Prague continued to change, which continued to thrill me. Burnt brown, smudged apricot and vibrant yellow now tinted the trees across the city, bringing something new to its dimensions—a softness, a mystery, a different kind of magic, a deeper and richer hue. Its Gothic splendour draped in dying colour was mesmerising. The baroque palaces took on darker lines and shadows, and the gentle afternoon light set elegant renaissance buildings along the river boulevard aglow. I took every chance I could to wander the city, enchanted by its capacity to bewitch and seduce with its scents and light and promise of more.
But autumn came with a downside. The chill factor.
Afternoon temperatures plunged below 0°C, creating silent fog and wreaths of mist that veiled the city. Some days I could barely see a foot in front of me. White vapour wrapped itself around winding stone staircases and daylight struggled to penetrate the tiny, narrow cobbled streets. Thick mist blanketed the sound of voices and muffled the rattling noise of the trams. On mornings when the Prague basin was filled with condensation, the bridges across the River Vltava looked ethereal.
It was exquisite—and freezing.
My ears and nose were constantly bright red and my fingers and toes bright blue. Inside court shoes that I wore to classes, my toes felt like they were going to snap off. The icy winds sweeping along the streets bit viciously into my thin jacket and little black dress, freezing my bottom into a numb block.
As I stumbled, shivering, between tram stops, I started to think longingly of the intense heat of Central Australia, of bare feet and bare arms, and of warm, caressing sunlight on my face and shoulders. I thought of autumn in Alice, where the days were glorious with huge blue skies and endless sunshine. I momentarily lost my mojo.
‘Karel, I am so cold and I don’t know how to survive in this weather!’ I wailed.
Karel responded in true pragmatic engineer fashion. ‘You do not have proper clothes. You must get some. That is more useful than being cold.’
The next day I begged Mrs Wurstová for advice.
‘Of course I will help you, my dear Tanya,’ she tut-tutted, looking at my hopelessly ineffective skirt, blouse and jacket. ‘Also’—she removed her glasses and waved them up and down—‘there is no use to ask the man for assistance in this regard.’
Sweeping documents aside and calling out to the long-suffering Dana for coffee, she proceeded to give me a rapid-fire account of her local knowledge.
‘First, you need the boots. Ones that have—how you call it—some thick stuff inside to keep rain and cold off your small foots. You can buy them in our number one department store on Václavské náměstí.’
To assist matters, Mrs Wurstová scribbled a request for boots in my size on Ministry paper and instructed me to present it to a store attendant. I rushed off that afternoon, and between my hand signs, limited Czech and Mrs Wurstová’s note, walked out delightedly with one pair of black waterproof knee-highs. They cost me A$10. Mrs Wurstová nodded in satisfaction when I stomped into the Ministry the following day, my ‘small foots’ finally warm and snug.
‘Dobrý! Good.’
Next, I needed a coat. Mrs Wurstová sized me up, Dana hovered with coffee, and the two of them entered into an animated discussion, aided and abetted by a tape measure miraculously produced from the depths of Dana’s desk.
After some examination they stood back, appraising me. There were a number of ‘tch-tch’ murmurs and some head shaking. I felt like Cinderella being fitted out for the ball, still largely uncertain whether or not I’d make it.
Finally, Mrs Wurstová announced, ‘I have one coat at home that my daughter once wore. She is grown-up now and can’t fit into it. You are so small, my little kangaroo, I’m sure it will do perfectly. Coats are too much expensive at shop.’
‘Oh—are you sure? Thank you, thank you!’
True to her fairy godmother role, Mrs Wurstová waved away my dribbling gratitude, saying, ‘I will make the coat arrive for you tomorrow.’
And indeed, the very next day she presented me with a long, thick beige coat and scarf. She and Dana dressed me and I felt like royalty. They both then beamed like Cinderella’s fairy godmother (and assistant) and I headed fearlessly into the day’s chill. Not only did I feel warm again, I felt terribly grand. The coat brushed the tops of my boots, and I completed the outfit with a woollen hat and gloves.
