The State of Love in Prague

Look around this post-Communist land, and you will see it immediately; from the subtext of the tram signs, to the global atmosphere of Wenceslas Square, to the line at the Tesco. There truly is a divide between young and old here. Some of the oldest people in the Czech Republic have lived through five separate types of government, and you can see it in their faces. They're jaded by this new generation, by the new ways. Sure, some of the technology has changed, but they are sticking to the things that haven't-- the extensive public transportation of the Communist era, the staple foods of potatoes and dinner rolls, and most of all, the Czech language. They are done with progress, done with rebellion, done with changing the system. Right now, they just want your seat on the tram, because they've had a long ride.

The youth of Prague is entirely different. Internationally cultured, and removed from the rebellious history, they aren't that interested in taking up the cause in the Czech Republic either. Instead, you'll usually find them lip-locked on the longest escalator in Prague (the metro stop at Namesti Miru) or stacked on top of one another on a seat on the night tram. In each case, they interlock themselves to each other, yet to the stationary observer (see: Physics for Scientists and Engineers, Part I. page 213), they move at the slow steady pace of convenience. They don't respond to the tut-tuts of the elderly, and they certainly don't mind the giggles of their schoolmates. Czech history says that they are lucky to be free, but the rest of the world says that freedom is deserved simply because of existence. And it is so much easier to take advantage of that freedom rather than revere it.

If two older people (let's say over 50 in this case) are holding hands, embracing, or even laughing together on the street, they are almost always tourists. Similarly, a Czech man will always stand stoically next to his seated wife on a tram or metro, never dropping down beside her and commiserating about his day like foreigners. They chose not to use their expressive freedom, never wanting to make a scene or be overheard.

The age group between these two generations is a little harder to define. Although most Czech couples don't hold hands on the streets, they do quietly talk to one another. It is much less likely to see a couple on a romantic date in a restaurant than a group of friends in which there are semi-obvious alliances. Other than in younger populations, couples do not seem to spend all that much public time together. Grocery shopping is done alone, for instance, usually after work, and in small doses. And while almost every young-ish Czech person that I have met claims to have a girlfriend or boyfriend, they almost never materialize. The contact-heavy, attention-greedy part of American culture seems to have arrived a bit too late for the middle-agers.

Before I bid you all adieu, two short anecdotes; my favorites on this topic.

One of the first weeks that we were here, Alli, Kiera, and I went to the Greek food store on Francouska- which I highly recommend, by the way. As we waited on line, our eyes getting as big as the colon-shaped spanikopita, we listened and watched as a cute suit ordered from the bubbly blonde waitress behind the counter. His cadence was smooth and confident, as he ordered small amounts of almost every item in the display case. Still deaf to this language, the trifecta watched as she fetched each item, carefully wrapping and stacking them by the register. After each parcel she would ask "To je všechno?", yet we knew that she didn't want these kalamata olives to be the last thing he would have that evening. She would giggle as he placed yet another order.
When he had finally finished, she packed it all into an enormous plastic bag, and he turned to leave. And as her shoulders fell with disappointment, he turned around. "Jedna caffe latte, prosim." She placed his order and served the next few customers as if she'd had a bit too much Uozo, but I think we all felt the warmth of that coffee, and the extra shot of the possibility that came with it.

And of course, there is the other side of love (made all too apparent in my current goings on). So when I witnessed this little exchange on the street, I realized that decrystallization can happen anywhere, to anyone (see: Stendhal's theory of love), even if you're French and you're in Prague.
One evening, between Wenceslas Square and Male Namesti, we hobbled down the street to meet up with some friends. As we passed through a particularly narrow part of the medieval city, we noticed a girl quickly running towards us, looking quite upset. As we rubbernecked and analyzed, we realized that there was a very concerned looking man following behind her. She sobbed, and he spoke to her in hurried French, apologizing and pleading. And at the moment when she looked as though she was about to cave and reach for him, she turned just her head, and said only "Pourquoi est-ce que t'as m'en envoyé?" Not overly-dramatic, not even overly-French. Just a simple question: Why did you bring me here?

Wouldn't that be a nice answer to get sometimes.