Praha: 4 - Snapping Saints on the King's Bridge

If you ever go to Prague, you absolutely must visit the Charles Bridge. That is all I heard in the week before I left, and it's what I'm saying to you now. It is an artist's dream, with Gothic copper and stone statues that silhouette against the river, and even on a dull murky day, as it was on the day I crossed it, the religious scenes of moaning sinners and angels with their eyes rolled to heaven sent shivers down my spine. I was so pleased I hadn't stayed in bed, listening to my head telling me to lurk under the dark of my duvet. The brisk walk along the riverside to the Charles Bridge had aired my hangover from the night before, and although I felt slightly nautious, it was nothing a morning coffee and cigarette couldn't handle.

Because the morning was murky, the bridge was clearer than the usual tourist hot spot it becomes in the summer months with people swarming the statues; SLR digital cameras out and flashing them wildly, viewing the sights through the lens, rather than their eyes.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

I thought I'd take full advantage of the fact the bridge was bare of people, and whipped out my three year old Canon digital camera (who's pixels aren't quite as fabulous as they once were). Angling it around, I tried to capture how the statues stood tall, like misshapen street lamps; how they appeared imposing upon the soft pastel coloured roofs of the city behind them. The Gothic figures seemed cold and characterless until you got right up close and saw the expressions carved into their faces.

Street sellers littered the bridge, and there were only a few - the brave few - taking into account how cold it was. Their bandy-legged wooden stalls, covered in multicoloured woven blankets with pictures and knickknacks tied up with string, batted about in the wind as they let go of the tablecloth for a moment to wrap their scarves up and over their heads, pulling them tighter across their faces.




I took my time, wandering further along the bridge, trying to read the many different faces on the statues. I imagined the countless others who'd also walked by slowly and stared, wondering on their stories. I wanted to take time enough to appreciate the way their pleated robes fell so softly, how their eyes looked so longing; even though just carved from stone. I ran my hand over the cold gritty stone and smooth semi-precious metal, all worn away from years of touching. It was the same as when I visited the Avebury Stone Circle in Wiltshire last year. I'd walked around each stone in the circle and said 'hello' - even to the little weird ones that had been rubbed away too much through time, and no longer stood quite upright. Probably, (a little foolishly) I thought that if I missed one out, I might make him feel bad. So I paced from one statue to the next, guided by my senses, as if almost in a ritual.

My favourite of all the statues was of St.John of Nepomuk. It struck me immediately as totally beautiful; the bronze having turned a brilliant shade of green, in stark contrast to the gold palm leave which was held in his right hand. I loved the expression on his face, with his head slightly tilted, but most of all I was drawn to his halo of golden stars, as if illuminated like an aura around his head.


I found out a little later, that St.John is the oldest statue on Charles Bridge and is said to bring luck. You see, St.John was once a parson who refused to betray a secret told to him by none other than the Queen. His lips remained sealed as the King asked him to tell. But to the King and all of Bohemia, St.John remained silent. The King, in outrage had him tortured and thrown to his death from the Charles Bridge into the depths of the river Vltava. It is told that five stars appeared shining above the murky waters of the river exactly where the martyr's body was thrown.


Now, if I think back to when I'd stood at the statue of St.John of Nepomuk, gazing at his starry aura, I remember seeing the people in front of me rubbing his green tinged toes, and at the time, I did wonder why.

Praha: 3 - Gay bars and birthday queens

Have you ever been to a gay bar?
I have. They are the single (or not so single) woman's hideout for a fun, drink-fuelled night out without the worry of being groped by a lout. They are full of hundreds of men who dress better than Madonna, dance better than her backing dancers, and will openly declare their adoration for Madonna herself. If it's not Madonna, it'll be Kylie, Cher, Gaga, or (who my friend David would swear by), Barbra Streisand.
The gays love the glamour, and flamboyance of such stars, and guaranteed, they will never fail to tell you what they think of your chosen outfit, with complete honesty.


One night I remember, about three years ago, I was walking down Canal Street (the famous street in the heart of Manchester's Gay Village). I'd donned the three inch heels, red polka dot pencil-skirted dress, and backcombed my hair to high heaven, drawing thick black flicks of eyeliner over my eyelids. I thought I looked fabulous. It didn't matter that the slit up the back of my dress perhaps crept a little too close to displaying my knickers - because I was linked arms with two gay guys, and together we rocked the cobbles, strutting our way down Canal Street.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, I heard:


"Oh, my GOD."


