Letter from Prague | All stories

For a brief period after graduating from high school in Germany, I found myself confused as to what course to take in life, professionally. So I enrolled for a program of study in English Linguistics.

For a few months from late July until the nights draw in from September and force me to change my weekend timetable, I look out of the window with some suspicion when my Prague-bound train pulls up at Pilsen on Sunday evenings. The cause of my fear can usually be heard before it appears: returning football supporters after an away game in the West Bohemian city.

One of the high points of my week was getting soaked to the skin on a tram stop platform by a passing municipal truck sprinkling water to keep the dust down. With the temperature at around 35 degrees Celsius, the cool spray provided at least a brief relief from the mind-melting heat.

The start of the summer holidays has a profound effect on life in the Czech capital. Students go backpacking in the Middle East, families head for a seaside vacation in Croatia and children get dumped at their grandparents’ in the village. Prague dwellers evacuate the city in droves in favour of their country houses and holiday huts.

Ownership is an eye opener in the Czech Republic. I refer here not to the general possessions and shackles that accumulate with time but to my ownership of a flat in a large house.

Ernesto “Che” Guevara is to many people a symbol of revolution. In fact his handsome, defiant face topped by a beret is said to be one of the most reproduced images in the world. The Argentinean Marxist famously took part in the Cuban revolution, and died trying to foment another uprising in Bolivia. What is perhaps less well known is his connection to a small town south of Prague.

I have always wanted to start a collection of something, but I inevitably lose interest after I have, say, fifty stamps or coins, and I remain not a collector but a mere hoarder. And so I am always amazed by the collections of others, and it’s funny how what people collect differ from country to country. In the United States it was often Coca-Cola paraphernalia or bottle caps. In a German house I came across a staggering assemblage of beer-related articles alongside a budding toy car collection. And here I have met more than one Czech obsessed

I wanted to go back to Afghanistan the minute I left it. No less because within twelve hours of doing so, I found I’d swapped all the gritty wonders of that country for the faux mystique of Dubai. Dubai has as much mystique as Disneyland, but a cloud of volcanic ash kept me captive there for three days. At least I had a chance to fill myself up with fish, before going back to Prague, and to consider everything I had seen and heard over the two weeks past.

Though the weather has been quite miserable lately, that doesn’t take away from the fact Prague is at its loveliest in May. And one of the loveliest spots in the city at this time of year is Petřín Hill on the left bank of the Vltava.

The beautiful land of great wine, mediocre beer, long vowels and good-hearted if slow people – that’s Moravia, the eastern part of the Czech Republic. The Czechs are so jealous of their older brothers that they fear any mention of their existence. Well, the time has come to claim what’s ours, or else.