Every breath you take (Prague, Czechia, part 1)

Generally a good sleep follows a transit day, dear reader. Perhaps this is related to the intensity of not knowing where I am going and the related stress. More likely it is the energy sapping bag drag across cobblestones. I may have mentioned in passing that my love of cobblestones has diminished to non-existent.

Our apartment is a haven from the frenetic party pace of Prague and our hosts have provided several pages of information from places of interest to restaurants, cafés and bars. On our first full day, we decided to begin with breakfast at a recommended café. It was all of three minutes walk away and located in what is incorrectly called the Prague Bermuda Triangle. It had five sides not three, but Prague Bermuda Pentagon doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

The Prague Bermuda Triangle.

Let's talk croissants. The Czechs know how to make them. They also know how to destroy them. Plain croissants are in the minority. 'Value added' croissants are everywhere: covered in slivered almonds, pistachios, dusted with icing sugar, injected with jam, chocolate, whatever. I'm certain the French would not approve. Nor do I.

On our first foray, the coffee was ok and the pastries were passable. My pain au chocolat or chocolate croissant as it was called, was way too chocolate heavy. No really. I couldn't finish it. From there, we walked back toward the main shopping precinct away from the old town. Billa, a supermarket, was our target, we needed to replenish supplies. This is always a challenge, unfamiliar brands, a foreign language, wine companies we've never heard of previously.

Challenge accepted. Amongst today's winners were Bohemia crinkle cut chips (crisps if you prefer) and the wine we purchased. The also rans? The baguettes, they were glorified bread rolls; and the cheese, it turned out to be a fairly tasteless Eidam.

The walk back home seemed to take far less time than yesterday's excursion from the station and we were stowing our supplies minutes later. Knowing where we were actually going allowed us to take in more of our surroundings. The old town, like that of Stockholm, is a series of cobblestoned streets that wind in any direction. Some are extremely narrow and lined with historic buildings that seem to lean in on you. Then you turn a corner and find yourself in a plaza or square with larger, grander buildings and a church. Or synagogue. Very religious people the Czechs. Or they were.

Most of the main thoroughfares of the old town were populated with restaurants, cafés, bars, souvenir shops and mini markets. There was the usual assortment of designer stores and it wasn't possible to walk more than 20 m without passing a store selling Trdelník.

Trdelník is Czechia's response to Hungarian chimney cake. With a spin of course. It is sold everywhere as "traditional", once again implying it was first made in Czechia. I sense the pilsener debate all over again. The big difference between chimney cake (which is to die for) and Trdelník is what goes inside the 'chimney'. I did not see one shop sell Trdelník unfilled, as it should be. It was used like an ice cream cone and was filled with all manner of things. Most often cream based. Over the top? Absolutely. I doubt the Hungarians would approve. Again, I do not.

The Tourist Information Centre that so successfully eluded us in Berlin, was easily located on the other side of the main square near the Astronomical Clock. Jayne had a chat with one of the staff who provided a map and some very clear instructions about how to structure our visit. I'll say instructions, although it sounded more like an order.

The original Jewish Town Hall.

The Old Synagogue

We would spend the afternoon in the old town in the Jewish Quarter. This was also not far from our apartment. The tickets purchased turned out to be a lot more expensive because of a nifty little hidden cost.  The price of entry was clearly advertised. As was the fact that they had audio guides to enhance the experience. The catch? The audio guides also cost, half as much as the admission price. This was noted nowhere and I didn't discover it until the charge appeared on my Apple watch. Gotcha.

The ticket admitted us to a number of sites around the precinct: four synagogues, the watch house, a ceremonial hall and the cemetery. None of the synagogues even approached the over-the-top opulence of the Great Synagogue in Pest, Hungary. They all incorporated a historical element to their displays, narrating the story of the Prague Jewish community through the centuries. 

Note the wall showing how much the ground was built up.

The cemetery was a chaotic arrangement of tombstones, contained within a walled enclosure, into which thousands of graves have been crammed almost on top of each other. In fact they are on top of each other. Jewish law forbids the removal of remains after burial. The cemetery site was quickly filled. The solution? Add more soil on top of the existing ground and you double the size of the cemetery.

The inscriptions on the headstones have long since eroded but it remains a tranquil, protected space in the midst of the tourist hurleyburley, just on the other side of the wall. A sleepy black cat was also clearly enjoying the peace, languidly draped across one site in sunshine. 

Do not disturb.

When I say 'tranquil,' that in part is because we assiduously tried to avoid the large tour groups that were roaming everywhere.  The trick was to get in front of them and then keep moving so they couldn't catch up and envelope us. 

The Kafka statue.

