After nearly a full day of schlepping around three months’ worth of luggage, waiting in endless security and customs lines, and attempting to function normally despite that awful, spacey, head-underwater feeling I seem to always contract upon entering airports, I arrived in Prague.
A Czech man—let’s call him Filip—from a company named Profi Taxi greeted me at the airport. He was holding a sign for “Mr. Danielle St. Pierre.” Yes, that’s correct: Mr. St. Pierre. As I staggered out of the arrivals terminal and made my way toward the sign, Filip was surprised to find that I was actually “Ms.” Danielle St. Pierre, rather than “Mr.,” and that no, we would not be expecting my father or non-existent husband. The language barrier heightened this misunderstanding—Filip did not speak much English and I certainly do not speak much Czech (yet…). After this somewhat jumbled course of events, Filip kindly scooped up my bags and escorted me to the taxi. It was about 6:00 p.m., and the air outside the terminal felt cool, refreshing, and entirely foreign.
The ride from the airport—Letišti Praha—to the hostel on Wenceslas Square took about 20 minutes. With the soothing background noise of Filip swearing under his breath in Czech and the occasional jolt of the taxi as Filip swerved to avoid hitting unsuspecting pedestrians, we weaved our way through Prague’s outer districts. The rows of industrial buildings, bus stops, and convenience stores looked similar to any city in the States, and I felt a sense of calm and familiarity as I soaked up my not-so-scary surroundings. As we went down a steep hill parallel to a metro line, I experienced my first glimpse of the center of Prague—a glowing city with layers upon layers of red rooftops in the background. My eyes widened, a warm surge of adrenaline charged through my jet-lagged body, and the city of Prague opened up before me. Filip said, in perfect English, “this is Praha.” Beautiful.
Although my first week in Prague has been a hectic blur of orientation, classes, apartment hunting, and getting lost on streets that I cannot yet even pronounce (I live on a street called Vinohradská —try that one), conquering the chaos on a daily basis has proven to be rewarding. In fact, I have grown accustomed to that unique wincing expression of sympathy/amusement/sheer confusion that so many Czechs display as I struggle to pronounce what I’d like to order for dinner. Even if I butcher the pronunciation of words, the Czech locals seem to genuinely appreciate the effort. If anything, trying to pronounce gulášový (goulash) or houskové knedlíky (bread roll dumplings) rather than throwing my hands up in defeat works against the widely-held stereotype that American students only come to Prague as loud, rude, furniture-moving partiers. Regardless, I am still eternally grateful to the ancient Czechoslovak ancestor who came up with the simple word for beer: pivo.
Prague has been a whirlwind of winding cobblestone roads in Staré Město (which translates to Old Town), sleepy cafés surrounded by distinct aromas of lentil soup and strudel, and almost eerily quiet moments spent on Karlův Most (Charles Bridge) overlooking the Vltava River. On any given day, you could disappear into the masses of tourists lined up in Staré Město to watch the Astronomical Clock turn at each hour, sample the selection of cured meats and cheeses at Wenceslas Square, or huddle around a group of Czech minstrels performing in Old Town Square. Or, you could stray from the herd, find yourself traveling down a quiet side-street where laundry hangs from clotheslines in pastel colors and lethargic dogs watch from front door stoops, and discover a Praha that is beautiful, bizarre, and incredibly alive.
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