Arrived home to London early Tuesday morning from Amsterdam after a delayed flight and a missed train. It is definitely Spring-time in the British Capital. Walking a new route to the market today, I saw this fruit tree in bloom.
Getting closer for a tighter shot, I saw the sign on the wall declaring it as Freud’s Museum and it was open. The smell was delicious. Intoxicating and sweet.
Here is a snap of the famous couch Freud used in psychoanalysis. He lived here with his daughter, Anna.
Then I met this little fella who gave me a physical twinge of homesickness. Little Oz dog without the bark. He just sat at the gate and visited with me without a peep.
So, a little recap of Prague and Amsterdam is in order. Prague is indeed a beautiful city with the River Vitva flowing through it and graced by three lovely bridges. As the driver approached the city from the airport there was huge firework display over the water which we gather was in honor of the International Women’s Day.
Our hotel was superb. Arcadia Residence. Right on the Old Town Square, our suite had two bedrooms and baths, a kitchen, sitting area and great view. Here are some shots of the room and one of the view out the bedroom window. (I won the coin toss and got the room while Nancy got the sofa bed which she claimed to be comfortable.)
View from my room:
Panarama of the $50 per night place.
Our Italian host, Pasqual, could not have been more helpful. He should give lessons in hotel management. Our Friday morning started with cooked breakfast off a menu at the hotel and a three hour walking tour of the city.
The guide was humorous and well versed on architecture, history and culture of Czechs.
The City, once the seat of the Roman Empire and also the seat of the Hapsburg dynasty, has very heavy and tall buildings.
The early Bohemians have a long history of fighting off occupiers and oppressors—about 12 centuries worth of experience which may account for what I perceived as dour dispositions. I did not see any Czechs who looked like they were enjoying life. The Czechs consume a massive amount of alcohol, pride themselves on being atheists, and look downright gloomy. In addition, it was dead winter so there was neither green nor flowers anywhere in the landscape—summer might be more cheerful.
So, despite the excellent food and beauty of buildings, I was not eager to stay long in Prague. My childhood resulted in a keenly developed set of antennae for the impending depression in others. Prague, for this traveler, evoked that sense of impending doom about to collapse on those around me who possess more delicate temperaments.
That said, we did not have time to do everything I would have liked. We did visit the Museum of Communism, ironically located between MacDonald’s and a Casino.
It was an incredible experience to see the forty years of Communist rule in Prague documented with artifacts, narratives and photos. The exhibit ended with a fantastic documentary that I wish I could get my hands on. The militarized police state and the propaganda were so familiar with what is happening in the States to protestors that it was eerie. The Velvet revolution in 1989 seems to have given the Czechs self rule and democracy. In one of their revolutions, they exploded the 15 meter (50+ feet)statue of Stalin that had been erected over the city in 1955.
Wensalaus Square, named for the bohemian king murdered by his brother and a conspiring Catholic priest, is currently the site of all upscale shopping—Prada, Dolce & Gabana, Chanel, etc. It is bound on one end by the National Gallery and the other by a statue of its namesake. It is where the student Jan Palach set himself on fire in a 1969 protest. It is also the site of the mass demonstrations in 1989 dubbed the “velvet revolution” where hundreds of thousands gathered shaking their keys in protest.
Our frequent walks over the Charles River are not well photographed because of the press of humanity. For off-season, the city was jammed with tourists. Unfortunately, when we got ready to tour the oldest active synagog in the world (since 11th Century), it was Sabbath and closed.
This cubist building housed a charming 1940's style tearoom with little pastries and good coffee.
The Nazis moved into Prague in 1939 and part of its large preservation is said to stem from the Nazi plan to make Prague their headquarters after they won the war. We know how that turned out.
In the plaza, there are wood burning fires where all kinds of food is cooked over coals. Here is a sample.
Big meat story in Prague.
These are a type of pastry like donuts but roasted over coal on long wooden spindles.
And, yes, those are flying ashes.
The other warning I have to Prague travelers is that cigarette smoke is unavoidable. Walking a couple blocks, I smelled like a dirty ashtray. Upon return to hotel after every walk, I hung my clothes out the window to air out and washed my hair—twice a day. Icky, stinky and ubiquitous.
Their infrastructure is good. Here is the subway stop where we caught a ride to a busstop where we got on the airport express.
Sunday morning we were off to Amsterdam where we took a train from the airport to the central station in the city. What a charming city. And, it is so light-hearted after Prague. There are bicycles everywhere. And “coffee shops” which are marijuana dens---smoke so thick that we were worried about getting a contact high. And, had shops selling drugs.
We wandered around too long looking for the Burger Bar my students had recommended—no luck that night. Then we took a trolley to the museum square where our hotel was located.
We could not find it either. Neither could anyone we asked. So we got a nice meal and set our again with our little wheels on suitcases getting weary of all the cobblestones—I am surprised my wheels have not fallen off yet. The hotel was adequate and clean.
The highlights of my short day in Amsterdam: the Van Gogh museum, the canal ride around the city and the Berger Bar!!!
We went to a morning meditation meeting early on Monday (7:30am) which was very peaceful. Then after breakfast in the Concert Hall café, got ourselves to the Van Gogh Museum where we were surprised to see this display of rocks.
Turns out it is part of the Nature of Landscape exhibit which knocked my socks off. The music and some of the lessor known artists were breath-stealing. I was absolutely gobsmacked.
Of course, the permanent Van Gogh collection is stellar, too. Arranged with works of artists who had influenced Vincent, the works were arranged chronologically. There were some famous ones which are always far more spectacular in person. And, some I did not know about.
