I feel that I should somehow bring things to a close here, seeing as I've already returned to New York. Although I enjoyed my stay in Prague, and appreciate the beauty here, I am quite glad to be going home. Prague is a great place to visit, but it doesn't hold me hostage like New York does. I would recommend it to anyone traveling through Europe, but coming here for an extended period of time is difficult. The city is small, and the historic districts even smaller. Once you go beyond the confines of the tourist part, the city is strange, and you feel that your are traveling back under the Iron Curtain, to some degree. Soviet-style buildings still stand, and even on the new buildings the architecture is bland.
Tourist-oriented Prague presents itself as a simple, slightly-medieval town.On the one hand, they are trying to hold onto their pseudo-medieval roots for the tourists, where the Czech people are content to drink beer, eat goulash with bread dumplings, and enjoy Berchovka. At the same time, they try to make tourists feel at home with Italian-style pastas, American hamburgers, Caribbean-inspired cocktails and English menus. Perhaps I'm sick of touro-centric culture, and just want to go to a place that feels like home. (See how diplomatic I'm being, family?)
Though, like Prague, New York is a huge tourist destination, the world beyond Times Square is the real New York. For me, it is this real, everyday New York that I fell in love with, and I can't wait to return to. The people in New York are not trying to emulate or please anyone (except perhaps each other). For all it's supposed rough-ness, New Yorkers are secure about their identity as New Yorkers. My mother has always said, "Everyone should live in New York for at least six months once in their life." I tend to agree. I am of the school that believes you don't have to be born in New York to be called a New Yorker. There is something inexorably and uniquely New York that slips into your bloodstream once you've been there long enough to accumulate it that gives you the right to call yourself a New Yorker.
Some may say I'm a bit too young, too homesick, too naive to claim these things are true, I will stand behind them. My heart beats in my chest just thinking about what it will be like tomorrow when I get out of the airport and onto the train, and then off the train and onto the streets. How can you feel such things for a place, unless you call it home? How can such an intransigent, constantly changing city be called home? Maybe home is where my heart is, as the old saying goes. My heart is other places too: with my family, my friends, but these are all pieces of the 'home' conundrum.
With peace,
Benny
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Last day in Prague
It was my last day in Prague, so I knew I needed to make it count. I started my day off with one last journey across the Charles Bridge (and because it was after ten in the morning, it was packed with tourists). As kitsch as they are, I went into a gift shop, because I never really feel quite right leaving a place without some kind of souvenir for people at home. I met up with Erika, and we took one last trip to Bohemia Bagel, where we met Christine and her friend Amy who’s visiting for the weekend. As we walked back through Old Town Square, we smelled the sausages and ham cooking, and I couldn’t resist. I bought a real Czech sausage, and on the way home bought a Krusicov pivo cerne. I felt so manly!
I will admit, I am a history buff. I’m sure my dad is beaming reading this, and it’s true. At the beginning of my stay I bought a book about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the governor of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia and a ruthless SS dictator. The Czech government-in-exile organized and trained resistance fighters to kill Heydrich. They succeeded, but with a high cost to themselves, and the retaliation was brutal. The resistance fighters made their last stand at the Church of St. Cyril and St. Methodius, where after two hours of fighting, they took their own lives in the crypt.
The church still stands, and has been turned into a museum about Heydrich’s assassination, and includes a memorial to the soldiers killed. I had not yet made it to see the church, and I knew I would kick myself if I didn’t go. I went by myself. The museum itself is small- it only occupies the antechamber to the crypt. There are six or seven placards detailing the events from the Munich Accords, to the appointment of Heydrich as Protector, to the actual planning by the exiled president, Edvard Benes, and the assassination itself and the bloody aftermath. After having read the very detailed book, there was nothing particularly illuminating from the information, but the crypt was like nothing else I’d experienced.
To begin with, the crypt was very cold. I was the only one there, which was spooky in and of itself, and to boot, I had to close the door behind me, so I was completely alone with imagined Nazi-ghosts standing outside, forcing a hose through the window, and the stench of blood in the air. I could hardly force myself to take a step into the crypt proper, but it also wouldn’t feel right just leaving. So I put my over-active imagination on hold and stepped in. The crypt was never repaired after the battle there, and so there are sections of stone missing, and the (burial tombs) go on into darkness. I got chills, and not just from the cold. I have never believed in ghosts, and I don’t at all claim to have seen anything non-corporeal in the crypt. But there was a feeling I can hardly describe. The violence of the events that took place there seemed to linger, and even though it has become a source of pride for the Czechs, there was something...wrong… about it.
