No matter where I go, I always forget something when I pack. In the constant loops of “passport: check. Train tickets: check. Plane tickets: check” etc. I find it suspicious that none of the vital members of my travel plans are absent from their spot at check in. Having a few minutes until my train leaves Norwich; I throw off my pack and slump down on a bench with intent to read for a couple minutes before the 14:00 to London Liverpool St. is ready to board. ‘Now, to get out my book ... my book ... shit.’ With blind fingers fumbling through every pocket and zipper, nook and crany of my pack, the result, yielding no books found each time, was now definite. I had forgotten it.
Still with a handful of minutes at my disposal, I stroll across the station to WHSmith to peruse their selection of literature, and here my use of the word literature is very liberal. Amongst the literary riff-raff of Dan Brown and his flavour of the month imitators, and autobiographies of every damn English celebrity one could think of, there appeared to be little hope of finding a decent read for my week in Prague. It is an interesting phenomenon in England, the amount of B-list celebrities that are handed book deals. It is as if someone said, “Hey you know who shouldn’t write a book?” and after hundreds of valid answers are given, that person then said, “Yeah, well let’s give them all book deals anyway.” I guess there is a market for these books because English people read; whereas, in America, we don’t have that problem.
After a two hour train ride consisting of iPod based Bob Dylan listening sessions, a lengthy entry in my journal and a short tube ride and a shuttle bus, I arrived at London Luton airport, the forgotten member of London’s air transit, and checked in for my flight on the Hungary-based Wizz Air.
Now there is something you should know about this mysterious airline Wizz Air. My round-trip flight to Prague, booked through this airline previously unbeknownst to me, cost me roughly £45, including a voluntary fee for carbon-offset. Believe me, I had my doubts. I had my doubts over safety, over service, but primarily, it was ‘does this airline even exist?!’ After I successfully checked in, it turns out that Wizz Air does in fact exist. But as for the other concerns ...
I board the plane. There is no first class, no business class, but only one section with the capacity of accommodating about one hundred fifty people maximum. I give my boarding pass to the flight attendant; she gives it back and says, “middle.” ‘Well, that’s helpful’ I think, as my concerns regarding the plane’s service come to fruition. I edge my way down the aisle, frequently looking down at my boarding pass, attempting to locate my seat. After a couple minutes and looks of sheer cluelessness, a fellow passenger relays to me that there is in fact no assigned seating. With this helpful information, I stow my pack in the overhead and take a seat. ‘This plane is going down’ I think to myself, half joking, ‘I guess that’s what you get for £35.’
But, I wish I had been fully joking. The plane pulls out onto the runway and I hear a loud, screeching cacophony of some sort of machine starting and dying, starting and dying. It sounded like an incredibly amplified saw hacking at something metallic over and over. This went on for about ten minutes, until the captain’s broken English became audible over the PA: “Ah, sorry for the delay ... the engine ... ah, it does not start.” ‘Damn,’ I said, as I estimated the growing number of hours it would take to get off the plane and find a new one to take me to Prague. ‘It could be hours,’ I thought; and, it being already 21:00 GMT, ‘I just hope I won’t be staying at the airport tonight.’ But the captain continued: “Yes ... so, sorry again, but this will be 10, 15 minutes and we will take off.” I was dumbfounded. ‘What?! Oh, hell no! If the engine doesn’t start, you don’t just wait 15 minutes, you get a new fucking plane!’ I started to panic and glanced nervously around the cabin at the other passengers to see if they were as concerned with the airworthiness of this jet as I was. There seemed to be a dull look of apathy from the passengers, but no alarm whatsoever. Perhaps they were seasoned travellers of Wizz Air. I started to seriously regret only paying £25 for a round trip ticket. But, what was worse, I knew I would be flying again with the majestic airline of Wizz Air back to London. ‘Shit.’
You can call it a miracle, or just modern science, but the metal shit wagon of Wizz Air’s destined to Prague made it there, and I stepped out on to the cold streets outside Praha airport at 00:35, looking for the 119 bus. This bus would take me almost directly to my hostel, as I had read on the hostel website. As I stood there waiting for the bus, desperately cold, I could not help but smile. I was in Prague. Here I was, freezing my ass off, in Prague. I was freezing my ass off, waiting for a bus; one that would take me from the airport to central Prague. It was a bit of an obvious, surface revelation, but it was the stark truth of being in Eastern Europe that struck me first as I stepped out of the Airport and stood at the bus stop.
Unfortunately, the fine manor of Little Town Budget Hotel, neglected to mention on its website that the 119 bus stops its service at the airport at midnight, making me, standing at the bus stop at 00:35, fucked. I scan the bus timetable. In addition to the 119, there is a second bus, the 510 that also stops at the airport, but, more importantly, it runs all night. Unsure of where this bus goes to, but not having any other options, I decide that the 510 is the one I should go with.
I step on to the bus, take a seat; and, after a few stops, I start to seriously reconsider whether this was a wise move. Every stop is announced in Czech (well, duh!), but, more importantly, even if I knew what or where these stops were in relation to Prague, the location of my hostel itself is a mystery now that the 119 bus is out of service. I look aimlessly around the bus for some sort of help in this situation. The woman sitting across from me seems to be able to help; or, to phrase it more correctly, can easily tell that I am a traveller with no fucking clue where he is going. I tell her the name of the hostel (no use) and the few fragments I know about its location. One crucial element that I picked up, from reading reviews and so forth, is that its convenient location is close to Charles Bridge and that the stop I was supposed to depart with the 119 at is called Malonstranske Namesti. She knows the area, but the 510 does not stop there. Instead she gives me a different stop, close to Malonstranske Namesti, where it would be a short walk. I thank her endlessly until her stop arrives, then a few stops later, I exit the bus too.
At the stop, I ask around for the general direction that would lead me to my destination. The first, a man dressed in a city labourers uniform, makes a grand gesture with his arm to his right and says something inaudibly Czech. I pretend to understand and walk in the general direction in which he pointed. After a few paces, I ask a second man, who speaks English. He points out the same direction as the former, but then adds, “it’s about 3 or 4 miles.”
‘Well, fuck that noise!’ I say to myself as I had off in the indicated direction, pretending not to mind walking that far. And normally I wouldn’t, but my knee had been riding me ever since I stepped out of the cramped leg room shack of discomfort that is the Wizz Air cabin. I make a decision: ‘If my legs can’t get me to my hostel, it looks like my thumb might have to.’ I stick out my black and white, wool-gloved hand and point my left thumb upward as I carry along the right side of Prague’s cobble stoned road.
On this venture, geographical factors were against me. The area, or more closely, as I would realize later, the side of the river that I was on, was not a hotbed of nightlife, meaning that it being now 1:45, the streets were deserted. No cabs, no friendly passing drivers. However, I was lucky that the man I consulted with (the one who gave me the figure of 3-4 miles) had the most skewed perception of distance (perhaps he was more accustomed to kilometres) for after fifteen minutes of limping and a third of a mile I reached Malonstranske Namesti. From there I followed the rest of my directions and checked into my hotel at 2:10 in the bloody morning.
The next morning, after a lovely breakfast at a crepe cafe, I found a nice used bookstore around the corner from my hostel. There I found a great selection of classical literature, and in particular the work of Franz Kafka, who spent all but 3 years of his life in Prague, caught my eye. I bought a collection of short stories of his including his epic “The Metamorphosis.” After a shaky start, I was now in Prague. Safe, contented, and rested.
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