I looked to where the shriek had come from. A man dressed in ripped jeans, and a tight white T-shirt was pointing at me and expressing wildly to his friends. His friends were all dressed like him - just in different coloured T-shirts, and all with toned abs and (verging on orange) perma-tans.


"Darling, I can't believe it, it's Amy Winehouse! Look at her face!"


I was slightly taken aback, and unsure whether to be pleased or horrified at his comparison (especially as he'd pointed out my face, not my beehive hair), but I didn't have time to respond, as they had already strutted past me, eyeing up the next person walking towards them.


Apparently there is a gay scene in Prague, and I wasn't at all surprised to hear that Graeme had already found it and was working on where we'd be going that evening for his birthday night out, before I'd even made myself a much needed coffee upon arriving at our apartment.
He had a map of Prague spread out on the table, with his iPhone in his hand, mumbling about roaming charges, and simultaneously asking if anyone had a pen.
Our apartment was modern, kitted out from top to toe in Ikea furniture, and located high up on the 6th floor of an old building, giving us beautiful views of the Vltava river. Having arrived a day later than the others, I was naturally last in the pecking order for choosing rooms. My bed was one of the two singles on the open mezzane, so I dragged my bag up the wooden staircase which rose from the corner of the open plan living room and kitchen. I chose one of the beds, and started unpacking my things carefully on the side table whilst subconsciously aware of Graeme shouting bar suggestions and random locations in Prague to no one in particular.
As usual, I was the one who had the biggest suitcase; the only one of the eight who'd checked my bag in at the airport, rather than carry it on as hand luggage.
This is because I tend to pack 'just in case'. I must make sure I bring enough shoes and clothes to suit all possible situations. So for my long weekend in Prague, I'd packed two pairs of boots (brown and black), two pairs of ballet pumps, my converse (so comfy), and finally, one pair of heels - but after witnessing the amount of cobbles I'd passed on the way to the apartment, I was guessing I wouldn't be needing those. And that was just shoes, never mind clothes.
Laying all my possible 'going out' clothes on the bed, I leant over, and casually asked anyone who might hear me in the living room below, "So, what are you all wearing tonight?"
Considering I was hitting Prague with four gay guys and four girls, I figured only fabulous would do, so my eyes lingered over my new wet-look leggings and a silky black top.
"Something warm!" came the unanimous reply from the living room.
"Really?"
I poked my head over the banisters, just to check they weren't kidding.
Of course. No, it is below freezing outside. Silky won't do.

We had split into two taxis, and Graeme had given both the drivers directions to a location on the opposite side of the city. We drove over one of the bridges and I looked out the window, watching the neon lights reflecting and jumping across the water. The traffic was busy, and the taxi often jolted as the driver braked suddenly, which reminded us to stop laughing too loudly and allow the driver to concentrate on the seemingly free-for-all roads in central Prague. It was only a ten minute drive, but the further from our apartment we went, the quieter the streets were, and the less people we saw walking them. It started to snow - not like the flaky barely-there snow I'd seen at the airport - but really pretty, catch-on-your-eyelashes snow.
The taxi driver nodded at us, indicating we'd reached our destination. "Here. You pay 100 koruna."


I got out of the taxi after handing the driver a handful of coins. We'd pulled into what looked like a residential street. I looked to Graeme, as if his looking at maps all afternoon meant he might have some idea whether we were in the middle of the gay scene, or not. If we had reached gay Prague, it certainly didn't look like it.


There was a bar on the corner, only distinguishable by the Pilsner sign lit up on the side of the wall and various beer mats taped to the window. As my black ballet pumps hit the freshly fallen snow lying on the pavement, I wiggled my shoe to the side, making the new snow squeak beneath my feet, creating pretty patterns along the path. The others in the second taxi weren't here yet. Not a good sign. It was still snowing  and I congratulated myself on ditching the wet-look leggings, and opting for thick wooly tights and a skirt instead. I bent my knees repetitively, doing a little dance in the deserted street to keep warm.


We heard the others laughing and shrieking, their voices getting louder from two streets away. I couldn't believe there was a gay club on this quiet street. But apparently there was, and we found it within five minutes. No one was queuing outside. There were no transvestites on metre high stilts promoting the club, nor jeering at the queue, as they usually do in Manchester. The sign was lit up - but it wasn’t outrageous - propped above a large, heavy wooden door. They had no bouncers standing outside. It looked as if it could have been someone’s home. All eight of us paused outside, shivering into our coats, before Graeme plucked up the courage to enter, and picked up the heavy hooped door handle, and pushed.