I had to go back out into the sunlight which helped cut the chill. I had stepped back into the real world, where I was safe. No ghosts would follow me out.
Our last meal together helped to lighten my mood. Amy had a heard of a beer hall she wanted to try, so we set out for dinner. We arrived at U Flecku, a busy beer hall. They serve only their own home-brewed dark beer, which they bring to the table like water, and mark down on a card how many you’ve had. They only served traditional Czech fare. I had to order the goulash, and it was delicious, served with bread dumplings and speck dumplings. The food was delicious, and the company even better. When we thought we couldn’t enjoy ourselves more, a man with an accordion and his friend with a tube came in and began to play. Everyone applauded as they entered, and began singing along. We had no idea what songs they were playing, but we found ourselves clapping and humming along to a tune we hardly knew. Between the beer, the food, the music and the crowd, it was a great way to end my trip in Prague.
I will admit, I am a history buff. I’m sure my dad is beaming reading this, and it’s true. At the beginning of my stay I bought a book about the assassination of Reinhard Heydrich, the governor of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia and a ruthless SS dictator. The Czech government-in-exile organized and trained resistance fighters to kill Heydrich. They succeeded, but with a high cost to themselves, and the retaliation was brutal. The resistance fighters made their last stand at the Church of St. Cyril and St. Methodius, where after two hours of fighting, they took their own lives in the crypt.
The church still stands, and has been turned into a museum about Heydrich’s assassination, and includes a memorial to the soldiers killed. I had not yet made it to see the church, and I knew I would kick myself if I didn’t go. I went by myself. The museum itself is small- it only occupies the antechamber to the crypt. There are six or seven placards detailing the events from the Munich Accords, to the appointment of Heydrich as Protector, to the actual planning by the exiled president, Edvard Benes, and the assassination itself and the bloody aftermath. After having read the very detailed book, there was nothing particularly illuminating from the information, but the crypt was like nothing else I’d experienced.
To begin with, the crypt was very cold. I was the only one there, which was spooky in and of itself, and to boot, I had to close the door behind me, so I was completely alone with imagined Nazi-ghosts standing outside, forcing a hose through the window, and the stench of blood in the air. I could hardly force myself to take a step into the crypt proper, but it also wouldn’t feel right just leaving. So I put my over-active imagination on hold and stepped in. The crypt was never repaired after the battle there, and so there are sections of stone missing, and the (burial tombs) go on into darkness. I got chills, and not just from the cold. I have never believed in ghosts, and I don’t at all claim to have seen anything non-corporeal in the crypt. But there was a feeling I can hardly describe. The violence of the events that took place there seemed to linger, and even though it has become a source of pride for the Czechs, there was something...wrong… about it.
I had to go back out into the sunlight which helped cut the chill. I had stepped back into the real world, where I was safe. No ghosts would follow me out.
Our last meal together helped to lighten my mood. Amy had a heard of a beer hall she wanted to try, so we set out for dinner. We arrived at U Flecku, a busy beer hall. They serve only their own home-brewed dark beer, which they bring to the table like water, and mark down on a card how many you’ve had. They only served traditional Czech fare. I had to order the goulash, and it was delicious, served with bread dumplings and speck dumplings. The food was delicious, and the company even better. When we thought we couldn’t enjoy ourselves more, a man with an accordion and his friend with a tube came in and began to play. Everyone applauded as they entered, and began singing along. We had no idea what songs they were playing, but we found ourselves clapping and humming along to a tune we hardly knew. Between the beer, the food, the music and the crowd, it was a great way to end my trip in Prague.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Dresden in less than 36 hours
If I could come up with one word to describe this weekend: crazies. In fact, I did call it that, far before I really knew the extremes of crazies. We had an long, stressful week in Prague, and were planning a trip to Dresden to visit an old teacher. On Saturday we got up early and got to the train station without any problems, boarded our train and got to Dresden stress-free. When we got our bearings we decided to walk the Prager Strasser (the main street) from the train station to our hostel. The moment we crossed to the Prager Strasser, we were in the middle of a giant crowd, with street vendors and food carts advertising bratwurst, brezels, and bier, while Dixieland jazz played in the background. The International Dixieland Festival was in full swing! (Pun very much intended.)
