Prague is the sexiest former Eastern Bloc city you can name. It’s hot, and it knows it. Few destinations behind the former Iron Curtain are as enticing as the capital of the Czech Republic. It’s been written about (novels like Arthur Phillips’ Prague depicts ’90s yuppies living in Budapest and lusting after the more glamorous Czech capital); it’s a primo movie location (Tom Cruise filmed Mission: Impossible near the banks of the River Vltava); and Brangelina tried to hide out here a few months back, only to complain about all the Prague-arazzi in their midst.
What makes Prague so attractive? Put plainly, it’s one of the most gorgeous, well-preserved cities in Europe — right up there with Paris for sheer aesthetic splendor.
Of course, it has legitimate artistic pedigree, too. Franz Kafka lived and wrote here, as did artists like Alphonse Mucha and novelists like Milan Kundera.
With its 14th-century Gothic churches, its Renaissance remnants and Art Nouveau restaurants that hark back to the 1920s, it’s a rich journey through history. Across the River Vltava (meaning “wild”), there’s Prague Castle, which readers of Kafka’s The Castle can’t help picturing while engrossed in the novel. To cross the river, you step onto the incredible cobble-stoned Charles Bridge, strewn with artists and souvenir vendors, none of whom stand in the way of a breathtaking view of the city at sunset. This is the very place that terms like “magic hour” were invented for: that gradual descent of dusk when the air itself seems made up of diffuse particles of light.
It has a wild bohemian side, too, and a stubborn strain of atheism, despite its many, many churches (which our guide, Kamil, explained were mainly “for tourists”). Perhaps this contradiction helps to explain the Czech brand of humor. Milan Kundera, the great Czech novelist, once wrote a book called The Joke. But sitting in the audience of one of Prague’s many Black Light Theaters during the first night of our visit, it was hard for us foreigners to get the punchline.
Black Light Theater is a tradition in Prague that dates back to the 19th century. Perhaps it should have stayed there, because none of our party — me, my wife, mother-in-law, my brother-in-law and sisters-in-law — quite knew what to make of this pantomimed vaudeville experience, in which short skits of a slightly bawdy nature were interspersed with sub-Cirque du Soleil acrobatics (under black lighting, of course).
We left puzzled, a little unsure about the Czech sense of humor. But then again, this is the country that gave the world Franz Kafka and Kundera — two guys not exactly from the Mike Myers/Jim Carrey school of humor. Theirs is a painfully ironic appreciation of things, a point of view we came to understand more in our three days (and two nights) in Prague. Most visitors gravitate toward Old Town Square, with its flower festivals, open-air cafes and souvenir stalls. The hotdogs are good, too. Around 5 p.m., you will find most everyone adorned in flip-flops, baseball caps and lanky shorts (i.e., tourists) gathered before the Astronomical Clock atop the Town Hall Tower. At the hour’s toll, several mechanical versions of holy saints dart out of the clockworks, dance around a bit, then return to their dark enclaves. It’s a big moment in downtown Prague, and after that, tourists scatter, slowly realizing the show’s over.
The intricate clockworks may tell us something about the Czech temperament. Our disconcertingly bald guide, Kamil, explained that a Czech group called the “Hussites” (after Jan Hus), were Europe’s earliest religious protestants, some 200 years before Martin Luther. Skeptical, analytical, and perceptive of cosmic jokes in general, the Czechs are 70 percent atheist, 25 percent Catholic, and five percent “other.”
Although the Hapsburgs came along and “stamped” Catholicism on these people for centuries, they remain mostly non-religious, according to our guide.
The first night, we had dinner at a restaurant across the Vltava. Our view from across the river overlooking downtown Prague was stunning: a misty city twinkling with gentle streetlight. “What kind of people could have designed this place?” my brother-in-law Gary asked in wonder, obviously comparing it mentally to Manila’s chaotic sprawl. “Athiests,” I answered. Indeed, there’s a fierce capacity for design and “play” in the people of Prague — whether it’s the “Fred and Ginger” dancing building conceived by Vlado Milunic and Frank Gehry or the scores of wooden toys, puppets and puzzle stores lining the side alleys of Old Town Plaza. People like to use their noggins here.
This also might explain what happened when the Nazis rolled into Prague in 1939. There’s a rational explanation for why Prague’s cityscape is remarkably well preserved, after all: the people here did little to resist the occupation. Jews were forcibly shipped away to camps. And the beautiful buildings remained standing. Not to say that Czechs weren’t persecuted and that parts of the city center weren’t destroyed, but it’s hard to compare the rubble of Warsaw in 1944 to the preserved splendor that was Prague after the War.
Prague” means threshold, and you feel as though you’re crossing one as you climb the opposite hills to Prague Castle. Most visible is St. Vitus Cathedral, an incredible 14th-century Gothic church that is the country’s largest. Pilgrims flock here, and movie stars, too: my wife and sisters-in-law were lined up to enter the cathedral right behind William Moseley, who played Peter in The Chronicles of Narnia. Of course, the other Asian women lining up were peeved that we were holding up the line to take pictures and kept saying, “Who he? Who he?”
Later, we took a stroll down Golden Lane, a narrow cobble-stoned pathway inside the Castle where Kafka actually lived and wrote. His tiny domicile is now a bookstore of Kafka memorabilia. Other shops sell wooden toys, marionettes and other native knick-knacks.
Prague is probably one of the few places I know of that openly sells absinthe — the legendary “wicked” elixir that supposedly makes people hallucinate green fairies. You can buy it from street vendors; it contains wormwood — which is poisonous in some doses — and even small amounts of cannabis. I bought a small bottle as a souvenir.
People call themselves “bohemians,” but the actual Bohemia, we learned, lies a few hours outside Prague City. We took a bus there to tour Karlstein Castle, where I swear we met the scariest tour guide ever. She was short and imperious, and spoke in a commanding bark — not unlike Frau Farbissina in Austin Powers — but looked like Paul Williams. She must have been left behind when the communists fled. She carried around a large, rattling set of skeleton keys on a chain and yelled at the (mostly Russian) tourists in our group if they talked while she was talking. I expected her at some point to pull out a revolver and shoot somebody dead. Lots of laughs over at Karlstein Castle.
During our few days’ visit, we also caught some art. At the Mucha Gallery, we saw an exhibit of Alphonse Mucha’s posters that made us instant fans. This Czech painter practically invented the stylized Art Nouveau look: his theater programs, art posters and even chocolate ads transcend commercial art, combining curvilinear design with Neoclassical themes and intricate, layered compositions drawing on Japanese painting and Byzantine mosaic art, among others. He was even versatile enough to design stained-glass windows (for St. Vitus Cathedral) and was a major influence on Art Deco. The occupying Nazis hated Mucha, though: they denounced his work as “reactionary” and degenerate. Still, he did make some excellent posters.
Our second night ended at a beautiful Art Nouveau-styled restaurant called Kavarna Obecni Dum, where we drank real Budweiser (the Czechs invented Budweiser, you see; that watered-down US version is a pale knockoff) and enjoyed the ornate brass chandeliers and vaulted ceilings. The nice thing about Prague is that it didn’t let 40 years of bad communist design and architecture rub off on it.
Leaving Prague, driving along the Vltava, I got the sense of a tiny little hamlet that will forever twinkle in the twilight of the 19th century. The Nazis came and went; communism failed to cancel out that twinkle. It may not be the comedy center of Eastern Europe, but Prague definitely has it going on.