The heat blasted our faces, and music from the Black Eyed Peas filled our ears. Coloured lights danced up the walls, and the bouncers (who had in fact sensibly chosen to stand inside) looked stern with knitted eyebrows and black suits. We handed our coats in at the cloakroom and edged down a spiral staircase into the club which was located in the basement. So that’s why it was so quiet outside. The lights got brighter, and I saw those men again in skin-tight T-shirts, edging past us on the stairs, with abs that could have challenged those of Hercules. I wished I’d worn heels – I am hardy small at 5.5' - but these men were huge and I came face to face with biceps, shoulder blades, beers and cigarettes. Edging around them to reach the busy bar was proving difficult. I gave a little poke to the muscles on their backs, took a deep breath, and whilst trying to speak politely over the music, I said; “Excuse me? Do you mind letting me past?”
They didn’t even turn around. So I made like a little rhino and barged my way up to the bar; and (because I didn’t know the Czech for anything other than beer) I ordered a Pilsner.


We charged the dance floor, all eight of us, as the DJ played (true to form) Kylie Minogue’s Dance.  Boy, we showed those Czech’s how to dance. Pints of beer in the air, arms waving, bums wiggling, gays grinding. It was brilliant.
The smoking ban in England has been in place for nearly four years. Four years is long enough to forget how smokey nightclubs can get by about midnight. I’d forgotten all about the cigarette burns you get on the dance floor from those incredibly pissed, over enthusiastic dancers, who express themselves by pointing their cigarettes into your limbs. I’d forgotten how your hair, your clothes, your skin smells of smoke, when you haven’t even had the pleasure of one cigarette. That club was foggy, it was so smoky.
Graeme had been plied with one too many toxic Czech shots and cheap champagne. He was looking starry eyed and was draped over the shoulders of two seriously camp French guys. They were looking him up and down, poking his belly and shrieking “He is GOOD quality!” in time with the music. We were all merry, and Lady Gaga had been played an acceptable amount of times.


It was a better than average night in a typical gar bar. All except for one thing. These gays did not appear to be 100% gay...
The doubts began as I noticed a tall, dark, lurking sort of a man (who sounds attractive, but really wasn't) staring at us girls and generally lurking a little too close to Denise, whilst looking me up and down. I nudged Lucy:


"Um. Is lurker over there, staring at us, or Graeme?"


It was quite feasible that he was staring at Graeme, who was giving people something to look at by spilling  his drink over everyone around him as he whirled and twirled across the dance floor.


"Hmm. I'm not sure. Here, lets move over to Pete - see if he follows."


We wiggled our way over to Pete. Lurker followed. At which point Pete piped up:


"Hey, watch that bloke over there; I think he's after your handbags."


Me and Lucy looked at each other sheepishly - of course. Theft seemed more plausible than a come-on in a gay bar.
Then again, maybe not.
A small, shy Czech guy who had been dancing on the outskirts of our group, plucked up the courage to approach Josie. He grabbed her hand and started dancing with her, then me, then Lucy - a little too seductively for my liking. The not-so shy Czech then turned full circle and started to grind Graeme.
It was at the point of Czech boy kissing Graeme and Lurker trying to buy Josie a drink that I realised we weren't in Kansas anymore. 


I noticed the big mirrored walls around the dance floor, and the space suddenly looked much smaller than it had seemed before. Attributing to this was the fact the club had got busier, with people getting more drunk, pushing to get through and almost everybody trying to check each other out in the mirrors. The smoke was so foggy now, my contact lenses felt like little pieces of glass in my eyes.
Pete grabbed me, noticing my dancing arms were more flailing now it had hit 3am, and hissed loudly in my ear:


 "You ready to go then?"


I was so hot from dancing, and the sheer mass of moving bodies in the room, had made the air stifling. I fought my way through the crowds, feeling suddenly claustrophobic, trying to get to the stairs.
Fumbling for the paper cloakroom ticket I'd stuffed for safekeeping in my bra, I raced up the stairs, and joined a queue of those who looked like they too had finished their night about twenty minutes ago. My top clung to my back with the heat, and my hair was sticky. I felt like ripping my woolly tights off right there and then. With my coat under my arm I passed the bouncer, who nodded sternly, and pushed open the heavy wooden door for me.  Rushing outside, I leant forward, resting my hands on my knees and took in a deep breath of the freezing cold air. The bitter wind shot through my vest top, hitting the bare skin on my arms and racing through my hair. As my head cleared a little, I glanced up to see a long line of men waiting quietly outside the club wearing thick sheepskin coats, gloves and hats and looking at me as if I was crazy. The girls were piling out of the club now, followed by Pete who was telling Graeme to hurry up. The not-so-shy Czech was still very much attached to Graeme, and by the look on Pete's face, looked like he wasn't heading off home anytime soon.
I waved my arms at two lit up taxis who were parked a little way up the road and threw my jacket around my bare shoulders to keep off the wind. As they pulled up close to the kerb, and I went to reach for the door handle, Pete ran up to me looking as if he had something to tell me - that I wasn't going to like. 