With our luggage we ventured through the festival, crossed the Elbe from Altstadt to Neustadt and an hour and a half later, we arrived at Hostel Lollis Homestay, a very down-to-earth place. Think East Village meets San Francisco, with a splash of Seward Minneapolis (for those readers sophisticated enough to know what that is :-P ) . They had old but free bikes we borrowed, though only enough for two of us. After Christine rented a bike for the day, the three of us took off down back to Aldstadt and the Festival. We quite enjoyed ourselves. There was delicious German beer von Fass (on tap) and juicy bratwurst. Erika treated herself to a giant soft pretzel, while Christine noshed on a donut the size of her face. I downed two brats. Several times I had the epiphany that I was in GERMANY and how lucky I was! Sitting on the steps with my two good friends, listening to Dixieland, enjoying our food. What could be better?
Well actually, we found that out. After recovering from our brief food-coma, we hopped on our bikes again, and decided to go as far as we could along the Elbe River. The city has fantastic bike paths, and is a very bike-friendly place. Once we passed the most historic part of the city, we found ourselves on a most-Sound-of-Music-esque bike path, under a cathedral of trees for as far as we could see. I felt like I could be anywhere. At once I felt like I was in Minneapolis biking along the Mississippi, and perhaps I could emerge and find myself in Virginia, then turn around and be back in Germany. It felt magical.
For the rest of the afternoon we continued biking. We eventually went back to the center of Dresde, then crossed the Elbe and biked first northwest, then returned and went the opposite direction. As afternoon slid into early evening, a slight haze descended on the city. We passed great mansions looking out onto the river, vineyards on the steep slopes, and an old building that looked like a tower of a medieval castle. The images fly by me in a rush now, but then it was just beauty after beauty. It was so much I could hardly take it all in. As night fell, we turned back and returned to Dresden-proper. Christine returned her bike, and it was all we could do to stumble back to our hostel and grab a quick meal. We were in bed by 11pm, exhausted.
The next day we were all exhausted from our walking and biking, so we took it easy, and strolled around the Atlstadt, killing time until our meeting with our former teacher, Gerald Casel. We met him and his husband at a Starbucks and had a lovely visit with him. Their perspective on Dresden was quite different than ours. As Americans living in the city, they felt very isolated. Germans who grew up under the shadow of the Soviet Union learned Russian in school, not English, and so communication with over half of the population is difficult. They noted that the division between social classes was huge, with a small percentage of the city in support of a more broad view of culture, while the majority were content with blue-collar jobs, drinking beer, eating cake and brats. Not to put words in his mouth, but Gerald seemed to have a terrible time as a teacher in the school. He had the same class five days a week, from August 22nd until July 7th (that's eleven months with the same students). Even with a great teacher like Gerald, I'm sure the students were bored, and he admitted his frustration at having to stretch materiel for weeks and months, when it usually takes days. Despite this, we had a lovely visit with him and we all felt this was the highlight of our trip.
When we were returning, things began to get crazier. To begin with, one of the train's cars' AC had shut down, so as a result the rest of the cars were packed full. Thankfully we had gotten seats before this. After we got off the train and were walking back to the Conservatory, it began to downpour. We had no choice but to keep walking. "At least we're going home and we can change," we all thought. Fate had a different idea for us. We got into the Conservatory, and got in the elevator, and pressed 3. The door closed, but the elevator didn't move. We tried to open the door, but it didn't respond. We pressed every floor, but nothing happened. I momentarily panicked, but Christine and Erika helped calm me down. The emergency button was only an alarm that sounded in the building, and because it was Sunday it was deserted. We pulled out our phone to call Claire, the only person we thought could help us who spoke English, but then our phone died.Thankfully Christine had bought her own phone earlier in the weekend and had put all our potential emergency numbers in. She called Claire back, and she made a series of calls, then called us back. "I have good news and bad news, what do you want to hear first?" Obviously we chose the bad news. The portier was at his cottage and it would take him forty-five minutes to reach the Conservatory. The good news was that she had reached the elevator company and they were sending someone. He didn't speak English, but she could talk to him over the phone if need be. All we could do was laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. It felt like a movie: dripping wet, trapped in a tiny glass elevator, a dead phone, a deserted building, in a foreign country.
