The Czech Book

A log of the pianist's 2012 adventure in Prague

[get-to-know-cz]

Today the Prague Astronomical Clock celebrates its 605th anniversary.

Prague orloj  is a medieval astronomical clock located in Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic. The clock was first installed in 1410, making it the third-oldest astronomical clock in the world and the oldest one still working.

[allthingseurope]

Prague (by Marek KIjevsky)

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Samizdat

I took a class about Czech life under Communism, and one of our cooler lectures was going to Libri Prohibiti, a library of works published underground during Communism. People published and circulated things all throughout the regime, but the “proper” business of samizdat publishing got organized in the 1970s, during “normalization”.

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[littlebitsofthisandthat-deactiv]

When my dad was younger, he actually illustrated a few of the underground books, mainly plants, some animals and anatomy. My family was rather troublesome. Especially once my father fled communist Czechoslovakia when on assignment in West Germany stealing greenhouse designs.

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I’m rather late finding this, but that’s super cool!

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Tree lighting in Old Town Square from 2012

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View of Zizkov, Prague.

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Design: A Bohemian Toy Story (Monocle.com)

Prague — The Czech Republic has a rich toy-making history which dedicated collectors and craftsmen are committed to keeping alive. From the atelier to the Christmas market, Monocle films discovers an inspiring toy story where art meets craft.

The wonderful folks at Truhlar Marionety posted this link today; the video features them, another toymaker, and a toy shop up by Prague Castle.  As it happens, I was up to that toy shop when I was over there.

[senpais]

Erik Witsoe, Winter in Prague

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On this blog's second anniversary, I share with you this photoset of this wonderful city.

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The Doležals

Sometimes you go to a foreign country, you take a class, and next thing you know you find that you've got a family on your hands.

Then our professor had each of us pick one.  My partner picked the miner, I picked the judge, Jaroslav.  The point of these characters was to have a lens through which we could discuss day-to-day life and different important events between 1948 and 1989.

I was content with my choice, and already got to thinking about Jaroslav, what his previous circumstances were, and how he'd take his replacement.

And then I wondered about his wife.  Thus came Raisa.

In doing these write-ups over the course of the semester, I eventually had a multi-generational family on my hands, and I'd like to briefly introduce them to you.

Raisa Doležalová: Russian-born, moved to Brno (south of Prague) with her family just before the Soviets came to power.  Went to university in England to study literature, and met Jaroslav there.  Not overly fond of practical Communism, but not terribly surprised by it.

Jaroslav Doležal: Born and raised in Prague, went to England for an education in law.  He and Raisa married and settled in Prague.

Ninel Doležalová: Eldest child, and studying voice at the Conservatory at the time of the coup

Tomaš Doležal: Second child, also studied music, and about to enter Conservatory when the coup came.

Lenka Doležalová: Stage manager in local theater scene.  Married Tomaš, and together they had twins

Bedřich and Jiři.  Mischievous, but somehow managed to stay mostly out of trouble. Fun fact: Bedřich is Czech for Fredrick, Jiři for George.  I know what I did there and I regret nothing.

While not supporting Communism, the family doesn't agree with it.  Jaroslav is the most keen about maintaining appearances, but Raisa gets more revolutionary as she gets older, and ends up being the only one who signs Charter 77 (and getting Tomaš into some trouble because of it).

Our final paper was writing about how four key points affected our character(s), and honestly it's probably tied for being one of my favorite final papers to date.

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Samizdat

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Books, Bittersweetness, and Zebras

Then things happened, and I ended up with this.

The new additions, from the top, include Recipes Every Man Should Know (which my mother took the time and liberty to meticulously--and hilariously--edit), The Hobbit (tied up so I'd only read it on the way home), The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, an unofficial guide to The Big Bang Theory, bits by Franz Kafka, The Hobbit, an illustrated children's book of poems, and a lexicon of monsters and creatures. Now, like pianos, I love books to pieces. But also like pianos, books are an unfortunately unwieldy hobby to have. So some of them will be coming directly home with me in my luggage, but packing the rest of my things will dictate just how many can squeeze into my suitcase and carry-on. The rest I'll be shipping home, but depending on how much shipping costs, it's entirely possible that the next time I'll be seeing some of these will be anywhere from a month and a half to three months from now. But that's fine by me. I don't expect to become fluent in Czech in that short span of time while I'm home. Speaking of home, I'm both excited and hesitant about going home. I'm excited about seeing familiar people and places, but I feel like I'm just settling into a rhythm here. I've done quite a bit here--some of which I've shared with you lovely people--but something in the back of my head's nagging me, suggesting I haven't done as much as I could have. Perhaps not, but time's finite. There was classwork, and I've been living pretty much on my own for the first time, which has been incredibly valuable. I've done what I've been able to do, and I'm satisfied with that. Besides, I need any excuse I can get to come back. Two more things. Thing one: I'll probably be sharing a handful more stories and photos on this blog once I'm back home, and there'll also be updates on the puppet project. So I hope you'll stick around for those. Thing two: A bit of a story. Pretty much in the first week of riding the trams, I noticed little signs that looked something like this, without the English.

