Prague, the invincible city.  We set off to explore it knowing only that to
understand its past would require time incommensurate with the amount of time
we'd be there.  And so it was, the three of us wandering the cobbled streets
through Hussite, Baroque, Renaissance, Communist, and Art Nouveau influences,
trying to piece it all together.  We rode street cars and underground metros,
walked the Hradçany and the Malá Strana, and retired evenings to
a lovely hotel on a wooded street behind the magnificent Námestí Míru church.  

The Czechs are without a doubt the most friendly and welcoming people I've
met in the past decades. We found them sharply dressed, good natured, and
kindhearted.  We never set foot in a street car without some person leaping
immediately to his or her feet, offering a seat to the tourist family traveling
with an 11-month old baby.  We bought some baby clothes in a little shop not
far from our hotel, from a woman who insisted on giving Valentina a gift as
well; and even the ticket collector on the street car took the time to give us
a smile and wish us well in his city.  Lots of other cultures, including my
own, could take lessons in hospitality from the Czechs.

The architecture paled, in my mind, beside the vibrancy of the music: we
found playbills announcing different concerts in just about every quarter
through which we traveled, and I had the pleasure of attending not just a
classical guitar duet but also a presentation of Anton Dvorzak's New World
Symphony, without doubt my absolute favorite classical work (naturally, they
played Smetana  as well, and it, too, was stunning).

Expat friends derided the Czech cuisine, but I found it enticing: a 15th
century banquet of meats (particularly duck and roast pork) with gravies, whole
grain breads, and sweet, dark beer.  Surprisingly, it was usually cheaper than
eating in Cotonou (well, perhaps not so surprising: Cotonou imports everything,
including the milk).  I was goaded inexorably towards Pilsner Urquell , a
classic Czech brew I liked less than the several dark beers.  Here too, we were
impressed by the generosity and pleasant nature of the Czechs, who found us
tables that would suit our infant daughter and attended to us with an obvious
pride and pleasure I found amazing.

Early evenings are when the city most evoked the illusion of walking through
the pages of a Milan Kundera novel (I'd read both The Unbearable Lightness of
Being and The Joke before coming), but although I looked everywhere for
confirmation we were beyond the footprint of the old Iron Curtain, In Prague I
failed roundly.  I found instead a glimpse of the wry Czech sense of humor (to
be fair, Kundera certainly employs that trait is his writing too).  The old
statue of Lenin was cheerfully dynamited a decade ago: a 10 meter high stone
structure where Lenin stood grimacing over the high banks of the Moldau, four
proletariat behind him.  The Czechs called the statue "waiting in line for
meat," and laughed that Lenin was at the head of the line.  But the Cold War is
rapidly becoming the leitmotif of a generation whose time has passed, and the
streets are full of mini-skirted consumers chatting on cellphones and drinking
lattés.

Finally, we found the city clean, green, and well-tended, and replete with
flowers.  Prague was instantly likeable, and its people made our first real
contact with the Slavic world a favorable one. One travels for many reasons,
and we were mostly grateful to momentarily live in a place full of towering
trees, green grass, and broad parks with fountains to splash in.  That the
Czech were such wonderful hosts simply drew emphasis to the attractiveness of
this Central European city.