An hour after we'd been trapped, the portier came in (he had only taken twenty minutes, bless him!) and the repair-man came in soon after. We were out within two minutes of their arrival. We thanked both of them profusely, then took the stairs up to our room. It was all I could to do shower, write a little about the craziness of what had happened, and before I knew it, I was fast asleep.
Dare I ask, what comes next?
With our luggage we ventured through the festival, crossed the Elbe from Altstadt to Neustadt and an hour and a half later, we arrived at Hostel Lollis Homestay, a very down-to-earth place. Think East Village meets San Francisco, with a splash of Seward Minneapolis (for those readers sophisticated enough to know what that is :-P ) . They had old but free bikes we borrowed, though only enough for two of us. After Christine rented a bike for the day, the three of us took off down back to Aldstadt and the Festival. We quite enjoyed ourselves. There was delicious German beer von Fass (on tap) and juicy bratwurst. Erika treated herself to a giant soft pretzel, while Christine noshed on a donut the size of her face. I downed two brats. Several times I had the epiphany that I was in GERMANY and how lucky I was! Sitting on the steps with my two good friends, listening to Dixieland, enjoying our food. What could be better?
Well actually, we found that out. After recovering from our brief food-coma, we hopped on our bikes again, and decided to go as far as we could along the Elbe River. The city has fantastic bike paths, and is a very bike-friendly place. Once we passed the most historic part of the city, we found ourselves on a most-Sound-of-Music-esque bike path, under a cathedral of trees for as far as we could see. I felt like I could be anywhere. At once I felt like I was in Minneapolis biking along the Mississippi, and perhaps I could emerge and find myself in Virginia, then turn around and be back in Germany. It felt magical.
For the rest of the afternoon we continued biking. We eventually went back to the center of Dresde, then crossed the Elbe and biked first northwest, then returned and went the opposite direction. As afternoon slid into early evening, a slight haze descended on the city. We passed great mansions looking out onto the river, vineyards on the steep slopes, and an old building that looked like a tower of a medieval castle. The images fly by me in a rush now, but then it was just beauty after beauty. It was so much I could hardly take it all in. As night fell, we turned back and returned to Dresden-proper. Christine returned her bike, and it was all we could do to stumble back to our hostel and grab a quick meal. We were in bed by 11pm, exhausted.
The next day we were all exhausted from our walking and biking, so we took it easy, and strolled around the Atlstadt, killing time until our meeting with our former teacher, Gerald Casel. We met him and his husband at a Starbucks and had a lovely visit with him. Their perspective on Dresden was quite different than ours. As Americans living in the city, they felt very isolated. Germans who grew up under the shadow of the Soviet Union learned Russian in school, not English, and so communication with over half of the population is difficult. They noted that the division between social classes was huge, with a small percentage of the city in support of a more broad view of culture, while the majority were content with blue-collar jobs, drinking beer, eating cake and brats. Not to put words in his mouth, but Gerald seemed to have a terrible time as a teacher in the school. He had the same class five days a week, from August 22nd until July 7th (that's eleven months with the same students). Even with a great teacher like Gerald, I'm sure the students were bored, and he admitted his frustration at having to stretch materiel for weeks and months, when it usually takes days. Despite this, we had a lovely visit with him and we all felt this was the highlight of our trip.
When we were returning, things began to get crazier. To begin with, one of the train's cars' AC had shut down, so as a result the rest of the cars were packed full. Thankfully we had gotten seats before this. After we got off the train and were walking back to the Conservatory, it began to downpour. We had no choice but to keep walking. "At least we're going home and we can change," we all thought. Fate had a different idea for us. We got into the Conservatory, and got in the elevator, and pressed 3. The door closed, but the elevator didn't move. We tried to open the door, but it didn't respond. We pressed every floor, but nothing happened. I momentarily panicked, but Christine and Erika helped calm me down. The emergency button was only an alarm that sounded in the building, and because it was Sunday it was deserted. We pulled out our phone to call Claire, the only person we thought could help us who spoke English, but then our phone died.Thankfully Christine had bought her own phone earlier in the weekend and had put all our potential emergency numbers in. She called Claire back, and she made a series of calls, then called us back. "I have good news and bad news, what do you want to hear first?" Obviously we chose the bad news. The portier was at his cottage and it would take him forty-five minutes to reach the Conservatory. The good news was that she had reached the elevator company and they were sending someone. He didn't speak English, but she could talk to him over the phone if need be. All we could do was laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. It felt like a movie: dripping wet, trapped in a tiny glass elevator, a dead phone, a deserted building, in a foreign country.
