the madness of Czech New Years

Prague during New Years was utter madness.

I’ve been to my fair share of mad New Year celebrations.

There was one in the small Georgian town of Bolnisi. Georgians are a bit on the insane side with fireworks, in that kids’ favorite hobby there through the month of December is to shoot people with Roman candles and lob around M80s like they're dubloons at Mardi Gras.

The view from Vitkov

Besides that, the town had organized a concert, with a grand fireworks display afterwards. The only problem was that during the display, one of the rocket tubes fell over and started firing the fireworks into the crowd. I imagine probably one of those danged kids did It, but I’ve no evidence.

Tbilisi itself is equally crazy. I spent one New Years on a rooftop, with basically a three-hundred and sixty degree viewing of fireworks for about thirty minutes, enough explosions to make you question if the Russians had decided to invade that night or not.

I tell you, when it comes to fireworks, Americans are nothing but pansies. We can blow up any country in the world, but when it comes to shooting off a little powder into the sky for a nice view, we’re completely incapable and terrified of it. Europeans and others completely lack that fear, and they don’t have all the nanny laws that Americans have built in, since they don’t care as much about frivolous litigation. Americans love that crap. Just look at who we voted in?

Prague

Prague though definitely ranked up there.

It’s tempting of course to book something expensive to party through some night that’s supposed to be memorable because a 16th century Pope told us it was.

But we decided to take the cheap option.

We started the night at Brix Bar and Hostel in Zizkov. Brix had all the appearances of a cool hipster hostel, if you had no sense of olfactory. As soon as you open the door, you’re hit with a wall of smoke. Even if people weren’t smoking, the place would still wreak of stale, chemical laced tobacco, not the good loose leaf your granddaddy used to smoke on the patio.

The bar though was a good thrill. Lots of people, lots of friends and locals, not what you’d expect from a hostel bar on such a holiday. The beers were nicely priced and the staff friendly enough, filling up to-go cups so that we could walk up Vitkov Hill well-stocked. Another difference with most cities in America--you can drink beer on the streets.

Vitkov Hill

For those of you who’ve been to Old Town Prague, you might have spotted Vitkov. It’s the one past the rail station and the highways, with the giant equestrian statue on it. That monument belongs to the great Czech hero, Jan Zizka, for whom the neighborhood is named, who defeated King Sigismund during the Hussite Wars. I think it says something about Czechs that there are more rebels on their list of national heroes than there are kings.

The Hussites had taken Prague and Sigismund had sent down an army to quell the rebellion. They set up camp and fortress in the king’s vineyards on the hill, but were quickly attacked by the Hussite general, who led his armies to victory, and sparked an eventual consolidation of Prague’s fortresses. The battle was immortalized by the painter Alfons Mucha in his “After the Battle of Vitkov Hill”, featured in his grand opus, The Slavic Epic.

After the Battle of Vitkov Hill, by Alfons Mucha

War returns to Vitkov

For anyone spending New Years up on Vitkov, it would have seemed that the war had returned. Rockets began their red glares even before the countdown to midnight began. Across Prague Roman candles and smaller peonies and horsetails started their bursting above the tiled rooftops. And then when that countdown finally hit midnight, the real fun began.

On cue, the entire city seemed to explode. Chrysanthemums, kamuros, spiders—fireworks of all kind erupted. The main city staging grounds from what I could tell were over the Old Town Square, Letna, and Vitkov.

You read that right. Vitkov.

Where we were standing.

Suddenly from directly above us, explosion after explosion pulsed through the air, the thick mass of people immediately swung their heads up as bits of paper and chunks of petrified powder made their way down.

The smoke was nearly impenetrable.

Fireworks launching off Vitkov

It’s hard to gauge when the official display ended, as people put down their own sets of rockets and lit them up. We left about an hour after, fatigued by the constant explosions, quite satisfied though with everything, a stranger’s bottle of champagne in my hand quickly being drained.

This would never have gone down in the US, I tell you what. Anyone remaining in America during Trump’s reign should do themselves a favor and visit a European country at New Years.

Did you make Santa's naughty list?

Nothing says Christmas like mulled wine with raisins and tangerines, laughing children, a 20-foot tall fir tree, a parade of woolly-haired demons, and a band thrashing to heavy metal. But that’s how the Czechs in Kaplice carry on the season, along with a few other villages across the Alpine and sub-Alpine lands.

Hanging with my pal Krampus

The tradition is not without historical precedent.

As Christianity spread throughout the region, Santa Claus--short for Saint Nicholas for my European friends who are confused about the jolly giant of Anglo lore--needed some help with his piling list of duties. Not only did he have to take care of his reindeer, manage his growing army of elven woodworkers, keep a list of naughty and good children, somehow balance a loving marriage, and hand out presents to all the various good kids of the world, he also had to start giving coal to the bad kids. Mama mia! he might have said. Though he was Greek and I’m not overly sure what those olive pickers are prone to saying when exasperated.

