Prague: Part 1

10 May 2007

I’m sure you are all familiar with the story of Abraham and Lot. I’m going off of memory, so bear with me. Lot and Abraham’s flocks grow and grow and pretty soon there isn’t room in the town for the both of ‘em. They decide to part ways and Lot chooses the luscious green valleys near the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah, while Abraham gets the less visually appealing land, but in the end it turns out better for Abraham.

Well, I’ve had a bit of an Abraham experience. Alex, my roommate, and I have been traveling for several weeks now and we came to a crossroads. He wanted to see the glorious cities of the Austrian country, with their palaces, gardens, and monuments to Sigmund Freud. But me, I just wanted to see Luther’s birthplace and some more of that ol’ Reformation stuff. I don’t know if this makes me a better person; it certainly makes me a better Protestant. But for now we have split, gone our separate ways, to meet up in Berlin some time next week. My first stop is Prague and the beginnings of Bohemian Reformation by Hus and the Hussites.

I left Munich at 16:44, raindrops splattering on the windows of the train. To be sure, I wasn’t even positive if I was on the right train, which is usually the case for me when using public transportation; I haven’t a clue if I’m doing it right. I was 95% sure I was on the right train, but there’s always that tiny, nagging voice in your head that tells you that you could be on the wrong train.

In my possession, I held about six different train tickets to get me from the beginning of my journey in Munich to the end of my journey in Gdansk, Poland. I don’t really understand how the ticket system operates, but I was pretty sure I had paid my dues and was legally getting to my appropriate destination. The train conductor came around to my booth. This was the first time I have traveled in a train with booths for the passengers. My booth sat six and all the seats were taken. I could see the conductor wanted to see tickets and I handed her what I thought was my ticket from Munich to Prague (probably because on the ticket it said Munich to Prague). She responded in some foreign language. I sat there, blank-faced, and hoping she would just punch the dang thing and move on. She proceeded to continue in the foreign tongue and I continued to sit there dumbfounded. What else was I supposed to do? I said “English, I speak English.” I knew this wasn’t helping, so I handed her all my tickets and she sorted through them making negative signs that none of these were the right ticket.

I finally thought that my all-day ticket which I purchased to get me to Dachau might work and pulled it out of my coat and handed it to her. It worked.

I sat back and read until I finished book I of the Pullman series. Afterwards, I watched the rain pitter patter on the glass until I fell asleep, hoping Czech weather would be better.

After a few stops in German country, the booth I was in emptied out. I found myself alone and able to stretch my legs, hoping to get a little sleep. Somewhere along the tracks the door to the booth opened and I was confronted by a massive, bearded man, over six feet tall, dressed in military green from head to foot. He looked like some Soviet out of Moscow during Stalin’s reign. Next to him stood a smaller, thinner, cleanly shaven man, who looked somewhat like Vladimir Putin, the Russian president. He was dressed all in black.

The Soviet-looking one said something. Dang it! It wasn’t Spanish! After a couple more tries and me cowering in the end of the booth thinking I was nearing the end of my life, the “Soviet” muttered “pass-port!” in a thick accent. What a relief. I had been thinking of Dachau all day and all of a sudden I thought I was about to become the victim of some horrible totalitarian government, but all they wanted was a passport, easy enough. But it wasn’t all pie in the sky.

I usually keep my passport in my Bible in my big pack and so naturally that was the first place I looked. I opened the Bible. No passport. Turned it upside-down and flipped through the pages. No passport. I instantly start panicking. Here I am, standing in the train booth, the entry blocked by two of the baddest dudes I’ve ever seen. They want my passport and I can’t find it.

Okay. Well, I’ve kept it in my laptop bag before…let’s check there. No passport. I dig through my day bag. No passport. I pull my 30 pound pack off the racks above me and begin digging through it, frantically hoping it just falls out. Then I notice the copy of Thomas Hobbes Leviathan, which I had attempted to read, but found it extremely dry. I could see that something was in the middle of the book and opened it. My passport.

I handed it to Soviet man. He stamped it and walked off. What felt like hours had really only taken about one minute.

I arrived in Prague around 10:30pm. The rain had stopped. That was a blessing. I didn’t want to have to orient myself to a city while sopping wet while also carrying a huge backpack. I had directions to my hostel, but directions don’t get you anywhere if they start with a place you have no idea exists.

I am looking everywhere for a cash machine. The Czechs have not switched to the Euro, which makes it cheap, but really inconvenient for me. I finally find a machine and take out 1000 Kz. which is probably somewhere in the area of $50. The problem was, the machine only gave me a 1000 Kz. note. I had nowhere to cash it and now, no way to obtain a metro ticket whose machine only takes coins.

I stood looking at a map of Prague trying to figure out how to get to Florenc station when a guy came up behind me and said, in English, “Any idea where you’re going.”

“Not really, just trying to make it to my hostel.”

The man who is talking to me is carrying a heavy pack similar to my own. He is about my height, maybe a little taller, wearing a ball cap on his completely shaven head. He is more fit than me, but who isn’t these days.

He takes out a travel book and tells me that the book says there is a hostel about 500 meters from the station that is supposedly near all the pubs, bars, and clubs.

Well sir, I’m really actually interested in seeing historic sights, like castles, palaces, museums, and Reformation monuments. So that is usually one of the things I look at when booking accommodation.

I tell him I already have a hostel booked and just need to make it there. He seems to be eager to go where I’m going, so against my better judgment, I tell him he can tag along if he wants. He accepts the offer (why am I such an idiot).

I finally reach my hostel, but not without having to hear 30 minutes of this guy ramble on and on about how he is in the army, Canadian army, he was stationed in Afghanistan, and is now on vacation. Don’t get me wrong, I have tremendous respect for troops and soldiers, but this guy was an idiot. Thirty minutes of talk about how he just wanted to travel Europe and how he had just come from Austria and loved it (another reason why I am happy I didn’t go with Alex to Austria [then again, I could have avoided this clown shoes]). How he had met tons of girls there and partyed and got “absolutely hammered” and how all these people he met let him stay at their place. He kept mentioning “coach surfing.” I was too uninterested to ask what it was, still don’t care, and probably never will care.

I would have liked my hostel more had this dummy not tagged along. The only redeeming quality was that upon check-in, you get a free glass of beer. I got settled into my room and angrily listened to army man’s exact same spiel to two of the other travelers in the room. They cared about as much as I did. I went to bed. I don’t know what time he got back in from doing whatever it is people do out in the cities, but I got up early, ate breakfast, and got the heck out of there. I had another hostel booked for my next two nights, so I left behind that loser and started over.