An hour after we'd been trapped, the portier came in (he had only taken twenty minutes, bless him!) and the repair-man came in soon after. We were out within two minutes of their arrival. We thanked both of them profusely, then took the stairs up to our room. It was all I could to do shower, write a little about the craziness of what had happened, and before I knew it, I was fast asleep.
Dare I ask, what comes next?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Four pineapples and a rose
Just one week ago, I was frantically packing up my belongings, trying to fit my worldly possessions into boxes and suitcases and move them to my new apartment in the East Village. I managed to do it in under 5 hours (with much help from Ross!) and then I boarded an airplane for the long journey across the Atlantic and half of the European continent. Though Sunday will officially be our one week mark of being in Prague, we're counting today as our marker. Because of a server issue, I've been unable to update, so I'll tell you about a few of the things I left out about this week.
On Monday night, we met our friend Katka from the Academy at the Nova Scena of the National Theatre where we saw a mixed orchestra-dance-video concert. The concert began with Poème Symphonique for 100 Metronomes, an 'event' piece that I actually fell asleep during. The transition to the next piece happened during my brief...uh...nap and I only recall waking up to quite beautiful orchestral music, yet disturbed by the furry black masks the performers were wearing. Behind the orchestra there were ten televisions, each showing a live video feed of the dancers of the company doing various tasks, some pedestrian like talking on the phone and washing clothes, and some more clearly scripted like rolling around in a chair while watching a small deer. With ten different video screens it was difficult to follow each person, and I became distracted trying to follow ten different journeys simultaneously. After each exit, I expected the dancers to enter the stage and do something less task oriented and more movement oriented. After several strange transitions of the television, the music and the musicians themselves, the dancers finally entered the stage from behind, climbing next to a paused picture of themselves on the TV screens and began to speak in Czech. Only one woman spoke partially in English, and she talked about her mother's belief that her hands were the hands of a ballerina or a musician. This was the only part of the concert I could really understand, and despite the supposed universality of dance, I really couldn't understand what the movement was trying to say. We all agreed that while the concert was not the best we've seen, we were glad we went and had our first taste of contemporary dance in Prague.
Our second concert was located at the much smaller Theatre Ponec in a very different part of town. Navigating the streets of Prague is difficult enough because they twist and turn, end abruptly and have very Slavic-sounding names that are difficult to pronounce, much less differentiate. We had made several strange turns which had taken us to a sketchy looking part of town and none of us were excited about venturing back in the dark. We had decided to turn back while it was still light out. I turned around to see if I could find a better route when right above where we'd been standing I saw a black graffiti sign: 'Divadlo ponec'. "Look what I just found!" I exclaimed and we all laughed.
The show was well worth the trip we took. Titled Perfect Day or Mr. Gluteus Maximus it was a witty, hilarious, and also disturbing tale set in a spa. A ballet teacher at the Academy was performing the lead role, and he was fantastic. As we entered the theater, a video montage of scenes from an early twentieth-century spa and the bizarre rituals that people subjected themselves to. The piece opened with a portrait of the lonely spa owner receiving an imaginary massage in a vertical massage bench, and his face through the port-hole. He prepared the room for the guests' visit to the sauna. The three guests wittily bothered and displaced one another at the manager's prodding. He provoked a vicious, athletic and breath-taking fight between the two female guests, and gave all three guests a massage that both resembled, and blurred the lines between, sadism, preparing meat, gymnastics and a hilarious semi-erotic massage. Between each vignette, the manager returned to his chair, and longed after a girl who's picture was projected onto the screen. His obsession with this fantasy girl quickly turned him into a murderer, as he stalked a spa guest and killed anyone who he deemed a threat to her. In the end, he had killed her, literally dancing her to death.