"Right. We've got a problem. Graeme wants to bring the Czech home with him, and I am not sharing a room with them."


"No, of course not." I replied. "Why don't you come up on the mezzane with me? There's a spare single bed up there?"


"No. I'm not moving. He's the one who's moving. He can go up on the mezzane, and you can sleep in Graeme's bed."


As much as I love Graeme, there was no way he was going to have sex with a Czech in my bed. I was so looking forward to my little bed on the mezzane, with it's clean sheets, and fluffy duck down pillows. I wanted to wake up in the morning to the skylight window slightly open and sun beaming down on my face, with a clear view of the river from my pillow.


However, the trouble with being a Libran is that the need for peace, harmony and balance in your life can sometimes get the better of you. I was cursing this fact as I balanced my single mattress on my back at 4:30am, grabbing the banisters of the stairs so I wouldn't topple over, with my suitcase hanging from one arm, my duck down pillows tucked under the other, and my duvet wedged between my knees. As I dragged my bed and belongings down the stairs, I squeezed past the birthday boy kissing his Czech lover on the stairs and glared at them both with my meanest look.
Graeme wasn't fazed. It was his birthday. He'd pulled.


Oh, well. He was turning thirty, I suppose. I'll give the boy a break.

Praha: 2 - Braving cold and cobbles

I was told that Prague would be cold. That it would be far colder than London - even London in the middle of January - I was told to expect something like -3 or -4 degrees Celsius. (That's very chilly for a Londoner.) But even after popping on two more layers at the airport, I realised I wasn't prepared enough for the biting wind that hit my face as I wheeled my suitcase out of the sliding doors at Prague airport. Flecks of snow drifted about the air, barely enough to even call it snowing, and my cheeks flamed a pretty shade of pink.

Prague airport is a small airport, and looked fairly deserted to me. There were only the last few stragglers of my flight who remained drifting about the Terminal - those few who had been lured in by the few small shops full to the brim of duty free perfume, cigarettes and alcohol, just before the baggage collection. This meant that the odd bag remained circulating around and around the baggage carousel looking for it's owner. 

Among the stragglers were two girls around about my age - who were loaded with duty free Benson & Hedges and a bottle of Sailor Jerry spiced rum. They looked far too bright-eyed and fabulous to have got up at 5:00am that morning, and were laughing to each other, waving their arms expressively as they talked. I was less a straggler; more half asleep. I imagined the state I must have looked; hair all frizzy on one side from my thirty minute nap, sleepy baggy eyes framed (or rather, hidden) by my 'comfortable glasses', rather than my sophisticated Prada ones.

I took in my surroundings for a moment. The large, familiar yellow and red M sign stood out to my left, calling my name, willing me to take stock of the situation over a Chicken McNugget Meal instead of standing aimlessly in the main hall of the terminal. It was slightly disorientating that all signs were in Czech (not that I was expecting anything else), but English was kindly written underneath in an italic font, coming to the rescue of lost tourists such as myself.

Right. I need a bus. A bus to the centre.

I noticed that the two girls I'd seen earlier had made their way to what I guessed was a little travel kiosk. It had photos of a bus, a train and a tram pasted on the wall behind the desk.

Aha, pictures - the universal language.  

They looked confident enough with where they were going, so I followed them over to the kiosk and joined the queue. I clutched my entire weekend's spending money which was still stored in the Post Office envelope it had arrived in, as I had no idea how much it might cost. The notes were in pretty colours and it felt like Monopoly money as they were all in hundreds and thousands. I thought about how I was going to come across as polite, whilst unable even to try and make the effort to speak Czech to the assistants selling tickets behind the counter.

I thought I would go and speak to the two girls, partly because I had been following them for the last fifteen minutes (I didn't want them to think I was completely weird), but mainly because I still had no idea which bus stop I needed to stand at. I approached them, teeth chattering.

"Hi, I'm really sorry, is this the right stop for the city centre? I'm on my own, and I've just bought this ticket - and I'm hoping it's the right one..." I rolled my eyes and laughed.

