14 March 2011—Prague, Czech Republic
I lay on the sidewalk,
pinned by the sheer weight of my pack.
A group stands nearby and two cops have arrived. I managed to roll over, but I couldn’t
stand up. My purse and a bag of
groceries lay several feet away. I
touch my head to check for blood.
Nothing seems to be gushing down my face, but the pain is searing. Where am I? How did I get here?
What happened these past few weeks?
Okay, okay, so I didn’t
lose my memory—what a sad attempt to cop out of the weeks I have neglected
blogging. But everything else is
true.
It’s a funny story,
really. Well, kinda. As I prepared to depart my hostel in
Olomouc, one of the employees and I conversed about the comical size of my
pack. I made a statement regarding
a persisting fear that I might stumble and my pack would carry me to the
ground.
Several hours later I
arrived in Prague. A strange
moving incline threatened my stability; I had encountered moving steps and
moving floors, but never before a moving incline. I stepped cautiously on, and then cautiously off. Catastrophe averted. However, just a few seconds later, I
walked confidently out of the station, as I always do—head up, an eager smile,
ready to conquer a new city. Then I tripped. I stumbled forward; everything seemed to be in slow motion. I tried to regain my balance, but my
pack threw me awry and propelled my forehead into the pavement.
This was possibly the
most humiliating moment of my life (besides that time I peed my pants in third
grade during a spelling test). The
saddest part was the sheer amount of time it took anyone to help my sorry ass,
as I lay pinned helplessly to the concrete. I managed to roll over. Now my predicament seemed to be no different than that of a
turtle turned on his shell.
Finally, a man offered his hand and pulled me up. Some cops asked if everything was alright;
I’m pretty sure they were simply seeking confirmation of my sobriety. As I touched my forehead, I nodded, and
they went on their merry way.
There didn’t seem to be any blood, and I don’t think I blacked out. But then again, those cops had arrived
suspiciously fast. I hadn’t seen
them anywhere within the vicinity as I exited the station. I dug my hat out of
my purse and hastily pulled it over my forehead, eager for a mirror to see the
damage.
I was certainly a bit
dazed, so I ended up hopping on the wrong tram. Actually, I probably would have done the same without minor
brain damage; I’m not so good with directions. When I finally arrived at the hostel, I found a
mirror. The damage didn’t seem so
bad. In fact, it was barely
noticeable because it all occurred above the hairline. Granted, it was bloody and red and
awful under the hair, but it could be sufficiently hidden. The next thing I sought was an internet
connection and googled ‘concussion.’
Yup, I most definitely had a minor concussion—nausea, headaches,
dizziness, and a dazed confusion.
Sleep would have to wait a few hours.
6 February 2011—Berlin, Germany
I spent hours in front of
the East Berlin Gallery, public art merged with graffiti on the longest
remaining stretch of the Berlin Wall—inspirational pieces preaching peace and
love. Some of my friends have said
I tend to sound like a hippie, and it’s probably true. I often tout an attitude of
unconditional love, optimism, acceptance and happiness. Now it seems I’m not so alone in that
perspective. No matter how corny
the lines, I couldn’t help but find myself grinning from ear to ear as I sensed
the international unity that emerged from the scribbles.
Everywhere I go, everyone
I meet is amazing—each unique, each beautiful, each irreplaceable. But too often people isolate
themselves—individually, regionally, nationally. Perhaps it is a matter of comfort. But the truth is, when you open yourself to them, people are
the same everywhere. They will
offer you a kind smile, a warm bed, or a cup of tea. Everyone wants the same thing—love and acceptance (and
perhaps someone to laugh at their awful jokes).
It brought me back to
December, when I spent several days at Kripalu, a yoga retreat in the
Berkshires, with my mother. She
enrolled us in a program called “The Yoga of Yes.” We had no idea what to expect. And, frankly, if I had known, I probably would have sought
refuge in the depths of the surrounding forests, hiding from the impeding doom
of embarrassment and confrontation.