As the cast took their well-deserved five bows, the stage hands came out with one rose and four pineapples, one for each member of the cast. Whether this is normal in the Prague dance scene, or at this theater, or just a strange compliment, I don't know. It perfectly capped off a wonderfully strange evening.
Next up: the Prague Castle and the beginning of week two!
On Monday night, we met our friend Katka from the Academy at the Nova Scena of the National Theatre where we saw a mixed orchestra-dance-video concert. The concert began with Poème Symphonique for 100 Metronomes, an 'event' piece that I actually fell asleep during. The transition to the next piece happened during my brief...uh...nap and I only recall waking up to quite beautiful orchestral music, yet disturbed by the furry black masks the performers were wearing. Behind the orchestra there were ten televisions, each showing a live video feed of the dancers of the company doing various tasks, some pedestrian like talking on the phone and washing clothes, and some more clearly scripted like rolling around in a chair while watching a small deer. With ten different video screens it was difficult to follow each person, and I became distracted trying to follow ten different journeys simultaneously. After each exit, I expected the dancers to enter the stage and do something less task oriented and more movement oriented. After several strange transitions of the television, the music and the musicians themselves, the dancers finally entered the stage from behind, climbing next to a paused picture of themselves on the TV screens and began to speak in Czech. Only one woman spoke partially in English, and she talked about her mother's belief that her hands were the hands of a ballerina or a musician. This was the only part of the concert I could really understand, and despite the supposed universality of dance, I really couldn't understand what the movement was trying to say. We all agreed that while the concert was not the best we've seen, we were glad we went and had our first taste of contemporary dance in Prague.
Our second concert was located at the much smaller Theatre Ponec in a very different part of town. Navigating the streets of Prague is difficult enough because they twist and turn, end abruptly and have very Slavic-sounding names that are difficult to pronounce, much less differentiate. We had made several strange turns which had taken us to a sketchy looking part of town and none of us were excited about venturing back in the dark. We had decided to turn back while it was still light out. I turned around to see if I could find a better route when right above where we'd been standing I saw a black graffiti sign: 'Divadlo ponec'. "Look what I just found!" I exclaimed and we all laughed.
The show was well worth the trip we took. Titled Perfect Day or Mr. Gluteus Maximus it was a witty, hilarious, and also disturbing tale set in a spa. A ballet teacher at the Academy was performing the lead role, and he was fantastic. As we entered the theater, a video montage of scenes from an early twentieth-century spa and the bizarre rituals that people subjected themselves to. The piece opened with a portrait of the lonely spa owner receiving an imaginary massage in a vertical massage bench, and his face through the port-hole. He prepared the room for the guests' visit to the sauna. The three guests wittily bothered and displaced one another at the manager's prodding. He provoked a vicious, athletic and breath-taking fight between the two female guests, and gave all three guests a massage that both resembled, and blurred the lines between, sadism, preparing meat, gymnastics and a hilarious semi-erotic massage. Between each vignette, the manager returned to his chair, and longed after a girl who's picture was projected onto the screen. His obsession with this fantasy girl quickly turned him into a murderer, as he stalked a spa guest and killed anyone who he deemed a threat to her. In the end, he had killed her, literally dancing her to death.
As the cast took their well-deserved five bows, the stage hands came out with one rose and four pineapples, one for each member of the cast. Whether this is normal in the Prague dance scene, or at this theater, or just a strange compliment, I don't know. It perfectly capped off a wonderfully strange evening.
Next up: the Prague Castle and the beginning of week two!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Our first few days
Three days after arriving, our bodies have all adjusted to the time change. After a good night's rest, we woke up early and were met by Renata Sabongui, who has been coordinating the exchange between Tisch and AMU. She walked us across the Charles Bridge, one of the most well-known sights in Prague. It was built by King Charles IV in 1357, and connects the Prague Castle area to the Old Town. Along the bridge are 30-odd baroque-style statues that dominate. They are mostly religious figures, and if not religious, at least mythically historical. My personal favorite is the statue of St. John of Nepomuk, a controversial confessor of the queen of Bohemia who was drowned at the orders of Wenceslaus IV. The peasants who pulled his body out of the river apparently knew him to be someone special when they saw seven stars around his head. As Renata said, "It's strange. They through him off the bridge, and now people on the bridge touch him for good luck." Well said.