St. Nick leading his demon army

And then one foggy Christmas Eve, Santa came to say, “What if we enslaved us a pagan deity of the Alps? I hear those Austrians and Swiss are hardworking folk, their old gods should be as well.” So Santa, with a team of some forty elves, sought the woolen haired, goat horned old god named Krampus. Luckily for Santa, pagan gods are prone to heavy drinking and dancing. So he got together a few of Mrs. Claus’s single ladies and set them to work.

Before the night was through, Krampus was in chains with a giant bell hanging off his back.

Large bells on the back is an essential for the Krampus costume

But it wasn’t such a bad thing. He got to relax and drink mulled wine for most of the year at his nice cushy pad at the North Pole. And in December, especially December 6th, he gets to revisit his old haunts and torment young children and pretty ladies, slapping them with bundles of birch and generally terrifying them with any number of untold nightmares before Christmas.

The tradition continues

Nowadays, Krampus is still celebrated with a visit from a devilish figure in the company of Santa Clause to tease the children on Saint Nick’s Day, December 6th. Major Krampus parades are held in Kaplice, Czech Republic on the weekend after, and a few other towns in the mountains of Austria.

Demon Krampus giving the thumbs up to the good kids

We discovered this seemingly Satanic festival of the Krampus last year, reading through a local expat forum, and immediately decided that this was something we had to attend. This year we packed our bags, found the nearest hotel, and made for Kaplice.

Another Krampus saying hi to the kids

We arrived in Kaplice at about 4:00 pm. The parade would start at 6:00 pm, but already people were filling up all the available spots along the route barriers. It was really quite incredible and frustrating, though having some live music up on stage made waiting around a bit more tolerable. We immediately found a good position and staked it out. Like a good husband, I sent my wife back and forth to fetch me mulled wines as I strong armed people away from taking her spot.

Waiting for the parade. 4:00 and already all the good spots are taken

Maybe it says something about the Czech character, but I was surprised about how many children were out for what basically was a Gwar concert procession. But I thought that was pretty cool.

The parade begins

The parades star a long line of Krampus teams, each in thematic uniform, their own versions of the shaggy demigod, most being a bit overly demonic, as though they were using costumes that were recycled from Finnish death metal music videos. Indeed, the entire night was something right out of a death metal video.

Behemoth's biggest fan

The procession lasted for two hours. The Krampii ran up, shouted, jumped on the barriers, threw away the barriers, whipped people with birches, and poked children on their noses and waved at them. A couple of times a Krampus actually stole a child and carried them around the parade, but it was all in good fun. The only crying child I witnessed was when the parade was over. The two-year old girl next to me was pissed that there were no more walking nightmares treading the grounds.

My wife and I were a bit glad that it had ended, since our legs were red from all the whippings. If you're planning to attend, note where all the advertisement banners are hanging off the railings and stand behind one of those!

There were lots of smoke bombs and pyrotechnics throughout the show

Time to cry

After two hours, a huge fireworks show lit up the sky and then the after parties started up. But being married to a lovely wife, I had my own after party to attend to. So we made like Santa and left Kaplice for next year. 

Barrels of grog for the afterparty?

At the head of each "team" was a sign bearer

What's a Krampus without a flame thrower?

Some Krampii looked more like hellspawn than your average pagan god

Smoke and fire always adds to the atmosphere

Here's a bonus video, from one commenter below:

What do you think about the Krampus tradition? Leave a comment below.

5 best Christmas markets in Europe

signal, a festival of light

St. Ludmila's

There are many ways to waste electricity. You can keep the lights on all night, you can keep the television on while you cook, you can run the heaters all day and night long. Or you can spray billions of watts into the air to make a cathedral pulse and glimmer or a Baroque building shatter as a snake comes bursting out. In Europe, it's clear there's no lack of the the enigmatic electron. In some countries around the Continent, they’re running so well on alternative energies that some months, they might even pay you to use energy. So the extra watt or thousand really isn't a big worry anymore. Maybe it was from this notion, this celebration of man's pioneering galvanism, that the Signal Festival was created, a truly modern blend of art and technology, on display to everyone.

The Signal Festival is one of Prague’s biggest festivals—and for a city of a thousand festivals, that says a lot. It goes on for four nights every October, sending blinding beams of light across buildings and up into the air. The first year we went, I remember there being a huge mat across a riverside park, and everywhere you’d step, it would light up in different patterns, and another one where you’d walk in front of a projector and, using some sort of quantum formula, it’d scatter your particles across the white screen beyond. These such exhibits are displayed all across the city, with each neighborhood seemingly at a contest to outdo the other.

