Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 years of marriage. This is number 28 of a series about our lives and travels. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts you'll find below that are a previous series about later travels.
Sherrill at top of Wenceslas Square Getting off the train in Prague in 1988 was stepping into a Kafka tale of dark streets, decaying buildings, shadows, and suspicion that unseen eyes watched. The old train station near the top of Wenceslas Square spilled Sherrill and me onto a flight of grimy steps. Suitcases in hand, we trudged downhill toward where we hoped we'd find our hotel.
On the train from Vienna, we'd shared a compartment with a smug Swiss and a self-conscious Pole in a badly made suit that looked as if its seams would leap apart at any moment. Between Austria and Czechoslovakia, the train stopped twice, once on each side of a viciously fenced no-man's land, so officials could check documents, scowl, and intimidate. Each time, the miserable Pole looked as if he'd melt in a puddle of fear and despair, but eventually the train lurched on its way with him still clutching the arms of his seat.
On the train from Vienna, we'd shared a compartment with a smug Swiss and a self-conscious Pole in a badly made suit that looked as if its seams would leap apart at any moment. Between Austria and Czechoslovakia, the train stopped twice, once on each side of a viciously fenced no-man's land, so officials could check documents, scowl, and intimidate. Each time, the miserable Pole looked as if he'd melt in a puddle of fear and despair, but eventually the train lurched on its way with him still clutching the arms of his seat.
The once grand, arte-nouveau Communist-run Interhotel Ambassador-Zlata Husa lurked two-thirds of the way down Wenceslas Square. The receptionist in her worn uniform glumly checked us in and turned us over to a bellboy who, the moment the elevator doors closed, offered to exchange dollars for a favorable, if illegal, rate. We declined the opportunity, the first of many. The hotel management apparently clung to the fantasy that the establishment retained an aura of elegance despite the fact that we were shoved a fistful of cheaply printed vouchers for meals in the hotel restaurants. Food at the various restaurants and cafes needed different numbers of vouchers. If we used them all, we'd have to pay with cash—assuming we could get either a table or food.
Hiking around the impoverished but beautiful city during the next days showed us that life behind the Iron Curtain was an endurance contest. Everyone seemed exhausted. Very few spoke English. We saw tourists, but no other Americans, just European tourists, except for a single Japanese group. Prague had been spared bombing during World War Two, so we could admire the beauty of its architecture, even though the handsome old buildings often were dirty and unkempt. However, we felt sorry for the shabby, hungry people. Soon, we shared that hungry look. One afternoon, every restaurant we tried was either shuttered or just closing. They'd run out of food, they told us.
Finally, Sherrill spied a basement place down several steps from the street—a cafe for local workers and their families. Even then we had to wait until we could share a table with a Czech family. They stared, but weren't unfriendly. The menu was faded and stained, but it didn't matter because the waiter told us that the only thing left was Weiner schnitzel and potatoes. Later, when the waiter brought the bill I discovered under a tidily mended napkin an offer to change money, but I had no doubt that if I tried it Big Brother would swoop down. I'd read The Trial and knew very well that all of us are guilty until proven otherwise.
Finally, Sherrill spied a basement place down several steps from the street—a cafe for local workers and their families. Even then we had to wait until we could share a table with a Czech family. They stared, but weren't unfriendly. The menu was faded and stained, but it didn't matter because the waiter told us that the only thing left was Weiner schnitzel and potatoes. Later, when the waiter brought the bill I discovered under a tidily mended napkin an offer to change money, but I had no doubt that if I tried it Big Brother would swoop down. I'd read The Trial and knew very well that all of us are guilty until proven otherwise.
Sherrill, a children's librarian, collected editions of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, especially from the countries where we traveled. Over the years, she filled a large bookcase with dozens of Lewis Carroll's book in different languages and with a range of illustrations reflecting different cultures. The cities of Eastern Europe, we discovered, were poor and gloomy, but rich with bookstores. In a large, badly lit shop in Prague we found a Czech edition of Alice, oversize, with dramatic, stylized black and white illustrations, different from any we'd seen before, but in their way beautiful. Books, we also discovered, were one of the bargains behind the iron curtain—too bad they were so heavy to carry back home.
Charles Bridge, Prague In the dusty old National Museum at the top of Wenceslas Square, we discovered a large stuffed birdlike creature labeled as a Dodo Bird. With its gigantic beak, fat belly, and wild feathers and tail, it did resemble Tenniel's drawings in Alice, but we couldn't help feeling skeptical. As we continued exploring, seeking Kafka's House in the shadow of Hradcany Castle above the Vltava River, walking across the dirty Charles Bridge, and strolling in the grimy old city, we wished that we'd seen Prague before the Communist takeover after the war. Each evening, we returned to the threadbare luxury of our hotel for a stingy meal at one of its restaurants, but after a week we'd used up our vouchers.
