Why Prague Shines
You might think it’s all that crystal or the fireworks that make Prague in the Czech Republic shine, but it’s something else — something deeper.
(photo © Michael Kamerick)
Story and photos by April Orcutt
I suspect that on a clear day, when seen from the moon, Prague glitters like a sparkler. It seems like every Old-World store window gleams with crystal: bowls, bottles, bells, boxes, baskets, trays, vases, ladles, plates, jugs, wine glasses, brandy snifters, beer steins, cups and saucers, napkin holders, atomizers, and assorted tchotchkes.
(photo © April Orcutt)
All that glitter sparked an idea: Buy a chandelier.
Did it matter that all I had to carry souvenirs in was a daypack? That crystal chandeliers are made of hundreds of pieces of fragile and weighty glass? That I was already carrying 18 traditional, hand-painted, blown Czech Easter eggs?
(photo © April Orcutt)
No, it didn’t matter because my husband and I had just bought a charming Victorian house in San Francisco. The showpiece dining room featured a 10-foot-high ceiling, embossed wainscoting, a bay window, a built-in Victorian hutch, an antique dining table, and, suspended down from the flowery ceiling-rose disk in the middle of the dining room: an out-of-place, two-foot-diameter, Japanese paper lantern that looked like a glowing, white beach ball.
We needed a crystal chandelier.
But we were house-poor.
At home I had checked big-box stores and boutique lighting “shoppes,” but no chandeliers were less than $1,000, way out of our range.
Now I wandered in Prague, the Crystal Capital of the World.
My three-day trip was a personal reward after a rough week on a writing assignment in Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia. Blocky, gray, Soviet-era architecture matched blocky, gray sky and overwhelmed the tiny historic quarter. I needed picturesqueness. I needed pizzazz. I needed Prague.
(photo © April Orcutt)
Staromestské námestí — Prague’s medieval-to-Renaissance Old Town Square — featured warm yellow, pastel blue, and soft peach baroque buildings with flat facades, pointed tops, and curving lines set in restful balance. Soulful violins and upbeat guitars from the lively music scene sent their melodies through the narrow alleys. Aromas of chicken paprikash, potato dumplings, and garlic soup from cafés and home kitchens comforted me.
(photo © April Orcutt)
Of course, I couldn’t possibly buy a chandelier. It was ridiculous enough that I imagined I could safely carry a dozen and a half hollowed eggs back to California, but their rich red and yellow colors, complex geometric patterns, and symbolism of protection seduced me.
(photo © April Orcutt)
In a shop up the hill toward Prazsky hrad — Prague Castle — crystal seduced me, too. I saw a chandelier for US$250 — including sea-mail shipping. For a day I agonized about the money, but the fact that it could be shipped — for free — finally won me over. Late in the afternoon I was leaving Prague, I made the commitment and returned to buy it.
A different clerk was on duty.
“Oh, no, we cannot possibly ship this sea-mail. This must go airmail,” he said. “That will cost $100 more.”
In the rapid switch to capitalism, the Czechs were clicking — but this development moved my chandelier out of reach.
Deeply saddened, I hurried down the hill because I needed to take the subway soon to catch the bus to the airport for the last flight to Bratislava. Across the Karluv most or Charles Bridge, which spans the River Vltava, I passed another lighting store.
(photo © April Orcutt)
A chandelier hanging in the window was perfect: hundreds of delicate crystals draped in rows — not ostentatious, not gaudy. It was 4,440 koruna or about US$185. Even adding air-mail costs it was acceptable.
I went inside. The middle-aged saleswoman spoke no English and I no Czech so we muddled through with my pathetic German and gestures.
She had no more chandeliers of that model. Could I have the one in the window? Yes. She was so kind. We took it down together. She found a battered, yellow, cardboard box — three feet square by two feet high. We stuffed it with newspaper and tied it with many swirls of string.
What were the costs for shipping? No shipping. No shipping? I would have to carry it.
I dashed to the money changer, checked my watch, waited in line, checked my watch again, and told the clerk how many koruna I needed. He told me how much that would be in U.S. travelers’ checks.
I got the cash, dashed back to the store — and the saleswoman pointed out that I was short by a few koruna.
Time was getting very tight now. I was glad I had already bought my subway pass.
I ran back to the money changer and explained the situation. He said, “Oh, I did not realize you needed exact amount for purchase.” I gave him another travelers’ check, he gave me more koruna, and I flew back to the store. Transaction finally complete, I checked my watch, waved a “Thank you!” and skedaddled.
Carrying my daypack with the blown eggs and struggling with the awkward box and its heavy glass contents, I waddled around the corner to the subway station. I had seen the station many times so was comfortable that all would work out now.
Down the steps I wobbled. Stairs to the lower level were boarded up. I traipsed around in search of others. No luck. The cavernous station held delis and clothing stores, but no information booth. My heart rate increased, and sweaty palms made it harder to grip the clumsy box.
I lumbered to a magazine stand. I couldn’t afford to wait in the long line. “Bitte, wo sind die Zuge?” I shouted in German. “Please, where are the trains?”
“Geschlossen,” said the harried clerk without looking my way.
“Geschlossen?” I said. “Closed? You can’t ‘close’ a train! I have to get to the bus for the airport!” You could take a train out of service, but this was a perfectly fine, obviously functioning subway station so you couldn’t just “close” a train.
“The station is closed,” said a tall, thin, dark-haired Czech man in his mid-30s standing next to me. The white plastic bag of vegetables he carried contrasted with his brown business suit. “The nearest station is . . . “ and then he said something like “up, left, right, street, around, under, right, blocks, down.”
Hyperventilation befuddled my brain. I stared at him.
He took the scruffy box and handed me the bag of vegetables. We hoofed up the stairs and dashed for several blocks through the streets of Prague, twisting left, turning right, ducking through breezeways, and finally ending up at the entrance to another subway station.
My benefactor then took his vegetables, handed me the box, and said something like “in, right, up, along, left, over, behind, across, right.”
Again, I stared at him.
Again, he grabbed the box, gave me the veggies, led me through the dark subway maze, and deposited me on a platform. He pointed in the direction the train would go. He placed the box on the platform, and I handed him his vegetables. I bubbled over with “thank you” and “danke schon” and “být zavázán tebe,” and he laughed as I got on the train.
So I made the bus and caught the flight but had to check the chandelier like a suitcase. The next morning before dawn I took another bus to Vienna and again had to check the chandelier as luggage on the flight home. I changed planes in New York; and when I arrived in San Francisco, the box was there — a little battered, but upright and more-or-less the same size.
I opened it and checked the 1,392 crystals. Only one had broken. All 18 of the eggs survived, too.
The chandelier shone beautifully in our Victorian dining room. When we moved nine years later, we took it with us — I couldn’t bear to leave it and all it represented.
As valuable and delicate as a crystal chandelier is, the more worthy — and fragile — factor is the kindness of human beings, and the memory I treasure most is of the smiling face and shining heart of the handsome Czech man with his suit and vegetables.
(photo © April Orcutt)
Find more of April Orcutt’s stories at Medium.com/BATW-Travel-Stories, Medium.com/Travel-Insights-And-Outtakes, AprilOrcutt.Medium.com, and AprilOrcutt.com.
(photo © April Orcutt)