I twirled around in it like Dr Zhivago’s Lara.
I was going to the ball after all.
However, no sooner had I worked out how to stay warm on the streets, I had to work out how not to overheat inside. In the colder months the Czechs pumped gallons of hot air throughout their buildings, hot enough so that when it was –10°C outside, workers could walk around inside in shirt sleeves. I had no idea how to get the balance right.
Most days I’d barely be through the front door of any building before a blast of boiling hot air would bring on a hot flush. Frantic, I would start ripping at my clothes, pulling off layer after layer, messing my hair and smudging my make-up. By the time I staggered into classrooms, barely visible above books, coat, scarf, hat and gloves, hair sticking up at all angles and perspiration dripping down my back, I looked more like a vagabond than a teacher.
The next challenge of the changing seasons was coordinating night-time public transport, especially as darkness now came early and the nights were freezing. If I got the timing wrong, I would miss key tram, metro and bus connections. This would mean a wait of an hour or more, huddled in the corner of icy, windy, poorly lit transport stops, trying to avoid the mumbles of leering drunks and chain-smoking old men.
Late trips did have one redeeming feature. I would see concert musicians fresh from weaving their magic in the lavish Prague theatres where no doubt they’d been lauded with accolades; heroes and heroines of the concert hall. It was surreal and thrilling for me, a girl from the bush, to travel each night with the stars of the Prague stages. I would spend much of my trips gazing admiringly at them from out of the corner of my eye and wishing I had the courage to ask for autographs. They seemed so humble, so normal. Up close, their black-and-white outfits were often threadbare and dated. Their instruments were usually held in scratched and battered music cases. They would often sleep standing up, holding the inner rail, cases between their legs, anonymous once out of the spotlight.
‘I want to go and see a real classical concert,’ I announced to Anne, anxious to see these musicians close up in all their glory and especially hear them play the works of Smetana, Dvořák and Suk. The city was abuzz with recitals and crammed with recital halls, musicians and mansions, so it would be easy to find a show. Concerts took place in chandeliered salons and Renaissance palaces and chapels, in grand opera and theatre houses and ancient churches—pretty much everywhere. All I needed was for Anne to interpret the schedules and agree to join me.
‘Right, there’s a performance at the Rudolfinum,’ Anne said, consulting The Prague Post. ‘Dvořák’s Ninth Symphony is playing this weekend. I’ll get us tickets at the—woohoo—special local price!’
Woohoo, indeed!
Only locals, and people who were sufficiently fluent in Czech like Anne could buy ‘local’ tickets to Prague’s varied forms of entertainment. ‘Tourist’ tickets were exorbitant and beyond a teacher’s budget. But Anne would chat in her soft and charming Czech to the ticket dispensers at the various theatres, and—bingo!—return brandishing fistfuls of tickets we could all afford. I was so impressed she could pass herself off as a local.
I was especially thrilled we would be hearing Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9, From the New World. Helena from Sedlčany had introduced me to the work; in fact, she’d watched tears pour down my cheeks as I soaked up Dvořák’s homesickness and felt my own so keenly.
That Saturday night, swirling around in my Lara coat and feeling like a movie star, I waited for Anne to join me on the steps of the Rudolfinum. The gold-encrusted nineteenth-century theatre gazed imperiously over the River Vltava and was home to the fa
mous Prague Philharmonic Orchestra. Theatregoers swarmed up the floodlit steps, flanked by the statues and carved golden lions that led to the building’s ornate entrance. Everyone wore fur coats, long gowns and black tie, and looked like royalty.
‘Ahoj!’ Anne’s smiling face emerged through the crowd. We hugged, took each other’s arm and stepped through stately etched glass doors into paradise. Attendants took our coats and put them in a cloakroom, which added to the sense of glamour.
‘It would be perfect if Dickie was here,’ said Anne, slightly wistfully, as we sipped champagne in crystal at a long marble bar with the other beautiful people. ‘But this wouldn’t be his kind of music anyway. He’s a punk rocker!’