Signal Festival began three years ago and has been such a success, with the streets literally overflowing with crowds all through the night, that I imagine it will be a mainstay in the festivities programming for centuries to come.

The hanging man of shooter's island

The usual hotspot of the festival is at Namesti Miru, where they do a complete video mapping of the 18th century, neo-Gothic St. Liudmila’s Church. The projection is played to some pulsing, heart-shaking, deep bass-blasting electronic music, and makes it appear that the church is at once breaking into pieces, spinning into some vortex, or launching off into outer-space. There’s usually a similar projection at the Old Town Square.

The projection though that really stole the show this year was Tigre’s mapping of a building near Kampa Park. 3D glasses were for purchase for a couple of euro, and the show included science fiction/fantasy creatures that literally jumped out of the windows and broke down the walls. It was a pretty awesome work of art and something that would be truly hard to find an imitation of anywhere. 

windmill

In other squares and neighborhoods, there were smaller species of displays, many seemingly without aim or purpose. But then, that's art for you, ars gratis artis. One was something like a reverse white tesseract, with random letters from random alphabets floating upwards. Another few were large balloon man. One had his neck snapped, as though he were hanging from a gallows, and the other was lying on the ground, possibly after the deceased were removed from the said gallows. Another was a tattered old windmill with patterns spinning to a deep electronic soundtrack. The musical theme was definitely something glitch with a touch of horror.

So if you’re planning on a trip to Prague, I’d recommend overlapping it with the Signal Festival. It’s an event that really takes this historic city into the next century.

And some videos:

pineapples, umbrellas, and all

Prague a cappella festival

Life could be an empty hollow mess if the word “yes” were never uttered. The other night I was thinking that to myself as though it were a mantra, when my wife told me about an a capella festival that was going on here in Prague. I’ve loved music since my birth, but I’ll be honest here and say that I’ve always been a bit tense when it comes to white folk scatting and doing the jazz hands. That’s the image that is somehow burnt into my mind after one traumatic incident of watching Cats when I was a child. Though to think of it, every time I’ve seen Cats, it’s been a traumatic incident. I could never watch Thundercats again after Cats ruined Cat People for me. I could never put that fire out with gasoline, I'll tell you what.

But I knew this would be a little different. I’m in Europe now, where cultures are allowed to mix and borrow from each other. America’s got so sensitive that we’ve even changed the language, now appreciation and imitation have new words—we call them “cultural appropriation”. But if we don’t appreciate each other’s cultures, if we don’t take the little bits of sweetness that we like—and here it doesn’t even matter if you like the whole culture, but just that part—then we’ll never get on the train of understanding each other and making it to that final destination. If you stop mixing cultures, then you get a lot of the same old thing, as most of what is new and innovative is just an interesting concoction of things done before. Straight shots are for some, but others would prefer their fru fru drinks, pineapples, umbrellas, and all.

Hardly church time

A capella literally means “in the manner of the chapel”, and was a reference to the vocal style of church music before the introduction of electric guitars, jumbo trons, and evangelical rock concerts for the Lord. It brings us to a simpler time before electricity, when armies of monks would chant across foggy creeks and four guys would sit at the barber shop and doo-wop it out in epic battles of intrinsic laryngeal control.

A long time has gone since those days, but hipsters of late have been trying to revive the barber shop and their quartets. Indeed, the first group we saw, the local group Hlasoplet, was a definite nod to this, and a reminder to me that a capella is perhaps some of the most complex music there is.

Hlasoplet

As Hlasoplet was playing, I gathered from the way the audience kept laughing that they seemed to blend a lot of humor into their act. In all, they caught the attitude pretty well and it was a nice warm up to the genre. They had a great presence on the stage as well, all with suits, well barbered facial hair, active facial expressions and no jazz hands.

Check out this video from Hlasoplet:

Sextensially quintessent

The group we came to see though—and apparently, as the announcer described, the headliner—was the Georgian group the Quintessence. I was a bit surprised when I saw six people on the stage, since the name would have made you think it was a quintuple and not a sextuple, but the shining white suits and dresses, and their shy youthful smiles made me quickly forget about this mathematical debacle. The name is likely a Quincy Jones shout out, but that's the best of my guess. They opened with a slightly jazzed up version of a Georgian folk song which was quite terrific. If there’s any people that have an edge on a capella music because of their folk styles, it’s certainly the Georgians.

There’s one thing I often complained about when I was living in Georgia regarding their music. Many Georgians seem to have a hard core belief in the purity of form. That either something is folk or its rock, and there is very little if not any fusion in the styles. It really leads to a disappointing modern live music culture, since it’s basically just the repetition of European and American styles, if not just straight up cover bands of Oasis and Pink Floyd. It’s the fusion that makes things interesting, and it’s what modern Georgian musical culture has really lacked, and it’s a pity since they have such a deep well of amazing musical tradition.

