I know that many will be shocked by what I've said, since instead of the beer one should speak first of the city's cultural and historical treasures - the museums, Charles Bridge, Wenceslas Square, the Old Town, the Old-new synagogue, the Hradčany and associates should be mentioned, whilst I'm certain, that in this city every deluded tourist who thinks they only have to obtain knowledge, and this is best captured with a camera, are losing out a lot. This could be the perfect misunderstanding in Prague. Wouldn't it be so much better to sit in a pub with a beer, or towards evening watch out for the green-haired water elf peeping from the foaming Vltava; to be greeted by the Mole in one of the parks and then turning round the corner and watching the shadow of Hrabal, Švejk, Kepler, Kafka, Rabbi Lov and the cartoon character Rumcajs fade in the autumn daybreak?
Every city has its own tales. Prague may have a few more than average.
Where shall we start? It can't really be a question - obviously with Švejk.
"When this war ends come and visit me. Every evening from six o'clock you'll find me in the Chalice on the Bojištĕ," said Švejk saying goodbye to Vodička, the old sapper, as they prepared for the noble role of cannon fodder ... Vodička was still wary; he wouldn't go just anywhere.
"Švejk, Švejk, what kind of beer do they serve in the Chalice?"
"Velkopopovice," came the promising response.
"I thought it was Smíchovit," shouted Vodička from the distance. Afterwards a short discussion followed about whether Švejk can get there by six, or rather half past, but Vodička insisted on six o'clock.
As a matter of fact, it's worth turning up at the agreed six on the dot in the Chalice (U kalicha) so that you, as one of the hundreds knowledgeable about world literature and wanting to salute the memory of the good soldier, would find a table and at the same time check whether the picture of his majesty, Emperor Francis, which was then honoured by the flies with such grave consequences as was written, is still there. The image, I can report, is clear of fly dirt, but nothing else has changed. The bartender Paliveč is also absent, but the Velkopopovice seems to be eternal. And when you step in, there is only one decision to make: would you rather have slivovice or Becherovka, since beer will already be poured into you. Then they immediately bring utopenece, which could literally be translated as 'water corpse', the name actually standing for saveloy marinated in a spicy, vinegary sauce with onions. It is best eaten with the first two or three pints, so you could leave room for the forthcoming ghastly line of courses.
Let's leave the simple dog-dealer-cum-national hero, a widely popular fascinating combination of courage and debility for now, and set off for other tales.
Who else would follow but that other pub frequenter, though not a hero of a novel but a novel himself: Hrabal.
His pub is right in the centre, unlike Švejk's where you have to travel a bit by tram, the number 22 whose route passes every sight; as you cross Charles Bridge towards the Old Town, go straight along the always crowded Karlova, then Husova Street is second on the right where from afar you catch sight of number 17 with a golden tiger decorating its façade. That is Hrabal's legendary local, The Golden Tiger (U lathe tyre)
However, in vain would you get here by six on the dot - no way would you find a free place. The point is that you can hardly hear anyone from Prague in the city. The locals are actually lost amidst the thirty million foreigners who visit the Czech capital annually. Yet if your desire is to find the local population, well, you will find them in the Golden Tiger. They are all there. And as you will yourself see they practically occupy every single space lest a foreigner would have access to Hrabal's spirit.
His statue is there - and photographs. One shows Bill Clinton and Vaclav Havel sitting next to Hrabal drinking in his greenish tracksuit top. Sure enough, Clinton visiting Prague invited the writer to a reception in the Hradčany, but Hrabal didn't have tails so the Clintons came to the Golden Tiger to meet the writer king. And as I can see they found a table. But those mortals who want to drop in here to inhale some real pub air and atmosphere can only expect to drink their pint standing. (I suspect the anti-smoking EU wardens have not got through the door yet, thank God.)
All or nothing about Hrabal - this time let's stick to the latter. Yet there is no time to tell what should be told about the Czech Republic's heart and soul marinated in beer; both his life and his stories are integral parts of the absurd comedy only true for this land. Still, let me quote just one of his sentences for the edification of future generations: "Let rather a pram fall over than a pint of beer..." Of course, you don't have to take it to heart. It must have been an Uncle Pepin-like remark, though there is no getting away from it - the forever young joker asked for his grave to be watered with the juice of barley. "I have always been a nitwit who walks with a bell in the sunshine, and the illusory cap and bells is still on my head."
