-wine breath.

The afternoon's drinking has also made finding a loo a necessity. I flick through the magazine to find the comic while heading toward the WC sign. The comic seems to work. Some of the language seems a little unnatural, but the final comment raises a smile. At times I like a cheap laugh. And I see I've over shot the bathroom entrance.

From this little stop I head to the nearest exit. It opens out into what seems to be a business park. Around the corner I see it is called Prosek Point. I assume they mean point as in 'position' and not 'promontory'. Around me there are only paneláks. Some of the longest I've ever seen. They stretch about 100m and in a line appear to be sawing up through the ground. The three buildings in the park resemble, if you'll excuse the analogy, those big vehicles the jawas drive in “Star Wars”. Only these buildings have many more windows.

Beside the second exit is a poster of Octobriana, a Soviet comic book heroine, drawn by the Czech Bohumil Konečný. There's an exhibition of his work at the moment. I only know this because I read an article somewhere about Soviet comics a few months back. This entry does have a sort of geek feel...comics, jawas. That was all part of my history as much as an earnest pursuit of expression.

Above ground there's a shopping centre. I walk past it and head a little further on to a park. A huge park. It stretches for a couple of city blocks. This was not what I imagined when G. closed her eyes, spun around and pointed to Prosek on the metro map. The business park was more what I expected. Instead there 's this expanse of autumn colours, kids running and cycling, smaller ones waddling beside prams. Some older boys are trying to rap in one of the parks many nooks. There's a park with a flying fox (zip-line for Americans, aerial runway for the British). I'm going to try that if no-one's around later. Two younger children are damming an artificial stream with small stones. They seriously give each other instructions about where to place the rocks. The artificial stream leads to an artificial pond. There are benches around. I join a young couple laughing and wrestling and a policewoman stealing wistful glances at them.

Magpies skip around us under the trees. They're smaller than the Australian ones, and not at all vicious. Their tails stick out rigid and elegant like a clasped fan. For a long time I had no idea they were the namesake of our hairstealing, eye-gouging counterparts. I knew them only as straka, and the foreign word suited what I took to be a completely foreign bird.

The police officer gets up. There mustn't be much for her to do here. Ward stray children and dogs away from the water? Or perhaps this serenity is just an outsider's illusion. I'm going to enjoy it for today though. It's not just Friday and the wine. It feels like a while since it's just been me in a park with my thoughts, not matter how inaccurate. The young couple move off too. Perhaps they've had enough of me writing all of this down.

A trio of teens soon replace them. Two of them are clearly a couple, and unlike the first two, they seem more accustomed to each other. Arms just hang over shoulders. They're including their friend in the conversation. They're also sharing a joint. They must've waited for the police officer to leave, though it would be nice to think that she displayed some largesse and left to let them have this time. A little gift she could enjoy vicariously. But it's just too much to believe.

Mid-conversation they start saying, “I'm a stupid blond girl.” It's clearly directed toward the girl. For all the textbooks, course and efforts of their teachers, it dismaying to think that is the sentence they use. They repeat it so uniformly it sounds as if they're imitating it from a movie or TV show, which is even more dismaying. The language will one day be rendered down into these thick rubbery chunks, harmlessly hurled about a park for a laugh but meaning nothing.

The three of them get bored with this and go back to talking. Their natural conversation is much quieter than those practiced lines. Eventually they finish the joint and go, glancing at me as they do. I suppose this is one of the perils of doing this so publicly. People start to become a little suspicious. I could do this more surreptitiously and try to mentally capture everything, but I enjoy writing in the open like this. It frees me up. I'm likely to invent less – a little less. And since this is a blog, it only makes sense to take the exhibitionism a little further.

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There are dog prints at the bottom of the artificial pond. The leaves are the colour of the evening's sunset. In the air is the chill I love. I can smell dirt. The playground is still full. The flying fox will have to wait for some other time.

The last block from the train station appears massive. Behind the blocks of flats, there is a long wall running unbroken over the small hill. There should be enough to make this a double entry. But the access roads to the flats run across the path and after last week's minor infraction I feel compelled to adhere to my rules a little more today. I could wander along some of the footpaths among the blocks, but they seem modern and uninspiring.

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Being so far from the centre, there are hardly any people on the train. An empty carriage is a rare pleasure and the ideal place to finish these last few lines. It will only be like this for the next two stops.