The Quintessence

The Quintessence—and indeed, whoever their instructor is—are certainly on the borders in an attempt to fix this. The way they handled the Georgian folk songs, the jazz standards, and the outright fusion of the two was phenomenal, and I truly had never seen anything like it. It was no wonder that the entire audience roared with applause after every song like it was the last, and then a true standing barrage of bravos when it actually was their last song. It seemed true that nobody in the audience had ever seen such a fusion either, and the effect was something quite lasting and memorable.

This is unfortunately the best video I could find on YouTube. But still, a good example of how they arranged the jazz standard, Senor Blues, with a touch of the Caucasus:

Just for that, I was glad I tempted fate and the jazz hands to make it to the a capella festival.

But as we were leaving, there was a filler group singing on the smaller stage in the bar room. As they finished their own fusion of genres—a song mixed from “All about the bass” and “Don’t worry be happy”, they did the jazz hands. It was a good time for us to leave, as the Jellicle cats were coming out that night.

The Prague A Cappella festival wraps up tonight, Friday the 30th, at La Fabrika in Holesovice.

the festival and the tramp

Loket, By Rejectwater, commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=46676354

Lying in the grass, looking up at the dwindling light of the Sun as pinpoints of light slowly turn on like their lights from a skyline, with music blazing out from one direction and the next, some girls laughing over near a grove of trees, dancing in a circle, some guys commenting about the girls while they sip drinks and nod their heads to the pulsing of the bass from the nearby stage – these are parts of the image of summer that I love, the festival life, the life of being outside, slightly so inebriated, feeling the earth pulse through me as it rocks and shakes with the footsteps of passing people. When I lived in the United States, I always enjoyed the idea of a festival, but in general the complexity and price of getting a beer makes it only mildly worth it. Here in Europe, especially in the Czech Republic, where the beer is cheaper than water and finer than champagne, festivals are fodder for fun. And it’s hard to go anywhere in Prague where you don’t run into a festival, in some park or some street corner, there is something that’s going to be going on with beer, sausages, potato pancakes, or all three.

But also getting out of town is fun, since the festivals ravage the countryside, moving from town to town like the ranging tramps of old that they seem to have been inspired by.

The Tramp

The only time I had heard of “tramps” before was from the Lady and the Tramp, after which I still didn’t know what one was, and also just before I beat some kid up in second grade when he called my mother a tramp. I beat him so good, I was crying for afterwards about it. Nobody calls my mom a tramp, even though I didn’t have the slightest clue what a tramp actually was – nor, apparently, did the other kid.

But then I moved to Czech Republic and started reading the Good Soldier Svejk, and I started meeting folks on the street with nothing but a knapsack over their shoulder and a healthy distrust of anything to do with the G-word (government), talking about how 9/11 was a Bush conspiracy and that Trump is set to bring America back to what it once was or could be or might have been or something rather this way or that. But sometimes it was interesting to journey into the city and see what things were going on, that old stench of civilization that just wouldn’t wash down the Vltava along with all the Drano, fluoride, and whatever the hell else is turning the color that lovely shade of brown.

Tramps are the bearers of a long Czech tradition of shafting the government and taking to the woods. The movement seems to have started sometime around the times of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire, when forced conscription had been put in place. Czechs have never been lovers of their rulers, being passed from one to the next over the generations, but this was a line crossed too far. In times of war, instead of going out to pointlessly kill some folks that didn’t have anything for them but fought for the wrong ass hole on the other side of an invisible line, they set to the sticks and wandered about the hills (this would be what we call “draft dodging” over in those United States, and Muhammad Ali had something to tell you about them).

Tramping was a highly illegal activity and carried huge punishments, from torture, to beatings, to execution, depending on the temperament of the local military tribunal. The Czechs of the countryside also knew this, and were quite sympathetic, so there grew some strange tradition of hospitality for the rovers and meanderers of the Bohemian wild and would regularly take them in and help out.

Times are different these days though, what with globalization and refugees. The tramping life is no longer seen as something brave and idyllic, but now the basic term for the chronically homeless. Still, heroes to some, heroes of sorts.

Meander Feastival

The Meander Festival celebrates all those things tramp, the free spirit, and Bohemian ideal. Set just across the Russian border at Karlovy Vary, on the Czech side in the small town of Loket, it’s a three-day music festival that caters to all sorts, the outcast and the tramp, the hippy and the intellectual, the small one-man band and the hundred guitar acts, local and international, fire breathing and water streaming, theatrical acts, clowns, lions jumping through hoops, an impregnable castle, a princess and a pauper, and a meandering river. Really, it’s got something for everyone. “We booked the lions because -” Andy, one of the festival organizers and principal operator of A Maze in Tchaiovna explained to me while smoking something that may not have been tobacco while drinking something that may not have been tea, “Because I thought there needed to be something more. You know, for the kids. It’s really going to be spectacular this year. Oh, and tell them about the bus!”