This appears on the back of the tram ticket. And even though before I saw the English I figured it had something to do with trams' right-of-way, but I couldn't figure out, for the life of me, why there was a zebra on it. It only hit me about two weeks ago. And I should've realized it earlier, because I've asked all manner of non-native English speakers what they call the designated area of roads where pedestrians are allowed to cross. In the States, we call them crosswalks. But everyone else calls them some variation of zebra crossings, which I find it incredibly funny, because to my ear it sounds like the name of the designated part of the road where stampeding herds of zebras are allowed to cross. And it just dawned on me two weeks ago that that was the connection with the zebra on the little tram sign.

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Congrats to Štěpanek and the Czech Davis Cup team on their win over Spain this afternoon!

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Truhlář Marionety

Let's say a stranger came up to me about a week ago, and asked me to describe a puppet shop in Prague. In my mind, it'd be modest in size, and completely lined with puppets of all kinds. And through collecting bits and pieces for this project, I've had confirmation over and over that there's a certain magic to puppets: they're objects, sure, but put into someone's hands it almost quite literally comes to life. So of course the shop would have that potential for magic with all those puppets, a potential increased by the fact that many of the denizens are fantastic characters of all sorts: angels, wizards, dragons, bandits, fairytale royalty, witches, animals, and who knows what else.

I've been to the shop three times: the first time I showed up there because I wasn't sure where the workshop at which I made Hero was; the shop itself was closed up. The second time was last week while my family was visiting, and it was my first time actually in the shop. I hadn't really thought about my "ideal" puppet shop, but walking in essentially confirmed that this was it.

Yesterday was my third time in there, and I ended up staying for about two hours talking with Františka, a lovely lady with twenty-plus years of puppet experience. I came in during a bit of a lull in the afternoon: a couple people drifting in and out, but even these were a bit few and far between. I looked around a bit, we chatted a touch about my coat, and I asked if I could ask her a couple questions about puppets. She said of course, and offered to make up some tea (and who am I to turn down a cup of tea?). She gave me a little history of Czech puppetry, and said small traveling productions were not only entertainment, but they were a vehicle to spread and preserve Czech language, culture, and history under the increasingly-Germanized rule of the Habsburgs; and they were a way to poke fun under their oppressive rule without much fear for repercussion. I had seen this elsewhere in my reading over the summer as well: puppets had a sort of jester's license to say what needed to be said, things that, said by anyone else, might not go over so well with management. Somewhere in there our discussion was interrupted by a Mexican couple looking to buy a couple puppets, but going back and forth as to which to get, trying to negotiate a better price, one taking a couple phone calls in between, and essentially amounting to a cliental whirlwind. Františka had to call the artist a few times to get the price negotiations for their various options, then there were some issues with the amount because the couple didn't have appropriate cash, but they couldn't charge the order, and they hadn't really decided on what they were getting in the first place. Finally they settled on two large marionettes that were completely different than what they had originally considered. They paid for the puppets, but had to leave quickly because they were going to the opera, so they gave the address of their hotel around the corner and whirled out almost as quickly as they had come. I personally found the whole exchange rather amusing and fascinating: The couple spoke Spanish between themselves, but were decidedly "American" in their conduct: very animated in their deliberations, and very assertive in their negotiations. This juxtaposed wonderfully with Františka's end. She kept up with their vacillating and negotiating, but she was decidedly more European in her level of tone. Then after they left she had to call the artist again to let him know how things ended up, and he was apparently very pleased with the result. And somewhere in there a girl about my age came in, and she was utterly taken with the shop. Then she wanted to take my picture. I was a little surprised, but I let her. Františka informed her that I was their biggest puppet, but I was regrettably not for sale; of course shrugged in confirmation, though probably not as well as I could have, had I actually had my strings. I leave you with a few more shots of the shop.

Seriously, it's awesome.

[g2-lpi]

[the-czech-book]

See this church?