What a fantastic morning.
Again, we looked for the elusive Burger Bar. Frustrated because there are two locations and we cannot find either! Both Nancy & I are good with maps and directions, but damn. Vexing. Same problem here as in Prague—street names are full of too many consonants and too many vowels. So Riikstaadt Neikolke is NOT the same as Rikstaat Neilkomke
Anyway, after our canal cruise, we got lucky.
Sites along the canals.
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Many, many charming homes on the water, too. Some, like the one below, date back to the 14th Century.
And the infamous Burger Bar—entirely worth the search. I had an Angus Beef burger with gorgonzola and onions. Nancy had Irish beef with cheddar. And the fries were out of the world. If this place was in the US, it would make In-N-Out go broke. Not comparable. So, good tip.
There is room at the counter for four stools and there are three other stools. That's it. We were impressed and I hear that Nancy returned yesterday for more. It was a unique food experience.
I kept wondering why the brick architecture in Amsterdam reminded me of orphanages.
BTW, in the foreground is one of many houseboats on the canals.
Well, when I got home and googled it, I found the answer. Here is the Los Angeles Orphanage—predecessor to Maryvale.
It was staffed by the Daughters of Charity—remember these habits? The headdress instead of veils intrigued me as a kid—especially when they would come to the Mission to bring a new girl to school. The nickname of this order of nuns was: God’s Geese.
(I remember thinking if I were cursed with a “vocation,” that it would be important to pick the order by what their costume looked like. I thought that the BVMs had a slick look compared to our Dominican nuns.) Bishop Amat sought them out in Maryland to come take care of the orphans in Los Angeles. This building (the Los Angeles Orphan Asylum) was at the corner of Alameda and Macy (Ceasar Chavez now). Later, they moved to land in San Gabriel and renamed the orphanage Maryvale.
The shadow of orphans hung over my early childhood. As a student at Little Flower of Jesus Missionary House—an orphanage in Lincoln Heights that admitted girls from “broken homes” in 1954, I was feted to a number of charity events staged by the wealthy for orphans. Despite the protests of my mother that I should not be invited to the Cardinal’s Christmas party for orphans, the nuns insisted I was part of their flock. So, charity balls and luncheons complete with orphans colored my early experiences. I will dig out photos from those days when I get home.
The whole time waiting for the delayed flight, I was reminiscing about those orphans, my time at Little Flower with the Mexican Carmelite nuns, and later years at San Gabriel Mission with the Maryvale girls coming and going from foster care with the Daughters of Charity.
I was a student at the Little Flower of Jesus Missionary House for Orphans when I was 4-5 years old. Dropped off in the morning and picked up in the late afternoon—I was one of two children who were not orphans (Dennis Lynch was the only other one; he was the only other white child and he was the only BOY! Poor kid.). Nobody spoke English. The Carmelite nuns spoke only Spanish as did the resident children. I was often the “odd man out” for having a different background, freckles, and parents.
Below is a recollection about my loving grandfather which tells so much about how the Irish men of my childhood were so kind, sensitive and nurturing.
Grampa O'Donovan
One day, I got sick shortly after arrival. I threw up on the kindergarten floor. Per procedure, the nuns spread out sawdust and all the other children gawked. They must have telephoned for me to be picked up. Grandpa O’Donovan arrived in his “hoopi.” The children were wild with accusations and recriminations: “Sus padres no la quiero. Le dieron “kool aid” para el desayuno.” Tranlate:
She has a mother and father but they do not love her because they give her “kool aid” for breakfast.
On top of humiliation and embarrassment of vomiting, I was injured by these false accusations. When my Grampa arrived, he wrapped me in a wool blanket and carried me downstairs to the car. I wept and told him, “Please tell them it was grape juice not Kool aid.”
My dear grandfather could not have any possible idea why that mattered. Yet, he heard my anguish. The 70 year old man carried this sick 4 year old back up more than 130 steps to the classroom. Wrapped up in his arms, I remember my Grandpa interrupting the circle of kids on floor to say, “Excuse us. Just wanted to tell everyone that she had Welch’s grape juice not’ Kool Aid’ for breakfast.” Back down the stairs.
My grandfather could not have known why that “correction” mattered. He did it anyway. I think that between him, my Dad, and most of my uncles, I assumed that men were all basically good people who could be trusted. And, that has pretty much been my experience.
My Granpa O’D used to take the grandkids on walks around the “old fashion” road which was a dirt path above Lincoln High school that circled the O'Donovan house. In 1955 there were twelve (12) O’Donovan grandkids, and he would gather us up in the afternoons when he was done fiddling around in the garage with his pipe fitting tools and his cars (all old hoopis with cool gear shifting knobs). At some point in every walk, he would stop. He would retrieve his pocket knife and a roll of fruit flavor lifesavers. Always kept in a neat roll with no extra paper on top, his knife would slice off one and offer it on the blade to one of us. It never occurred to me that his “hand” was involved. The girls were always offered the red or orange. Magically, on the boys’ turn, the lifesaver was either green or white (least liked flavors). Yellow was the default color going randomly to next up.
I have lot more photos of the weekend travels, but will save for another time.
Beware the Ides of March tomorrow!
London Tower bridge
Parliament building.
The return was on an express train and allowed me some interesting views of railroad art--as opposed to street art.
I never take photos of children without parent's permission, but could not resist this--I think his face is sufficiently obscured to meet my standard--this 7 or 8 year old is waiting for his 7:30am train while reading the morning paper in his school uniform.
Priceless.
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