The Meander Bus leaves A Maze in Tchaiovna on Friday the 10th at 5:30 pm and returns at 2:00 pm on Sunday. You can book your ticket there in advance, one way or both. There are also public transit methods via Student Agency and local routes that aren’t too hard. Or you can drive or coordinate a car to Loket. 

Be sure to catch Cupla Focal - the band in which I play accordion - at midnight on Saturday. And if you need something to read for the bus, check out a copy of How It Ends sold at A Maze in Tchaiovna.

Loket

Loket was founded in the 9th century and is near the Russian town of Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic. Its name translates as “elbow”, called such because of the meandering elbow shape that the Ohre River makes around the town. Overlooking the town – like most Czech towns – there’s a 12th century Gothic castle, which was once known as the “Impregnable Fortress of Bohemia.” In the 18th century, the castle was burned to the base, but a hundred years later it was rebuilt as a prison, which was probably used for those draft dodging tramps trolling around the Austrian barracks. The Communists shut down the prison though and turned it into a museum, which it’s been ever since, showing the life that never really existed in the place but did before the place was built. Or something like that. Anyways, come for the castle, stay for the festival. Or vice versa. As you wish. 

Loket, From http://www.loket.cz/en/

no curtains in moravia

statue in Litomysl

We stood in line at the U Veterana cukrarna, or sweets shop. It seemed to be the busiest sweets shop in the entire village of Slatinice, families and crowds pouring in and out of the place, weaving through the tables, forming the worlds’ longest cukrarna line in the short history of the Czech Republic. It was understandably long, as this was truly the center of this small village’s life. Not only was it a cukrarna, but it was also a hotel, an automobile museum, and a wellness center. It was massively understaffed – the only employees there were in the cukrarna, but otherwise clean. When we went up to the room, which had beautiful wood paneling and quality wood furniture, but there were no curtains and the room faced directly into the street from the second floor.

In my broken Czech I made the complaint, “There are no curtains.” But the lady didn’t understand. “No curtains,” I repeated, showing her the word in my dictionary. But it didn’t seem that that was a huge problem for her. Still speaking in Czech, I explained, "People from the street can see into the room."

She nodded. Claimed she would ask about it. But did nothing.

So we inquired about the pool. We came to this hotel specifically for the pool and hot tub. Apparently the pool was full and closing at 5 – it was already 4:45 – and the hot tub cost 25 euros. It was a basic whirlpool that was in the same room as the pool. But anyway, that wasn’t open past 5 anyway. All the hours listed in the brochure that we had from hotel room were for the “summer hours”. Why it made a difference for a hot tub and indoor pool was beyond me.

How did we get there?

We decided to make the trip by using my new obsession. Get a big destination – in this instance Olomouc – find some interesting things to see on the way there and repeat the process for the way back. To do this I was entirely at the mercy of Google maps. I just tapped on random places that seemed to divide up the driving time pretty well. So the route there was decided – Hradec Kralove, Litomysl, Slatinice (only for the hotel), and finally Olomouc.

Hradec Kralove

Main square

Driving into Hradec Kralove, I was kind of reminded of Kutaisi back in Georgia. It was a city that for a long time was a bit forgotten and outshone by the main city of the country. Now there’s some re-invigoration there – there are lots of huge music festivals centered there, like Rock for People and Hip Hop Kemp. But on the hole, it’s a bit run down and untouched, as though that’s how Prague probably looked just after Communism fell. It’s market square depressed us. Of course, we were there on Easter Sunday, so it was altogether as barren as an old maid. But it was mainly just a giant parking lot with chipped concrete everywhere, a far cry from the typically beautiful Czech square paved with cobblestones.

street in Hradec Kralove

The name of the city means “Castle of the Queen” and was a dowry town of Elisabeth Richeza of Poland, who lived there as the wife of two different Kings of Bohemia back in the 13th and 14th centuries. It was a strongly Catholic Bohemian city throughout the 30 Years War, with a brief occupation during the Great Swedish Landgrab. The German name of the city was Koniggratz, which is where the name of the famous battle between Austria and Prussia took place that decided the dominance of Prussia in the newborn German Empire.

Litomysl

Row of buildings in main square in Litomysl

The land here was flat and on going. The villages seemed to repeat themselves, crowded and huddled together with a church always somewhere in the middle. Finally, we came to Litomysl, which seemed to open like a flower before us. We stopped for a nice walkabout from the main square, all the way up and down, and then up to a massive Baroque palace. The main square was interesting as both sides had covered walks, the buildings overlapping over the pavements. We first spent some time at a chocoleterie, where I drank what seemed to be a melted chocolate bar. We ended at the castle, which was a truly impressive site.

