story of a nomadic traveller | hostel above a brothel

6 | must reads

*You can read all of my series about a nomadic traveller under the must reads section—chapters 1—6 and counting. Poetry, fiction and articles are also available on my homepage.

Praha, Czech Republic.  

   I arrived in spring as flowers bloomed from linden trees, which reminded me of my mum because spring’s her favourite season, one that filled our house with flowers, a sense of hope as night’s grew longer. As a child, mum would walk us through a woodland where bluebells drooped, and excited dogs ran along muddy paths with fallen branches in their mouths. The sweet fragrance of flowers was a welcome relief from intrusive city smells of exhaust smoke, kebab houses, stale beer. We didn’t have a dog, but my mum would sometimes play cowboys and Indians with me, which was fun. We made guns out of twigs and chased each other around, hid behind trees. Once we built a tipi out of wood and ate jam sandwiches inside. It was good times. She told me stories about the history of the woodlands as we walked, what animals used to roam free that now didn’t. She spoke about the different types of tree leaves, why some of the woodland was mossy and other areas grassy. Stuff like that clamed me down as a child, got rid of a bunch of energy. A couple of times we picked mushrooms and put them in a blue bucket, the plastic type used at the beach to build sandcastles. Even though it was a long bus ride out of the city, nature was worth it.

   Anyway, the blue skies of Praha replaced what had been a constant grey in the days leading up to my escape from middle England. I could hear birds chirping in trees the moment I left the airport. The smell of cut grass hung in the air, despite not seeing much green around. Even though I had arrived in a capital city, it was a connection to nature I felt first, I don’t know why. I stood for a moment with my eyes closed, welcomed a cool breeze after hours spent in transit inhaling other passengers’ breath. Then I rolled a smoke and lit up. Stood away from a rush of commuters, I thought about my mum’s goodbye advice now I was stood in another country. 

   Remember to be polite and respect other people’s cultures.

   No one in this country knows who I am, I thought.

Hydrated on water I drank from a canteen. I withdrew some Czech Koruna from a cash machine that charged me for the pleasure. Then I found a bench to sit on and read a paragraph of my Rough Guide about public transport in Praha. You needed to timestamp tickets before getting on a bus or a subway or risk being fined. I read a few more pages because it relaxes me when feeling uncentred. The beer was considered by many to be the best in the world and strength was measured by degrees, not percentages. Something to do with fermented sugars. The city was beautiful and historic and had several iconic squares, monuments and museums that reflected its storied history. After another smoke, I thanked a staff member for telling me which bus stop to wait at, ‘Děkuji,’ I said. ‘No problem,’ they replied. Then I joined another queue. Then I rode a bus to the city centre I read in my guidebook was used by Czech locals.  

***

The bus was full but quiet. No one gave me the stink eye or blasted music or spoke up about who they were going to pull or do in if they got mouthy later that night. It felt nice to sit on a bus and not feel tense about who might get on or worse—sit next to you. Even when passing high-rise apartments covered in graffiti, I didn’t feel threatened by my surroundings. Maybe because I had spent days walking through rough areas back home. Or perhaps because I had read this type of architecture was common under communism, a time of calm for many Czechs after the second world war. I liked the uniformity of the high-rise apartments. Several balconies had potted plants and clothes lines. There were green spaces with swings and benches at the centre of several blocks. I found it all to be orderly.