"Yeah, think this is the stop. We're going there too. We've been told we gotta get the 119 bus... You can tag along with us if y'like?" Said the smaller of the two girls.

She was tiny, with long dark hair, shaved up behind her ear on one side, and had a pretty diamond stud in her nose. I noticed she was wearing the black Doctor Marten boots I'd wanted for Christmas. Her friend, who was slightly taller, had cropped, blonde curly hair, and she nodded and smiled at me. If I hadn't have already guessed from their accents, they told me they were Aussies, living in London for the moment.  I've always found Aussies to be generally chatty and friendly - and these two were no exception.

We piled onto the bus together stamping our feet to keep warm, and laughing about how we'd been told off by the bus driver for not placing our ticket in the machine correctly. We chatted about where in London we lived, the best markets to go to, the quirky pubs which we'd discovered down the back streets of London, and then why we were in Prague. I told them I was here because it was Graeme's 30th birthday - my mate from Manchester - a born and bred Glaswegian Scotsman - and proud of it. There are eight of us in total, I explained; four gay guys and four girls - sharing an apartment which overlooked the river. They were booked into a hostel just outside the centre of Prague - the best way to meet new people - they'd said. They were staying for the weekend, just the two of them and a bottle of Sailor Jerry spiced rum. 

Throughout the twenty-minute bus ride, we passed enormous warehouses and open fields - not of green, but of hard brown soil frozen on the ground. Large billboards loomed to the side of the road, advertising Czech beers such as Staropramen and Pilsner. The buildings were high rise flats of a simple and practical design. It was rather bleak, but then, most airport surroundings are. Finally we reached the end of the line, where I was to jump onto the Metro at Dejvická. I parted ways with the two Aussies, wishing them a lovely time in Prague, and we left with promises of meeting up again when we got back to London. As they walked off chatting together, I wondered if we would. I sailed through the tunnels of the Metro, following the crowds and navigating my way through (thankfully) only one line change, before I was to reach Karlovo náměstí station; where Graeme would be waiting.

Prague Metro Map

Four months of living in London, and it's only very recently that I can say that I've got the hang of using the London Underground system. I know to stand to the right of the escalators, I know to wait until people have got off the train, before getting on, I know that the tubes are pretty much useless on a weekend, and I also know, it is incredibly easy to go the wrong way up the line.

But I can hold my hand on my heart, and say honestly, that I was incredible at navigating the Czech Underground (or the Metro, as it's really called). Unlike London, they have only three coloured lines (rather than eleven), they do not name them after national places, people or events (such as the Hammersmith and City, Victoria or Jubilee lines), but instead name them simply A, B and C (genius, if you ask me), and far easier to navigate, if you don't speak Czech! 

The hardest part of my journey, was choosing which escalator to go up once I'd reached Karlovo náměstí station- to make sure I came out by the river. In the end I just chose one, and as I ascended onto the street, I understood why everyone had called Prague simply beautiful.

It was as if I had walked back in time. Narrow streets, with characteristic cobbles, ran in between  elaborately designed buildings, most of them, probably six stories high. No expense had been spared over the stone work; with statues of angels, saints and virgins looking down on the street below from their perches on the windowsills high above me. The walls had been painted in various pastel colours, warm and tasteful, as if to brighten up such a freezing cold city. Some of the walls even had gothic, geometric designs painted upon them, to look like expensive tiles. 

The wind whipped across the river, which was lined with tall cast iron lamps which could have come straight out of C. S Lewis' Narnia. I read somewhere, that Prague was a city untouched by the bombing of the world wars. I loved this fact, and could imagine people strolling up the river, taking trips on boats as horse-drawn carriages pulled by, because the city must have looked just the same now, as it had a hundred years ago.

Graffiti sprawled up the one of the walls of the subway, and drew me back into this century with a bang. It was quiet on the pavements in this part of town, although the beeps and shuffles of the traffic along the river kept the wind from whistling too loudly.

I took a right turn to walk alongside the river, ensuring I  didn't veer too residential, and 3walked far enough along to reach the gothic Charles Bridge, where Graeme would be waiting.

I saw him walking briskly across the zebra crossing, cars whizzing past him, front and back. As usual he had his head held high, his shoulders back, striding with purpose and just a little bounce in his step. He could hardly believe his eyes as he saw my determined little form dragging my suitcase proudly over the cobbles waving frantically, because he promptly dropped his cigarette on the floor, flung his arms wide open to hug me, and yelled in his thick, Glaswegian drawl, "Betty!"