Litomysl Castle

In the 12th century, Litomysl became an important religious center of the Premonstratensian Order, which had famous monasteries throughout Bohemia and Moravia. A monastery was founded on the central hill of the town, which became known as the Mount of Olives, and it became important enough to attract the attention of the noble family of Persnstejn, namely Vratislav, who had spent much time in Italy. He later met a Spanish noblewoman who he married and had the Italian-styled palace built in her name.

The galleries inside the castle

Litomysl Castle became especially famous as the birthplace of a certain composer born in its brewery. Bedrich Smetana was born in the hop scented vaults under the castle brewery, where his father worked as the chief brewer under Count Waldstein. He had a nearly uncountable amount of brothers and sisters and was early on brought to Jindrichuv Hradec in the south. He later moved to Prague to take part in the 1848 uprising and became a noted composer of the Czech national spirit.

After Litomysl, we made our way to the hotel, where we discovered it was too late for the pool and too early to enjoy a curtain-less night.

Prospero's fancy

Protection from the bureaucratic rain

In the last blog, I introduced the Prague Quadrennial and the main Georgian exhibit. The Quadrennial is the Olympics of theatre set design, a showcase held everyone four years for performing artists and designers across the world to celebrate their love and dreams and to show off the hard work that they’ve done. Yesterday I went to Kafka’s House, where most companies that were presenting were associated with schools or governmental grants, since those were the only groups that could afford to come and make such presentations. Some governments and companies cared more about the production, others didn’t, and that could be seen in what they displayed. Some presentations were simply pictures or videos of what they’ve done, others were transformations of the room and the space, yet others made the viewer part of the performance. Indeed, the best displays were the ones that provided the viewer with a unique artistic experience, that, whether through interaction or emergence, provided a link between the viewer, the artist and the art.

The name of the exhibition hall isn't a chance name or a touristic trap, it was actually the house where Kafka was born. It was first built as an administration hall for Benedictine monks, though when the author was born, it was being used as a theatre and for apartments at the time. Kafka's family soon moved to a place on nearby Wenceslas Square. The building suffered extensive damage in a fire, the interiors were renovated in the Socialist block style and now it's used as an exhibition hall. 

Two types of exhibits were my favorite. One type was unanimously presented by universities, where the designer-professor gave their students an idea - “Empty life” - or a play title - “No Exit”, “Romeo & Juliet”, etc - and told them to design a set or figure or something based off the title. My favorite among this theme was Hungary’s display, called “The Collector’s Room.” The aim of the project for the students was to work on the basic skills required of set design - to understand a character’s background and thematic interaction. “Each student imagines a Collector with a different passion in collecting,” then the student must make a diorama of where the Collector lives. This is even meta-interesting, since art itself is the perfection of obsession. What makes me think of myself as an artist, for example, isn’t simply that I write. Anyone would write if you dangled some dollar bills on a string and hook in front of them. But I - like other artists - am compelled to do so. For reasons that don’t make any real economic sense.

Brazilian labyrinths

Another favorite was Brazil’s showcase. Each student designed a book showcasing the concept of a play, presenting also pictures of the set. These books had to mimic that concept though. If the play were an adaptation of Borges’ “Labyrinths”, for example, then the book had to be a puzzle to open.

The successful concept for me was when there was an attempt to engage the viewer, to make them part of the show. Serbia had people sit down and then tied strings across the room, making them willing flies in a giant web. Lithuania had a projector with a scrolling skyline displayed on the wall and invited their guests to draw. Most people attempted to draw parts of the skyline, others just wrote tag graffiti like “Anichka was here,” the creative spectrum was all over the wall. Estonia was perhaps one of the best here, presenting Kafka's "A Report to the Academy", where there was a diorama in the exact middle of the room. Inside the diorama was the figure of a man watching television. On the television was a weird sort of stop-motion animation. Along the walls of the actual room were three people in costumes. One as death, one as a bronze-statue street performer and the last was someone lying face down. The first two were constantly staring at you, in the same way you tried to stare at the figure in the box, which was staring at the television screen. 

BAR III/IV

My last mention before I leave off with some random pictures of various projects is Austria’s presentation, called BAR III/IV, which was an exhibit not really marked in the main corridor. I just entered a door that didn’t say not to enter - which I have a habit of doing - and I found myself in a very small bar with room for four people - there was my wife and two others. Also an Austrian student who was sitting behind the bar smoking cigarettes and telling people to help themselves to some wine. Naturally, everyone stared uncomfortably until - never being one to pause about free booze - I poured the wine out into everyone’s glasses, we toasted, we drank, the student took some pictures and carried on smoking. The bar was, of course, a set, built inside another room, and through this bad cover or that, you could see the room beyond the room, and you could see that you are merely Prospero’s fancy.   