Of all the synagogues we visited that day the Spanish Synagogue was my favourite. Inside was beautifully decorated. A tad busy for sure, but in comparison to the glitzy, kitsch of guilding everything to show who had the most gold, it was understated elegance. It was never explained why the Spanish needed their own synagogue.

The Spanish Synagogue.

The Spanish Synagogue had a statue of Kafka in the entry area. Kafka's presence is very strong throughout the Jewish Quarter despite the fact that he did not practice the religion. There is a Christian church immediately next door to the Spanish Synagogue. It faces away from the synagogue and Kafka's statue, but just to make a point there is a statue of a crucified Jesus in the side garden. It stares disapprovingly at the synagogue and all who enter. 

And that of course brings us to today's title, Every Breath You Take by The Police from 1983. Wow, that makes me feel old. No cap.

I'll be watching you.

The final comment on the Jewish Quarter I will leave to one of their signs. Much like the instruction/order from tourist Information, something was lost in translation on this sign. I'm sure it's not meant to be read the way I did, but I wasn't risking a journey with no return. Although, really, that's life.

That was enough religiosity for me for the day. We headed home to enjoy the tranquility of our courtyard garden and a glass of French chardonnay. The highlight of the day, dear reader? I purchased a Prague T-shirt with the combined motifs of a bicycle and beer. So very Prague.

Until next time.

Roxanne (Amsterdam day 4)

Good morning, dear reader. We are still here in Amsterdam and we have a few more days before we leave for home. It is an easy city to like and enjoy, except for the cyclists, they are demons. Maybe not all of them, but the majority.

The weather turned last night, so today was grey and significantly colder than yesterday. When you're walking the city, however, 22° is a much better option than 31°, even if you sacrifice a little colour in the photos. Despite the proliferation of puffy jackets this morning, we were attired as usual. 

We braved the crossings, watching out for kamikaze cyclists and made our way to the croissanterie where we had breakfast yesterday. And in an absolute show of imagination, ordered exactly the same food and coffee. When you're on a good thing ...

The walk to Anne Frank House was unremarkable. It was punctuated by ringwraiths on bicycles, road works, scaffolding, cars/trucks parked on the footpath, more people than than the footpath could handle - nothing unusual. We arrived early, also not unusual, and parked ourselves on a nearby bench until the appointed time came to join the queue for our English speaking tour. We were the only Australians amongst the 36 or so in the group.

A statue of Anne Frank not far from the famed annexe.

We were ushered inside where we paid the price for not lining up early and couldn't sit together. The Americans to my left who'd left one seat vacant were thrilled to have me sit next to them and immediately shifted their seats to right. Tempted as I was to cough and splutter in their direction, I refrained.

The guy giving the introductory talk was Dutch and found his way into this career because he attended the same school as Anne Frank, albeit many years apart. His 30 minute talk provided a potted history of the museum as well as the Anne Frank story and a very broad brush cover of the rise of Hitler and the Second World War. Unsurprisingly, it was delivered for a specific purpose which became evident when he asserted Hitler's sweep across Europe was solely to rid the world of Jews. My studies at university would suggest there were other plausible interpretations.

The view of the annexe form the briefing room.

After the talk, we joined the slow moving throng of people climbing up through the 'secret annexe' itself. Any possibility of social distancing evaporated as the heat rose and the crush of bodies became more intense. If ever I was going to get 'the corona', as it is called over here, it would be today. Masks were superfluous. As the heat intensified and the oxygen thinned, my mind wandered back to the Sistine Chapel and the unsatisfactory experience we endured there one summer. Jayne was on a similar wavelength and, as we stalled, just beyond a set of ladder-like steps she whispered, "What happens if you're claustrophobic?"

That question was answered a few minutes later as a woman was escorted into a vacant space by one of the guides. Once she had re-oxygenated her body and calmed a little, she was escorted past the patiently waiting crowd. It wouldn't have been a good place for a panic attack.

It is difficult to describe the annexe, not because it was unfurnished, just as as Otto Frank found it on returning from Auschwitz - the only surviving member of his immediate family. Moreso because of the emotion sewn into the experience. It is still hard to understand how people could stand by and watch their friends and neighbours persecuted. It is even more problematic to comprehend when you know the parliament of the nation enacted laws to enshrine such barbaric treatment. I know, dear reader, that this moment in time can't be looked at, out of its historic context (only religion must not be considered in context, otherwise...) but, but ... to paraphrase John Stuart Mill, bad things happen when good people do nothing. Or as Australian, David Morrison said, "The standard you walk past is the standard you accept".

Out of respect for the space and also, no doubt, as a logistical decision, no photos were allowed. (Although given the lack of appreciation for the solemnity of other memorials, one can only imagine what would have occurred here if cameras were permitted). Suffice to say it is difficult to imagine having to co-exist with 7 other people, in such dark and cramped conditions for years, with no opportunity to go outside or make any noise throughout the daylight hours. 