But it may have been one of the more enlightening experiences of my
life. We were a group of
strangers, wide in the breadth of our age, background, and experiences. In fact, we were more than
strangers. I doubt that there is
any other circumstance in which we would have found one another and sought
interaction. Yet there we
were. We danced, we laughed, we
performed awkward skits, and we exposed ourselves. It was embarrassing, and then it was liberating. We entered a moment without expectation
and without judgment, a moment that existed entirely in the present. This has been a mentality that I have
brought with me in my travels. As
was often touted in that room, to accept and express ourselves opens space for
those around us to accept and express their selves. To find peace in this world, we must begin with
ourselves. When we can accept
ourselves without expectation and judgment, than we can begin to openly embrace
the individuality of those around us, no matter the differences.
3-5 February 2011—En route
As it turned out, I left
all my camera wires in Rotterdam at Tessa and Tijmen’s place, so I would be
making a rather inefficient detour on my way from Hamburg to Berlin. The plan was two overnights. My train departed around midnight. I stumbled into the cabin with my giant
pack, startling those who slept soundly before my arrival. I settled into my seat by the window
and put on my headphones. Staring
out the window into the vast darkness, I listened to Sigur Ros and drifted in
and out of sleep. It was the
perfect soundtrack.
Back in Rotterdam, I was
briefly reunited with Tessa, Tijmen, and Matt. And just in time too.
They were prepping for a cooking party, and Matt had decided to make Bananas
Flambé. He had never made Bananas
Flambé before, and as he searched the internet for instructions, I laughed and
dragged him into the kitchen. I
learned how to make tableside flambés as a part of my job at the Pyramid Club,
and I was going to show him how to make them right—flame and all.
Initially, I was a little
hesitant. The ceiling above Tessa
and Tijmen’s stove was much lower than the vaulted ceilings of the Pyramid
Club. I did not want to become an
accidental arsonist. So, in the
first round, my timidity prevented any giant flame, and Matt refused to believe
my capabilities. The next time
around, I put the handle in Matt’s hand (this way he could be blamed at least,
right?), added the liquor, and thrust Matt’s hand and the pan back onto the
burner a bit more forcefully than the last time. The three were a bit startled as a flame shot up toward the
ceiling.
17 March 2011—Prague
I stayed up all night so
I could catch the sunrise in the morning.
Sure, I could wake up for it, but any one who knows me also knows that
the only way I’m ever up at a decent hour is if I didn’t sleep the night
before. I spent the evening online
with my mother, helping her turn her Philosophy of Education paper into a giant
ball of cheese. Hopefully it was
the tasty kind, and not the stinky kind; though sometimes the stinkiest cheese
is the tastiest (if cheese is your kind of thing, that is).
I ventured out around
5:30. Now, despite my negative
predispositions toward Prague (a busted head and stampedes of spring-breakers in
‘Praha Drinking Team’ sweatshirts hardly makes a good impression), even I’ll admit
that Prague is stunning at the break of dawn. The cobblestone streets glimmered as the street lights
reflected off the rain of the evening before. I had left the hostel without a map. I had stumbled upon the bridge
previously and I figured I would again without too much delay.
It didn’t take me too
terribly long to get lost. The
streets in Prague are small and winding, and one can easily lose their sense of
direction. Most days, I embrace
this. Getting lost in a new city
can often lead to the loveliest of discoveries. But this morning I had a destination and a deadline, I
wanted to see Charles Bridge at sunrise.
Unfortunately, the sky was cloudy and the sunrise would be entirely obscured,
but the vacancy of the bridge, the glow of the streetlights, and the royal blue
tint of the sky would certainly make a lovely photo nonetheless. But I had to get there. I thought I was walking in the general
necessary direction, but I wasn’t reaching the river. It was taking far longer than it should have. I was getting impatient. The sky was getting brighter and I
could feel the moment slipping away.
I began running in spurts, ceasing when a passerby looked on in suspicion. I finally found the river. I could see the bridge. It was like a giant tease. The bank was blocked so I had to cut
back into the streets, and out again.
I finally made it. The sky was slightly brighter than I
had desired, but the lights were on.
I snapped a test shot. Not
bad, a few adjustments and everything would be spot on. I began to fiddle with the settings
when, to my luck, the street lights shut off. Damn. The
romance disappeared with the light.
At least the bridge was
still empty, for the time being.
About 15 minutes after the lights shut of, a few waves of people stumbled
onto the bridge, wielding their cameras.
I suppose they had the same idea as I, but got a bit more lost.
