In order to get to Prague, we figured it was cheaper to take a train than fly. We have grown quite accustomed to Dutch trains, which have no assigned seating. So as we’re getting onto the train in Berlin, we find three seats bunched up and sit down. If life were only so easy. A man comes up to me and says something in German. I stand up and he points to the seat and his ticket. Oh, I guess that must be his seat, so I have to move. But my ticket doesn’t have a reserved seat number. Hans starts arguing with someone who says that his seat is reserved as well. While Hans is arguing, Aditi and I are moving seat to seat, desperately trying to figure out where we settle and how do we know which seats aren’t taken. Finally, we sit down and wait to be told to move—except no one does! An hour into our ride, we figure it out. Above each coupled seats runs a green neon sign above two little figures, one is next to a window and the other is not. The green lights flash a destination and indicate if that particular seat is taken.
Thus, we finally arrive to Prague. We get some cash, ride the metro to our hostel and read the walking directions from metro to hostel. They were as such: exit metro, walk straight, we are the yellow building. The end. We exit. And realize that there are four different exits in four very opposite directions. One to a pub, one to a Mexican restaurant, one out into the street and another toward a corner shopping area. A young German couple was in the same debacle as us and together we wandered. I thought that maybe we could find someone and ask for directions. Down the stairs back to the metro and I find a man in a tanning salon and ask if he speaks: English, Ukrainian or Russian. He said that he spoke Russian. He didn’t. But he called his friend over and he did a bit. I spoke slowly and he spoke Russian-Czech to me. All in all, we figured out that the hostel was about 500 meters toward the Mexican restaurant, across the street and to the left. Almost the same directions as were provided on the website. We dropped off our things and took off to see Charles Bridge at night. This is how we started our Czech adventure—and it’s also how we ended it.
The next morning we found out about Free Prague Tours and being cheap students, of course we decided to join aboard. Two tours were offered, one of the left bank and the other of the right. Our first tour guide was ho hum and helped us explore the Old Town as well as Jewish quarter…which happened to be closed as it was a Saturday.
Our second tour however was fantastic. Our tour guide Veronica was spunking and actually explained to us the history of each building (instead of this is a famous building, now let’s go on, that we had just previously experienced) and its residents. Also, this was the part of the tour where we visited the castle!
Prague is actually made up of about four different little towns and each one had its own “meter” as it were. Meter’s were supposed to be a representation of the average length of its inhabitants’ hand to elbow. This one is made particularly large in order to scare off potential invaders.
At the end of the day, Hans and I were off to Krakow and wanted to grab some dinner before our train ride. The perfect Czech meal? Chinese food that took far too long to make. Thus, Hans and I sprint to the station-carrying take out in a leaking plastic bag, uphill I might add. As we’re running, some random guy in an acid jean jacket and 80’s jeans to match as well as glorious kangaroo cap—side note, why do people still where those kangaroo caps? Didn’t look good on Alex in Everything is Illuminated, doesn’t look good still—jumps right in front of Hans yelling “AH!” Hans nervously laughs it off while trying to inhale in crazy humid weather. The station’s in sight **UGH** a huge chunk of my hair swings right into my mouth and I half swallow it! I can’t breathe. I grab it and pull it out—disgustingly sick, but I wanted to breath. Still pushing, get into the station, identify our platform, jump on board as the conductor closes the doors! It was magical.
So we settle down and try to get some shuteye on the eight hour ride to Krakow. Czech trains are definitely not western trains. Much more Soviet with little compartments with vinyl benches seating eight people, closed from the outside hallway with a glass sliding door and curtains. Hans and I figured if we wanted to spread out and utilize the benches to their fullest—we needed to lock the door, turn off the light, close the curtains and hope that people wouldn’t knock and try to cramp our space. What? We wanted to sleep. And that’s what we did. Until we hit the border, where when I woke up two officers were at the doorway with a flashlight. Hans told me that I muttered something in Ukrainian and that was met with sudden English reply of “PASSPORTS!” We handed ours over. Hans his Dutch and me my American. Hans got his back within six seconds, while they took mine aside and returned it minutes later. American passports take forever.
Sigh.
Lastly, we arrived to Krakow and went to purchase our tickets to Auschwitz. Here’s the thing about Poland, they speak Polish. Now I know that shouldn’t be much of a shock, but I have grown accustomed to traveling to countries where the people speak multiple languages. Signs are at least in two languages—especially at transportation ports. French is considered a bare minimum and I can read enough to survive. And I thought, I’ve practiced listening and understanding Polish with my friend Karim. No, no. Not in Krakow. First, the lovely ladies at the ticket counters showed us some great Soviet service though. There were two counters, directly across from each other. One was labeled “Information” and the other “Tickets.” We thought, oh information, good start. We waddle over and ask the feathered-hair lady if she could direct us to information about Auschwitz (in three languages, of which she didn’t speak any). Without looking up, she points across and tells us to go to the other ticket counter. Which we do. Only to be told to go back. But during this whole ping-pong interaction, Hans is introduced to Soviet service.
It was glorious.
I’m used to the severe bluntness, heavy-handed gestures and shouting provided to me by the peoples of the former USSR. Every time I encounter it, I actually smile and think—oh Ukraine how I’ve missed you. But Hans—he’s used to Western Europe (no gem in the service industry, but nothing compared to the Eastern quarter). I glance down for just a few seconds to shuffle through my pack when Hans says something to the ticket counter lady and she so kindly begins to flail her arms about and viciously yell at him in Polish. This is what happens when he talks to people. Someone always gets offended. I start speaking Ukrainian to her and she calms down and we finally figure out tickets. Speaking of tickets, I have come to the conclusion that ticket personnel just chose their own prices for tickets. I paid triple the price to get to Auschwitz than when I left. I don’t get it, but whatever. We caught the 8:30am to Auschwitz and after a bit more traveling time arrived to a desolate little town in the middle of nowhere.
I have to run to a potluck dinner right now—so will continue my adventure when I get back.
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