The annexe is generally in its original condition, from the bookcase that hid its entrance, to the kitchen and bathroom fittings, down to the pencil marks on the wall paper that the Frank parents made each year to record the growth of their two daughters.

The sobering thought was ever present, throughout the tour, that this unthinkable hardship was preferable to the fate that befell the Frank family and the others in hiding, once they were betrayed and arrested in August 1944.

It was a relief to be able to go outside into the daylight and fresh air after being in the grim, dark tightness of the house - and we were only in there for two hours!

From the austerity of the annexe we walked to the understated opulence of the Royal Palace. I say understated because of the excess we saw in the places of worship, and parliament, in Hungary. We had booked online and yet still had to join the queue of people purchasing tickets to have our QR coded passes scanned. Not terribly efficient. Mind you, as part of the booking, we had been required to select an entry time slot of 1pm, however, when we inquired about our early arrival, we were waved through to the line which was not long and we were soon hooked up with our audio guide and moving upstairs.

The back of the Palace

The front of the Palace - it needs a good scrub.

The Palace is closed when it is being used for official purposes, but the King and Queen are elsewhere at present. Like most Europeans, the summer turns them nomadic. Anyway, the palace is, well, palatial, as one might expect. Rooms and furnishings date back to the days of Louis Bonaparte and the first king, Willem in the early 1800s.

Who doesn't love a good chandelier?

Atlas in the citizen's hall. Too much?

This is till used on formal occasions.

Biblical paintings of biblical proportions.

There are many stories to be told around the palace and the people that lived there, but it was the downstairs space, the Chamber of Justice, that mesmerised us. This was for two reasons. One: it was an echo chamber. All stone and statues with impossibly high ceilings. When we entered there were twins in a pram enjoying the echo effect, trying to capture the attention of their disinterested parents. It was ear splitting. Two: it was the chamber where 'justice' was dispensed. The audio guide described the fate of one woman who was tried for the murder of her landlady. She was found guilty by the 'wise' tribunal and sentenced to death by strangulation. This occurred on the verandah outside of the chamber in full view of the public. Her body and the murder weapon, an axe, were then displayed as a lesson to all who passed the area.

The relief on the wall depicted scenes of the wise dispensing justice to those brought before them.

Look closely. Killing babies is always a 'wise' thing.

From the Palace, we walked to the red light district. And obviously today's title, Roxanne, by The Police. Classic stuff from 1979.

We were certainly hitting all the heights today. Aside from the sex shops and their amusing window displays of 'marital aids' as they were once called, the area was underwhelming. There were more windows for rent than those that were occupied. I know it was the afternoon but you are allowed to have sex in the afternoon, I did once, so I thought there may have been more action.

Mind you, I saw more than Jayne, who kept saying she could not see any ladies on display at all - the windows through which the ladies advertise themselves are tinted and Jayne was wearing polarised sunglasses... like her, you will have to use your imagination about this - it is illegal to take any photos in the red light district.

The day was wearing on so it was time to have a beer and look back on where we had been and what we had seen and done. In other words, it was beer o'clock. Café Luxembourg, in the Spui district, looked the ticket. They had an annexe (no, not that sort) on an island pavement across the road from the main establishment so we took up residence there and enjoyed a couple of local Pilsners and watched cyclists trying to kill pedestrians.

A quick trip to the hotel to drop our gear and refresh before dinner found us wandering the restaurant lined streets on the other side of the canal. We've attempted to eat local cuisine a couple of times but the restaurants are uncrowded, not a good sign, and I feel you need to be with someone who knows the food. 

So after wandering the eat streets for a while, we settled on true Dutch cuisine and went Italian. Seriously, there are more Italian restaurants here than in Rome. Ristorante Peppino was where we settled and what an excellent choice. Light fluffy arancini, tasty bruschetta, superb risotto with generous helpings of seafood and pizza, mmmmm, pizza. And a bottle of Italian Sangiovese. It was the best. I'm not sure we have time to get back there on this trip, but if we do ...

Then of course it was home to blog.

Until tomorrow.

Yellow (Nouméa)

And as we begin today's reflection on our travels, dear reader, I am without a title for this post. Not that I was not inspired, but that I was inspired too much. Was it colour, was it sound, was it an art work or was it the near nude 80 year old guy on the beach? Once seen, never unseen. Skin crawl. More of that later. The songs span the decades from disco through to the 90s.

For the ornithologists: a pair of St Helena waxbills. I was very excited!

