A Walker in the Suburbs

Today we go to Wenceslas Square and to the Jewish Quarter and, if we’re lucky a few unexpected places, some back alleys and hidden squares. The minute I saw this city I knew I would have to come back. It’s full of tourists, but some places you must brave the hordes to see. Last night, as we walked across the Charles Bridge in a light rain, we suddenly realized we were almost the only ones on the span. This doesn’t happen often here, so we snapped a few shots of the castle and I imagined for a moment what it must have been like here before the West arrived.

We arrived in Prague yesterday, a shiny May Sunday that just happened to be Beer Fest and the Czech/Russia ice-hockey final. The city was alive with every sort of pedestrian one can imagine. And we — we were in a rental car. We had gotten lost in the Bohemian countryside on the way up, and now we were at risk of driving through a pedestrian zone. But after much clever driving by Tom and jockeying with trams (which share lanes with cars here), we were able to find a temporary parking space, our hostel and, eventually, a parking spot in a garage which I sincerely hope we will find again.

And then we learned about the big game, which was beamed into the huge town square, which is in shouting distance from where we were trying to sleep. But never mind. This is traveling, in which the unexpected is supposed to happen. Like our road from Vienna to Prague, which inexplicably ended about 20 miles past the Czech border. Had we not gotten lost, we wouldn’t have seen this castle on a hill, which appeared out of nowhere. Not as grand as the Prague Castle we saw today, but because it rose from the landscape like a vision, all the sweeter.

If yesterday was spring in Stockholm, today was winter. It was cool and misty in the morning; I even borrowed gloves. But we defied the weather; we hiked through a fairy-like forest, then had a picnic lunch.

It was the perfect day to visit a cold and drafty castle. And Gripsholm fit the part; it glowered at us as we strolled toward it, crossed over the moat and walked through the thick and forbidding walls into the courtyard.

Kings were imprisoned in this castle, and one abdicated his throne from it. Inside were portraits of royalty, and room after stunning room, some with painted wooden walls, others with damask coverings and one with warm wood paneling. The castle was an intricate maze of passageways and stairways and, on the top floor, a theater.

When we left the place to stroll through the village of MarieFred, my head was spinning, and no wonder: I had left the 16th Century and was suddenly re-entering the 21st. I wasn’t sure I was ready for the trip.

We leave a week from today. Time for some inspiration. So into this world of deadlines and errands, broken computers and broken glasses, appointments and schedules and list after list after list, there comes a breathing space, a long sigh. This is Hallstatt, a village in Austria’s Salzkammergut, an area of mountains and lakes east of Salzburg. Is it possible that we will see such a place? Is it possible that such a place even exists?

A friend I haven’t seen in years reminded me of a dream we shared in high school. We were going to throw our own ball — ladies would wear long gowns, we would swirl and twirl to waltz music — it would be the next best thing to Vienna.

In two weeks Tom and I are going to Vienna. We’re going to see Suzanne, who’s been studying there all semester. We’re planning very little — we’ll let her show us her world — but there will be music and art and coffee houses and Mozart and Beethoven and Brahms. There will be no dancing — the ball season is in January and February — but that doesn’t matter. Suzanne was able to dance through two of them (see her photo above) and I’m content simply to return to Vienna, which I saw so many years ago.

Dreams are funny things. They never fade away, but they soften with time. They’re replaced with gratitude, I think. And with memory.

This is for Drew and Brenda, who are heading west the day after tomorrow. “We’ll be living a hard day’s drive from Denver,” said Drew. And knowing my brother, he’ll make that drive. Often.
I don’t know if my parents planned it this way, but when you pack four kids in a station wagon and drive them across the country a few times at young and impressionable ages, at least a couple of them will end up with incurable wanderlust. In my family, Drew has it the worst. That he will soon be living in a city known as the “Gateway to the West” is very appropriate. I have a feeling that he will be using that gateway often. And who can blame him?

The Irish may not be great walkers, but, by God, they are great talkers. And since walking and talking are meant for each other, and since this is the day that everyone is Irish (or would like to be) let us raise a glass to the sons and daughters of Erin wherever they may be. Sláinte!