We all agree that the walk in the mornings is far superior with many fewer people and no merchants selling kitch (or is that avant-garde?). Every morning for the next two weeks, we'll get to walk over the bridge at least twice a day. Due the end of the year examinations, we'll only be able to take classes at the Academy (AMU) for the next two weeks. The program at AMU is focused on choreography and pedagogy, and the students receive a degree in one or the other. A few of our classes have been taught by professors, but most of them have been taught by the students in preparation for their teaching exam class. These classes have been challenging, on the whole.
We had a contemporary class taught by a woman named Adela. She performs in musicals in Prague, and though she's getting a degree in pedagogy, we all think she should go on to create work. Her movement style is flowing, with a Limon-like sense of catch and release. We learned a small section of a solo she'd choreographed, which had a lot of floor work but moved quite a lot. She taught almost exclusively in Czech, and I was forced to watch her body intently to pick up the movement. It was only after class that I realized I hadn't needed to rely on verbal language to understand what she was communicating. I found that I didn't become frusturated with myself when I couldn't exactly replicate her movement. Maybe I should try plugging my ears when I take class at home!
After our brief stint at the Academy, we'll be taking all of our classes at the National Ballet Conservatory. The name says it all. It is a conservatory and focused exclusively on ballet training. Students there range from ages 10-18 and many who graduate go on to join ballet companies in Central Europe and around the world. Today I had my first experience at the Conservatory. I took Men's Technique class (at 8am!) and despite my nerves, felt relatively comfortable. The teacher was a very manly, very strict-looking former dancer. The students are preparing for their end of term examinations also, and so the boys knew all of the combinations already. Two of the older boys spoke English and helped me learn the combinations, which were challenging and endurance building.
Christine and Erika were not so fortunate. Kindly, their teacher encouraged them to sit down instead of trying to learn the combinations on the go. Thankfully, the two examination periods will coincide, and when we finish at the Academy, the new term at the Conservatory will begin. Next, more on our adventures in Prague!
We all agree that the walk in the mornings is far superior with many fewer people and no merchants selling kitch (or is that avant-garde?). Every morning for the next two weeks, we'll get to walk over the bridge at least twice a day. Due the end of the year examinations, we'll only be able to take classes at the Academy (AMU) for the next two weeks. The program at AMU is focused on choreography and pedagogy, and the students receive a degree in one or the other. A few of our classes have been taught by professors, but most of them have been taught by the students in preparation for their teaching exam class. These classes have been challenging, on the whole.
We had a contemporary class taught by a woman named Adela. She performs in musicals in Prague, and though she's getting a degree in pedagogy, we all think she should go on to create work. Her movement style is flowing, with a Limon-like sense of catch and release. We learned a small section of a solo she'd choreographed, which had a lot of floor work but moved quite a lot. She taught almost exclusively in Czech, and I was forced to watch her body intently to pick up the movement. It was only after class that I realized I hadn't needed to rely on verbal language to understand what she was communicating. I found that I didn't become frusturated with myself when I couldn't exactly replicate her movement. Maybe I should try plugging my ears when I take class at home!
After our brief stint at the Academy, we'll be taking all of our classes at the National Ballet Conservatory. The name says it all. It is a conservatory and focused exclusively on ballet training. Students there range from ages 10-18 and many who graduate go on to join ballet companies in Central Europe and around the world. Today I had my first experience at the Conservatory. I took Men's Technique class (at 8am!) and despite my nerves, felt relatively comfortable. The teacher was a very manly, very strict-looking former dancer. The students are preparing for their end of term examinations also, and so the boys knew all of the combinations already. Two of the older boys spoke English and helped me learn the combinations, which were challenging and endurance building.
Christine and Erika were not so fortunate. Kindly, their teacher encouraged them to sit down instead of trying to learn the combinations on the go. Thankfully, the two examination periods will coincide, and when we finish at the Academy, the new term at the Conservatory will begin. Next, more on our adventures in Prague!
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
We've arrived!
After a time-traveling plane ride, a too brief touchdown in London, and a quick hop over to mainland Europe, we arrived in Prague! Even from looking out the window of the plane the beauty of this place is remarkable. We met no resistance getting our luggage and going through customs, and were met immediately by Claire, the daughter of the soon-to-be-director of the program here. She spoke articulate English, and was extremely friendly from the first moment. She introduced us to Katka, a student of dance pedagogy at the Academy of Performing Arts where we'll be studying.