Sherrill, Old Town Square, Prague "Let's try that nice-looking place we saw in the old town," Sherrill suggested.
"We'll need a reservation. I saw a little sign on the door."
"Get the desk clerk to call."
Together, we walked up to him. Slipping him a tip, I asked him to call for us.
"Impossible."
"Then we'll eat at the French Restaurant here," Sherrill told him, although we had the impression that it was reserved for guests more important than mere tourists.
"Impossible," he repeated.
"One or the other," I said.
He didn't like the ultimatum, but we stood there, waiting. Finally, he said that he'd see what he could do. Clearly, he didn't want to return the tip. A while later, he called up to our room. A table for us had been located in hotel's French restaurant. That evening, we found ourselves at a small table wedged between a flamboyantly dressed ballet troop from the Soviet Union and some stout Czech bureaucrats.
"We'll need a reservation. I saw a little sign on the door."
"Get the desk clerk to call."
Together, we walked up to him. Slipping him a tip, I asked him to call for us.
"Impossible."
"Then we'll eat at the French Restaurant here," Sherrill told him, although we had the impression that it was reserved for guests more important than mere tourists.
"Impossible," he repeated.
"One or the other," I said.
He didn't like the ultimatum, but we stood there, waiting. Finally, he said that he'd see what he could do. Clearly, he didn't want to return the tip. A while later, he called up to our room. A table for us had been located in hotel's French restaurant. That evening, we found ourselves at a small table wedged between a flamboyantly dressed ballet troop from the Soviet Union and some stout Czech bureaucrats.
Later that night, we discovered that nothing is permanent, not even in Communist Czechoslovakia. From our fourth floor hotel room window, we watched a crowd of sign-carrying young protestors spreading like a swarm of insects across lower Wenceslas Square until, without warning, several Black Marias and black buses with painted-over windows appeared, dumping black-garbed, club-carrying police. The demonstrators melted into side streets and alleys, cops chasing them. Those who weren't fast enough were beaten and dragged into the Black Marias and buses.
"This can't go on," Sherrill said.
As things turned out, it didn't—and it didn't take long. It was scarcely more than a year until the "velvet revolution."
"This can't go on," Sherrill said.
As things turned out, it didn't—and it didn't take long. It was scarcely more than a year until the "velvet revolution."
Sherrill & statue of Jan Hus, symbol of discontent, Old Town Square, Prague The next morning, our train reservations in hand, we hiked up to the main station and sat the waiting room watching for our train back to Vienna to appear on the board. Time passed, but our train number didn't appear. I tried to ask station employees, but none of them admitted to knowing English. More time went by, still our train wasn't listed and I couldn't get any explanation. Finally, a stubby middle-aged man in a soiled suit walked up and asked in broken English if he could help. I explained our problem. He went away, then returned.
"Train leaving early," he said. "Different station." He glanced around. "Where your woman?" Sherrill stood up. I thrust some currency into his hand. "Go to subway--there," he said. "Get on train to...." He wrote a name on a scrap of paper. "Go three stops." He held up three short fingers. "Hurry!"
Shouting a thanks, grabbing our suitcases, we rushed down the stairs to the subway, jumped on a train, counted stops, jumped off, looked at the board there for a platform, ran to it, and just as the train to Vienna started to move leaped onto it. Once we caught our breath, we walked through the car until we found a place to sit and calm down. Eventually, a conductor verified that we were, in fact, headed to Vienna.
Life in the old Eastern Block. The good old days.
To be continued....
"Train leaving early," he said. "Different station." He glanced around. "Where your woman?" Sherrill stood up. I thrust some currency into his hand. "Go to subway--there," he said. "Get on train to...." He wrote a name on a scrap of paper. "Go three stops." He held up three short fingers. "Hurry!"
Shouting a thanks, grabbing our suitcases, we rushed down the stairs to the subway, jumped on a train, counted stops, jumped off, looked at the board there for a platform, ran to it, and just as the train to Vienna started to move leaped onto it. Once we caught our breath, we walked through the car until we found a place to sit and calm down. Eventually, a conductor verified that we were, in fact, headed to Vienna.
Life in the old Eastern Block. The good old days.
To be continued....
If you enjoy these posts, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels. Please pass them on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
If you enjoy these posts, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including to several complete short stories and excerpts from my novels. Please pass them on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
You also might enjoy reading the new bargain-priced e-book of my novel, The Night Action. It has been called the last great novel of an past era. "The novel careens around the night spots of San Francisco's North Beach and the words seem to fly off the page in the style of Tom Wolfe or the lyrics of Tom Waits." The book is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. Click on the title for the link.
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