We laughed at this. I knew it wouldn’t be Karel’s music either; his first and last musical love was the folk music from the forests of Bohemia, played on guitar and preferably by Brontosaurus, the group to whom we’d waltzed on the night I’d brought home the Czech crystal.
The bell went and we sailed up a wide marble staircase, through the plush richness of red velvet curtains, past curving balustrades and gleaming gold trim, and into the Dvořák Hall itself. I forgot about Karel and instead thought how lucky I was, a girl from the outback, about to experience an event people at home could only dream about.
The orchestra warmed up, the conductor in tails strode across the stage, and the crowd erupted. Emotions swam in my eyes from the first note of Dvořák’s New World.
As the orchestral strains rang through the rafters, I sent Helena a silent thank you for introducing me to these soaring expressions of sky and bird, of field and river, of forest and flower. Outside the night sky fell into the River Vltava. I felt the waters wrap me in their embrace, enveloping me with their magic. I belonged here in a way I couldn’t explain.
And those musicians—at a distance, they looked every bit as glamorous as I knew they would.
‘You want real music experience, Táničko?’ asked Karel when I told him about the concert. ‘Next weekend we go to historic town called Mělník—in countryside north of Prague—for burčák wine fest. It is the annual fest for young white wines released at this time of the year. And Brontosaurus will be playing there!’
‘Ooh-er! Really? How exciting. And what is burčák?’
‘It is . . . how you say . . . partly bubbling juice from grapes.’
Did he mean fermenting? It sounded something like the release of young new Beaujolais wines at the beginning of autumn in France.
‘Tak!’ said Karel. ‘And we will dance to Brontosaurus in the main square with many, many other people.’
It all sounded perfect. I imagined myself whirling round in his arms, wandering along, sipping wine, kissing among the autumn colours.
‘We will go with some friends—and the girls and Princess.’
I smiled wanly, reminding myself that Karel came as a package and that I was lucky to be included in that package. Besides, the presence of lots of people gave me more chances to practise my Czech, to meet others, to assimilate. That was important to building a life here.
Pushing down the mulga stick ache that months ago had wedged itself down in the hollow inside me, I focused on how lucky I was. Then I went and faxed my family and told them all my news. It was a bit like being at boarding school again, torn between two places. Having a foot in each place meant I didn’t fully belong in either one, but I had to make this work.
I wasn’t ready to give up. I didn’t want to give up.
25
A-networking we go!
When I next turned up to English House, I found Canadian Carolyn pinning a flyer to the noticeboard.
‘Hi Tanya,’ she said over her shoulder, pins in her mouth. ‘There’s an international group in Prague called “Women in Business”. They meet and network. Want to go?’
My heart turned over. More people to meet—and women in business, no less! Surely this was serendipity with a capital S.
There was one catch. I didn’t know how to network. That’s what people did in American films where they handed out business cards and wore jackets with padded shoulders and made deals over cocktails and did each other favours.
‘It’s easy,’ said Carolyn. ‘Just take lots of business cards. Introduce yourself to lots of people. Ask them what they do. Get them to talk about their work.’
I knew Karel used business cards so I sought his advice too.
‘Yes, Táničko, to hand out a card is normální in Prague. It is how people do the business here. You can make them at machine at the Old Town Square metro station. Best printer of all the metro stations. Just use some words similar to your newspaper ad. And yes, you can use my telephone number again.’
After a long and complex negotiation with a strange machine at the metro, I rushed back to English House with fifty white cards in my money belt. ‘Okay, let’s do it!’
The next Tuesday evening Carolyn and I met by the tram in the Old Town Square and headed towards a Viennese-style café called Gany’s. The night was frigid and I pulled Mrs Wurstová’s coat close, the chilled wind nipping at my heels and slicing through my collar. The blue court dress underneath provided little protection. We walked fast. Carolyn talked as we walked.
‘I’ve found out a bit about this group. The president is half-British, half-Czech. Her name is Irena Brichta. She is well-known in the Prague business world.’