The stairs put us to the belfry, and before us there's a metal ladder. So one or two at a time we climb the ladder. This already makes the climb more intrepid, and this ladder puts us about here:

Now at this point, to climb the last bit, our professor gives us a sheet to sign saying that relieves the church of liability in the event of a fall. So this was essentially a waiver. I should point out how much of a deal this is. In the States, you have to sign all kinds of waivers so you can't sue a company in the event the secretary's orchid gives you a funny look from across the building. But here the Czech Republic, it's just assumed that you'll be a mature person and know such a thing is ridiculous, and that you have to pay attention to your surroundings. So if you're being asked to sign a waiver here, it's a bit of a big deal. So there's one more ladder, and some of the guys were getting kind of skeptical at this point. It was further occurring to me just how crazy this was, but I figured we were up this far already, I for one might as well just go all the way up. The ladder goes all the way to the top, up to the cross.

I also want to point out that there are no railings, no glass, and hardly a raised edge on this thing. The roof goes out about a meter from the base of the cross on all sides, so only about four or five of us can fit up there. When I popped just above the roof, I couldn't believe the view. Prague is no New York City: most buildings in the main part of the city aren't more than six or seven stories tall, so even when you're on a hill, you get an amazing view. Go up who-knows-how-high*, and get the sun just starting to set, and the view of the city is amazing. Unfortunately I didn't have my camera with me, but my friend took pictures, which I'll post when she sends them. Much to my surprise I wasn't all that freaked out. Excited, flipped out by the awesome, yes, but not really scared, not really. But I think it all happened so fast that the rational part of my brain didn't really register what was going on until I got to the very bottom, back into the church. I took my time going down the stairs, as my legs were a little loose, my thought was it was the exertion. But as I waited for my friend to come down I had to sit down because the rational part of my brain was freaking out at the adrenaline for doing something so crazy, and made my stomach feel a little weird and my teeth tremble ever so slightly in the process. So yeah. This is my favorite tower-climb thus far. - - - - - - - - - - - - * I keep looking around for a height on this building, and I can't for the life of me find one. It's pretty zarking high, though.

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SCIENCE. A few weekends ago I took a trip out to the National Technical Museum, which was really cool. I took a whole mess of pictures, and (surprise!) I'm having a very difficult time picking ones to share. So I'm going to share some here, and I will most likely do a text-photo post with a bunch of others.

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Outside the museum entrance, former registration building The tour was divided up into two parts; the first part was of Auschwitz I, the oldest part of the compound.

The former housing structures now host a number of displays, including a staggering number of sorted possessions brought by the incoming prisoners.

The suitcases were weirdly fascinating; they were all marked with names and birth years of the owners

from an enormous pile of children's shoes. I'm not entirely sure why I took a photo of these specifically Two things in particular struck me, one while touring the place, and one while I was reviewing these pictures earlier. The first is sheer numbers. I'm not sure where the bottoms of the piles were, but if they went from the floor to the ceiling, at their tallest points they were at least ten or twelve feet high; they were about seven to ten feet deep, and usually about twenty feet across the length of the room. The tour guide also mentioned that if someone was to stand one minute in silence for every victim of the place, you'd be standing in silence for two years. The second is this picture.

To be frank this picture creeps me out. When someone hears about concentration camps, they probably think of Auschwitz, among others, but in all likelihood they picture something closer to Birkenau. You learn about Auschwitz when you learn about World War II, you identify it as a place of unfathomable cruelty, and its name becomes uncomfortable to say, something you have to say in a lowered tone of voice. At the very least you expect those barbed wire fences,

but to see it from this other angle on a nice fall day and without a view of the fences, and knowing the place's legacy, is very, very weird.

Execution wall, now a memorial

This baby was in the group in front of us, and really rather adorable Then after a break we went 3km to Birkenau.

They're a little hard to see in this picture, but just before liberation the Nazis dismantled most of the "living" quarters to ship back to Germany, leaving rows of phantom chimneys.

On the memorial here are plaques in a number of languages:

"For ever let this place be a cry of despair and a warning to humanity, where the Nazis murdered about one and a half million men, women, and children, mainly Jews, from various countries of Europe." Overall, while there and afterwards, I was--and am, when I think of it--stunned and confused; I've been relating that confusion to the feeling when you wake up, and it takes a minute to remember where you are. Trying to fathom what happened here, and the scale on which it happened, is like trying to fathom space, for me: there are parts of it you can quantify, but that quantifying makes all the unimaginable parts all the more difficult to understand. I haven't liked thinking about it, but I'm grateful that I've had this opportunity to do so.