And then let a third Prague storyteller come who was also their contemporary (though Hrabal could not meet Hašek personally, only read The Good Soldier Švejk): Egon Erwin Kisch. He was the first galloping reporter in the world. His writings about Prague lead you to the scenes of contemporary sensations, presenting for the reader investigative journalism with pleasant, captivating humour, sometimes in a gruesome grotesque manner. If you set off for Old Town Square, that is for the famous astronomical clock, the Orloj, you will likely approach it via Melantrichova Street where, before the square, the birthplace of Kisch can be found at the corner of Kožna Street.
The clock masterpiece shows the position of the Sun and the Moon in the sky, the time, the months and the days, and its small window opens every hour to let the 12 apostles walk out while a skeleton rings the bell. That's OK, but do you know its history? Legend has it that the Prague authorities feared the clockmaker would create another one elsewhere, so in gratitude they had him quickly blinded. The master didn't leave it at that and before he died he was led to the Orloj where he slipped his hand into the works and with one motion spoiled it.
There's no end to Kisch's swelling stories. He tells about the railway conductor who went on duty every dawn - no breakfast, no heated stove. One day, however, the train did not run so he returned home to find his wife, who had not cared for him much, absolutely awake. The stove was heated and a guest was lying by the wife in the bed. It was not so much the guest that hurt the conductor's feelings but the freshly made fire flaming in the stove, which he had never had a chance to enjoy. Therefore he had his bare-bottomed, unfaithful wife sit on the burning-hot evidence of marital infidelity.
Another time the reporter set about seeking (freeing?) the golem locked up by Rabbi Lov in the Old-new synagogue, as legend has it - he climbed up the steep outside wall of the synagogue in the dawn twilight with the help of grappling-irons. But perhaps his best story is about a small Vltava steamer receiving the command to sail from Prague to Bratislava. True, the Vltava flows to the North Sea from Prague and in Bratislava it's the Danube, which is known to be going to the Black Sea. The captain of the steamer did call the authority's attention to this small error, to which the categorical, haughty response came: "Where there is a will there is a water way." So the story, and the report itself is about the captain buying a school map and, having checked the route, he set off. He sailed to the icy North Sea via the Elbe, turning left there, so that with another left turn he would finally get to the fervently hoped for city of Bratislava via the Rhine, Main and Danube. There you are, the authority could have said, having drowned in the stupidities of the imperial monarchy.
Stories ... these small town stories never end around here. And yes, I think the phrase 'small town' is the most important for showing why going to Prague or living in Prague is good. Because it is on a human scale. Because it does not have high and broad monster buildings, it does not have streets crowded with cars. The Vltava is so narrow that you can cross any of its bridges in a few minutes. There are no giant shopping centres. However, every house on its ground floor has a small shop, a restaurant, a bar, a pub, a theatre, cinema, a gallery which crowds of people frequent. The streets are cobbled, the pavements are tessellated, and the city is beautiful. The buildings have been renovated and on the cafe terraces gas heaters protect you against the colder weather.
Charles Bridge is being reconstructed but it does not disturb the five-member Jazz No Problem band, which gives a day-long concert to tens of thousands passing by. (As they press on with Wonderful World, Louis Armstrong would not protest.) On the two sides there are sellers and an army of painters. One master who seems rather unhealthy loudly offers his paintings, which at first sight seem rather complicated. (But who knows? Van Gogh did not burst of health either, and yet ...) Black sailors herd tourists to small vessels on the river and those who could not board can fly up in a balloon to view the landscape. Towards evening anglers arrive anchoring their boats - so there is fish in the Vltava.
The enormous Wenceslas Square, which cannot be called intimate, is lined with stalls selling frankfurters and sausages; I reckon the Viennese wurst meets its match here. At the top end of the square there is a small crucifix with two photographs and two names: Jan Palach and Jan Zajic. One Jan, protesting against the bloody crushing of the Prague Spring, ignited himself here in January 1969. The next month the other followed suit.
For how many of us have their stories become ours?
The trip slowly comes to its end and thus this writing is finishing, but is there an end to the stories? Prague, where new incredible stories await you, has to be visited again and again. Not to mention the allegedly 470 types of Czech beer. I may ask - where do we go from here?
Well, my friends, let's go to Prague!
Gábor Szücs