Gany’s was a gorgeous Art Deco café, abuzz with noise and smartly dressed women: suits, high heels, coiffed hair. For a minute I wanted to turn and run. I’d never had the nerve to do something like this back home. Why did I think I could do it here?
Carolyn was having none of my weak-kneed behaviour. She took my sleeve and pulled me towards the middle of the room, grabbing us each a glass of wine on the way. I clutched my glass and wondered how, when and to whom I should hand a business card. In the distance was a woman I couldn’t take my eyes off.
She was tall with short dark hair, trim, toned and smartly besuited in tailored linen. Working the room, she was handing out business cards, smiling brightly and welcoming people.
Clapping her hands, she called the meeting to order.
‘Dobrý večer and good evening to you all!’ She beamed around the room. ‘I am Irena Brichta, president of this group, and I welcome you all. We are many women of diverse nationalities living in Prague together. Tonight we will network, share those issues we have in common, and discuss business in the Czech Republic.’
Murmurs of assent, support.
She continued. ‘A little about myself. I am Czech-born, with a Czech father and English mother. Raised in Britain. My career involves managing executive search businesses all over Europe. I run the Prague branch of Heidrick & Struggles. I speak fluent Czech so that gives me a great advantage.’
‘Upmarket headhunter,’ Carolyn murmured. ‘Seriously impressive.’
Indeed—not just because Irena was so capable of self-promotion, but because she was living the dream. Well, my dream, at least. She combined two worlds, the West and Eastern Europe, and she could do this because she was both brilliant and bilingual.
Irena pointed out that the room of women comprised bankers, architects, lawyers, accountants, editors, marketing managers, small business operators, diplomats and even members of the Peace Corps. The common language was English but women from every nationality imaginable were present.
‘Please, give a brief bio of yourselves,’ Irena continued, ‘and then you are all free to network and make the most of this evening.’
When it came to my turn, my throat was dry, but I got through my story—Australian lawyer teaching English in Prague, looking for work—and hoped somebody in the group might want to help out. But it seemed that to be successful here one had to be an expat with an expat firm, or bilingual like Irena, and I was depressingly aware of my lack of options.
After it was over and we were released to find more wine (which I now required desperately), I spotted Irena bearing down upon me. Panic struck my alr
eady parched throat but Irena didn’t seem to notice my mumbles. Instead, she thrust a strong hand into mine and passed me a card with the other.
‘I was so interested to hear you’re from Australia,’ she said. ‘Most of my family now live in Sydney and I go out there for Christmas every year. Please give me your card and I hope to talk to you further.’
Really? Australia? And a card? Oh yes, a card! With a damp palm, I ferreted around in my money belt, then remembered the cheap metro-machine paper on which it was printed and hoped Irena wouldn’t look too closely at it.
‘Come to my office next week and we can talk about Australia and you can tell me about your experiences here.’
I nodded mutely, stunned, thrilled.
‘Totally amazing.’ Carolyn kept shaking her head on the way home. I wanted to skip with joy but my court shoes prevented it. I also thought of Irena’s final comment: ‘Also, I’m a Hash House Harrier and we’re heading next weekend to a rather beautiful park south-east of Prague. Would you like to join us?’
I’d blinked confusedly but she’d explained.
The Hash House Harriers, or HHH, were an international running group and the Czech version involved some running and a huge amount of beer drinking. Beer? Looking at Irena’s trim figure, it was hard to imagine, but I expected she was brilliant at everything.
‘It’s beautiful this time of the year in the forests. And remember—bring your business cards. You will meet lots of people!’
I couldn’t bring myself to say no although it sounded terrifying. Fortunately I’d started running at night around Prosek (inspired by my recent ‘love is for nothing’ enraged stomp) but I was really doing it to stave off the autumn stodge rather than because I enjoyed it.
When I got home I told Karel.
‘Have you heard of “hashing”?’ I asked. ‘It involves beer, lots of it, and some running.’
He looked nonplussed so I filled him in on the details.
Alice to Prague Page 21