Uruguay, "Relationship"

Slovakia, Ice on books

on the prague quadrennial

The Georgian display

 At first, I didn’t now what a Quadrennial was, so when my wife told me we were going to the Georgian Pavilion, I did what any smart husband would do and nodded my head and smiled. Also knowing that it was a Georgian event, I knew that there might be some free wine to be scored, and Georgian wine is always great to have a glass or four of. Nobody makes a sweet red quite like them, so you can keep your Tokays and Beaujolais thank you. We made our way to where the Georgian Pavilion was, which was in the historic Clam-Gallasuv palace. It’s a bit redundant to say something in Prague is historic, since the place bleeds history, but still. The palace is on Husova and Marianske in Prague’s old town. It was built in 1714 for the Viceroy of Naples, and the parties there saw such hipster musicians of the day like Mozart and Beethoven in attendance - I’m sure fashion will swing full circle and powders and wigs will replace the mustaches. Now it holds festivals and events, like the Opera Barocca in August and the Quadrennial every fourth summer.

The Cyprus exhibit

Before arriving at the Clam-Gallasuv, we stopped for ice cream at the Haagan-Dasz, but quickly realized that that was a mistake, since one scoop there cost 4 dollars. We opted for a one dollar scoop down the street and then made our way to the festival palace. Once there, we paid our 80 czk (normally 100, but there are discounts for students and for public transit users) each and went on into the Georgian Pavilion. 

Entering the room, I finally was clued into what the Quadrennial was. From the looks of it, it was some sort of presentation of theater and art. The Georgian room was black walled with televisions everywhere. On the left was a wall of televisions, showing the single image of two dancers moving across the viewing area. The dancers were without faces; the faces instead showing what the Georgian curator described was the back of the set, representing the actors as puppets, and by extension, humans as actors. On the other wall were various televisions, each displaying scenes from a play in Georgia. The set designs were all quite interesting, making me somewhat regret not catching a show while living in Tbilisi and peaking my interest in seeing something while here in Prague. 

Inside a Canadian outhouse

Some of the other rooms were all the more amazing and others were mere vain attempts to showcase something without much thought. The best presentations were from Canada and Cyprus. The Canadian group had set up some six outhouses, and within each outhouse was a presentation of a toilet and some random stuff that had to do with whatever play the outhouse represented. Quite an interactive experience, though one hopes a person isn’t too moved to interact to the fullest extent. The Cyprus one was a super dark room, lit only by a strange mannequin lamp, seen in the picture. In different shadow boxes along the wall were presentations of their theater productions. Also, there were two holes connected to cleaning gloves that stretched outside the box. There was a camera and monitor above, allowing you to view what was happening with the gloves. You could put your hands in those and do any sort of terrible thing without consequence. I attempted to steal many a purse, but unfortunately it’s impossible to run anywhere when attached to a wall. 

All is vanity

Closing out the experience, there was a talk from the Georgian curator and lots of free Georgian wine. All academic mumbo jumbo was lost on me after my forth glass of some delicious Khareba, but the weird skeleton statues taking selfies were entertaining enough. 

My suspicions about the Quadrennial were correct. It is a showcase of performance design, though it’s also - at other exhibition halls - a showcase of architecture and makerspace. The Prague Quadrennial has been held every fourth year in the summer since 1976, and is being held now until the 28th of June. Go check it out and let me know what you saw and where I should visit next!

the course of krymska

Krymska Ulice

Over the past few years, Krymska has sprung from being on the border of Prague civilization, from being a hipster central, from being on the border of everything, from being hipster central, and so on. These days, it's back to being the center of it's own little mustachioed polka-dotted world, just after suffering a five year lull which caused the famous Shakespeare and Sons bookstore to close up shop (a decision they're probably regretting now). There really isn't much there for eating, shopping or other non-beverage activities, but the place is beginning to blossom - though from how most people talk, it has already blossomed and the underground appeal has gone on over to the Letna district.

Krymska is in an almost ideal spot for a cool underground neighborhood. It lies in the middle of the Vinohrady district, which itself is on the graveyard of a medieval winery, where as late as the mid-1800s the land was all covered with grapes. The grapes have since been cut everywhere except in the nearby Grebovka Park - aka Havlickovy Park - and have been replaced with most neo-Renaissance, art nouveau and modernist structures jammed together as close as possible. During the Communist years, it was known as a bourgeois, anti-Red hangout area, which is slightly ironic since now it's a bit of an anti-Capitalist area. 