The day commenced as all days should with sunrise, a tad earlier than we are used back in Sydney and the curtains and frosted glass don't keep out all of the light. After pretending it wasn't morning for an hour so, we headed for breakfast. As I wrote before, quite an amazing selection: bacon, tuna, ham, fruit, pastries, hash browns (not real hash judging by the reactions of those eating them), cereals, cakes, cheeses, eggs and an interesting collection of fruit juice, the combinations of which one could only guess.

Once the day had begun it was time to continue. The forecast was for an overcast sky so no snorkelling. Instead it was the Tjibaou Cultural Centre (TCC) - we have free entry because we stayed at Le Méridien Resort. Just a short cab ride from the resort. Everything, it appears, is a short cab ride from the resort. This time we headed in the opposite direction to Nouméa and were able to appreciate the other side of the island. The trip wasn't that long and unlike yesterday, we didn't have a smart arse driver. Straight there, no dramas.

The Centre itself is quite amazing. Like Sydney's Opera House, there was a design competition and the final three are on display. I'm not sure why they bothered with the other two finalists; the winner was a lay down misère from my perspective. One finalist borrowed a little too much from colonial heritage, as the type of thing they were trying to negate with the cultural centre. Wouldn't it be exceptional if we could do something like this in Australia? Nah, that would suppose a government with vision and heart. Not going to happen in my lifetime. Sadly.

From a distance, and in all the promo shots we saw, the structure itself looks like it is made of metal. I actually remarked walking down towards the entrance that I wouldn't want to be there in a thunder storm. The entire structure is in fact made form timber. It has weathered to that grey colour and looks like metal. Each of the curved structures houses a gallery. Some are permanent like the library or the display of the finalists, pre-construction. Others house temporary exhibitions.

Not sure why he is unhappy

The TCC contains a large number of exhibition rooms and the grounds are structured around walks and traditional carvings and buildings. Every second visitor on Saturday was a nun. No, seriously. Given the number of phallic carvings I mused as to whether this was their form of sex education. The dude to the right meets you at the door. Nothing to see here folks.

Some of the exhibitions seem a bit esoteric, but their link is the Kanak/New Caledonia culture. The first room contained a history of the artist Aloi Pilioko, the Prince-Artist and his 'long time companion' Nicolai Mitushushkin. Some cultures might have used the term partner or gay lover, but not here. Remember Israel Folau?

Aloi clesrly loved yellow. Nothing wrong with that all. If you think I'm obsessed, he's taken it to another level. House, car, art work, toilet seat, hair, all yellow. Hence today's title. And it's the only decent song Cold Play ever released.

Then there was this dude. I'm not sure what's going on. He has a giant bird landing on his head. He doesn't look happy either. You might need to expand the picture my myopic reader to gain full understanding. Perhaps bis poor mood results from his dick being tucked into his belt. Not comfortable. I mean, as a teenager there were times when it was necessary, but never comfortable. And he doesn't appear to be a teenager.

We spent a couple of hours wandering through the exhibitions, permanent and temporary. It is a beautiful site sitting on the side of the lagoon and the building really lends itself to purpose.

Ring my bell

There was the bell exhibition. Nope. I have no idea. But I wanted to run along the hall and ring every bell as I passed. However, Jayne the adult in the relationship, wouldn't let me. All I could hear was Anita Ward singing, "Ring my bell, ring my bell." There's one for the disco generation. Circa 1979. And here's a picture to go with the  memory.

No, the choice of title is still not over. Next contender is The Police. There was a display called Letter to Facebook. I didn't understand the last part, but the former was depicted by a series of over-sized bottles, well flagons, filled with messages. Cue Sting, "Message in a bottle, yeah."

Message in a bottle

Enough of being inside - it was time to check out the permanent buildings. These structures were made all the more amazing by a video of how they were actually constructed. No nails, no hammers, no power tools. No scaffolding. Definitely no WHS, but amazing structures.

This guy was the welcome committee

No ropes, no shoes.

And a couple more phallic symbols just to help the nuns focus on the real purpose of their visit. And that doesn't include the numerous male calendars on the wall in Aloi's bathroom. More dicks than a group of Year 9 boys.

After a vain attempt to locate a leather and pearl bracelet that I saw in the plane magazine, and a successful attempt to obtain more cash since the majority of transport modes here only accept cash, we returned to the resort for a couple of French Rosés and a bowl of frites while we sat overlooking the lagoon at Le Faré,  the  more relaxed  in-resort eating option.  After that, it was time to read on the balcony and do some blogging.

I think that's probably enough for one day. We are dining at the ritzy French restaurant tonight because it is closed tomorrow night. But tomorrow night we have a whole new adventure. We are seeing Viken Arman perform live at the resort - for guests only (blue wrist bands required for entry). Do yourself a favour, google it kids. Or follow this link.

à demain