Because of the Prague Marathon, we had to transfer from our taxi to the Metro. The giant escalator took us up right into the heart of the Old Quarter, a block away from the Conservatory where we're staying. The Conservatory building now serves primarily as the studios for the dance classes, but tucked up on the fifth floor, at the end of a corridor, is a cozy little room for guest faculty. It is charming to say the least, but spacious enough for the three of us to spread out.
After dropping off our baggage, we were all starving and so Claire and Katka took us to a traditional Czech restaurant. "Would you like to try some Czech beer?" Claire asked and before we had a chance to answer, three tall glasses of Staropramen one pale lager, one mixed light and dark, and one 'black' beer. We all arbitrarily picked a glass and toasted to our new hosts, the new city, and the new adventure. Despite our bodies' internal time-clocks being thrown far off track, the beer (and the hearty Czech fare) helped us feel a little more refreshed.
Claire took us on a walking tour of the Old Quarter where we saw some of the oldest buildings in Prague. The architecture is beautiful. Because it was never heavily bombed during either of the World Wars, almost every building is in it's original condition, touchups included. The churches are remarkable, and are some of the oldest known buildings here. The Church of Ana Maria the Snow White is a Gothic church, complete with Franciscan Crucifixes and stark painting. It is, however, embellished with a floor to ceiling Baroque alter, and flanking the nave are Baroque-era adornments. Silence is kept in the church, and I felt that for the minute I was in the church I had stepped back in time.
As we walked around the city, I I felt as if I were walking into a historic reenactment where the actors are taking a break. The people who live here are trying one the one hand to preserve their cultural heritage and remain true to their history, but at the same time naturalize their city to the present day and satisfy their tourists contemporary habits. Down the block from the Conservatory is a KFC next door to a Russian-run "Bohemian" crystal shop, while across the street there is a large medieval-looking sign for "Czech National Food" and Pilsner-Uruqell beer, and all the while situated below baby blue and yellow 18th- and 19th-century apartments.
Exhausted after a long day, we came home and made a quick, light dinner and showered before going to bed. More to come on our first few days!
Because of the Prague Marathon, we had to transfer from our taxi to the Metro. The giant escalator took us up right into the heart of the Old Quarter, a block away from the Conservatory where we're staying. The Conservatory building now serves primarily as the studios for the dance classes, but tucked up on the fifth floor, at the end of a corridor, is a cozy little room for guest faculty. It is charming to say the least, but spacious enough for the three of us to spread out.
After dropping off our baggage, we were all starving and so Claire and Katka took us to a traditional Czech restaurant. "Would you like to try some Czech beer?" Claire asked and before we had a chance to answer, three tall glasses of Staropramen one pale lager, one mixed light and dark, and one 'black' beer. We all arbitrarily picked a glass and toasted to our new hosts, the new city, and the new adventure. Despite our bodies' internal time-clocks being thrown far off track, the beer (and the hearty Czech fare) helped us feel a little more refreshed.
Claire took us on a walking tour of the Old Quarter where we saw some of the oldest buildings in Prague. The architecture is beautiful. Because it was never heavily bombed during either of the World Wars, almost every building is in it's original condition, touchups included. The churches are remarkable, and are some of the oldest known buildings here. The Church of Ana Maria the Snow White is a Gothic church, complete with Franciscan Crucifixes and stark painting. It is, however, embellished with a floor to ceiling Baroque alter, and flanking the nave are Baroque-era adornments. Silence is kept in the church, and I felt that for the minute I was in the church I had stepped back in time.
As we walked around the city, I I felt as if I were walking into a historic reenactment where the actors are taking a break. The people who live here are trying one the one hand to preserve their cultural heritage and remain true to their history, but at the same time naturalize their city to the present day and satisfy their tourists contemporary habits. Down the block from the Conservatory is a KFC next door to a Russian-run "Bohemian" crystal shop, while across the street there is a large medieval-looking sign for "Czech National Food" and Pilsner-Uruqell beer, and all the while situated below baby blue and yellow 18th- and 19th-century apartments.
Exhausted after a long day, we came home and made a quick, light dinner and showered before going to bed. More to come on our first few days!
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