Grebovka Park (Havlickovy Park)

The Krymska district can basically be defined as the area around the tram stop of that name, down Francouska to the Ruska tram stop, then diagonally over to Grebovka Park, up to Donska and back up to the Krymska tram stop. Since it's on the face of a steep hill, it has some excellent views down Donska and Krymska, and within its not broad streets with no parking, there are some 20 bars. Not all the bars have markings on their doors, and some resemble more of a hippy's failed state of a living room, but they are there. Three of those bars are live music venues featuring mostly local acts, two are culturally interesting First Republic type places, there's an art house movie theater bar, a couple places are pseudo-dance clubs, and one bar doubles over as a vegan restaurant with great beer. So as you can see, there's no shortage of a good time revolving around fierce amounts of beer.

The Czech Inn at Krymska

Krymska is an especially great district if you're looking to avoid tourist trap bars, as the beer here rarely exceeds two euros and each place is a bit unique and none of them very clean, as they're all quite dive bar type places, though lacking the foosball and beer pong tables that typical American dive bars would have. At the top of the area is the Czech Inn (+420 267 267 612) hostel, which is in a perfect situation both for the more hip night life and for the touristic places that line tram line 22. It is also the owner of one of those live music venues slash dance clubs, the Basement Bar. One of the best non-smoking bars and live music venues (unfortunately, smoking is allowed in the live music basement section) Cafe v Lese is here too, near the bottom of the district.

During summer days, the district empties out and hits Grebovka park, with one of the better views of non-central Prague, and which has a beer garden and a wine garden, where the wine is made at the local winery, and you literally sip your glasses over the ancestors of your present drink. During winter days, most of the area is silent throughout the day, as regular cafes are pretty rare in the area. It usually picks up at dusk and carries well on into the night, with some of the bars staying open until the morning on the weekends - though this is always weird, since sometimes there is just simply nothing open after midnight, and if it is, it's usually just clouds of smoke and foul odors. This problem of regularity you don't have in the touristic districts, so you are taking a chance here, but if Krymska isn't a good place to end up, at least it's always a good place to start out.

Down Krymska Street during the Korzo Krymska

We live in the Krymska area, so as we were coming home from the African Food Festival, we ran into the Korzo Krysmka, the annual street festival celebrating all things Krymska. All the shops in the area - even the closed ones that haven't seen the light of day since the days of the First Republic - had decided to open their doors and have a big street party that day, inviting local bands and DJs to strike up the entertainment (curiously they didn't invite the best local artist, the Underground Man, but whatever). Mostly there were DJs who would play with a saxophonist or flutist, as that seems to be the party trend in the Czech capital these days - "Look, I can drop a bass beat four on the floor thud and have a guy play Kenny G over it, cool!" I suppose it's better than the Pink Floyd that a lot of the live music scenes here offer, but that all is for another blog. There were a couple of people who weren't no talent hacks, including a band that made Czech folk music into something dance-able and exciting. There were also a few places where hippy guitarists were strumming out their Jack Johnson vibes amidst clouds of patchouli and marijuana.

Most of the festival seemed bizarre and random - random especially since we didn't even know a festival was happening in our neighborhood until the day it happened! Though that was, to tell the truth, most of the excitement of it and of living in this area (Grebovka Park is constantly having a festival it seems). We dropped our stuff off at our house, then started with eating some Mexican tostadas dished out by the nearby Las Adelitas, who had a van parked outside of the Czech Inn. As we sat, a dog chose us to play fetch with, as he very excitedly kept bringing us a stick back and I kept kicking it away. Occasionally he'd bring the stick to someone else, who would ignore him, and so he'd bring it back over to me. 

The Korzo Krymska wrapping up

When the wife tired of me playing with the dog, we went down Krymska street itself, which was filled with masses upon masses of people, found some beer, and waded on down the street. Each of the bars and former bars or possibly still places that were bars but just weren't apparently open bars now had their doors open, taking in visitors, offering beer and weed, beaded jewelry, African novelties sold by Africans, and coffee and pancakes. After my beer ran dry, we went in to Incider Bar, a bar that only serves cider - imagine that! - and waited in line for some thirty minutes. The line was long as it was and some lady was trying to get the very precise flavor of cider and making the order very complicated and in English, which was causing quite the backup. Come on lady, if you're at a festival, the goal of the day is quick and fast so everyone can drink and the bar can sell quantity! Equally bad is when people are ordering cocktails of the Starbucks order at busy clubs, but I won't get into that. Just when you're at a bar or festival, think about what you're going to order and think about the line you're going to create. That's all I ask!

After we got the cider, we went on searching for live music. The aforementioned folk music had gone, and there, again, was only some hack DJ. Look man, you have no turntables, I know you just prepared all this stuff in advance, which isn't an overly hard thing to do given today's automatic beat matching technology. But again, that's what seems to be popular in Prague, and as such, we couldn't find anything really apparent and entertaining. We ended up at the vegan bar, Plevel, having our last call at 10, and then seeing the streets had been emptied out - no noise in Prague after 10 folks! - we went on home.