A Communism Afternoon

33 Days In, 78 Days Out

I found the hands statue.

About that later. (32/79) Yesterday, I went walking across Old Town Square because I need an ATM, and my usual one was being repaired (refilled? stolen from?) by three men who had parked a large van in front of it. Unable to decide if that was sketchy or not for Prague, I crisscrossed out and headed for the other side of the Square. Except that it was all barricaded up. Crowd barriers and yellow tape up everywhere. I stop short. They've literally cut off my path, so that I'd have to go way, way around to get to where I wanted to be.

Then--woohoo--the police lift the yellow tape. Pedestrian traffic stops, right across the barricaded path. At this point, I should have realized what was going on in the square. Instead, I was happy they were letting us go. Then, I hit another barricade. The path was between me and my intended ATM. Someone ducked underneath the tape. Yes!, I cheered silently. I duck across two lines of tape. The police are looking at me in a not-so-happy kind of way. Prague police aren't necessarily the scariest people in the world... a lot of them look like they're straight out of school, actually... but still.

Money comes out of the ATM. I look at my bills, dismayed. At least two of my four 200 crown bills have little tears down the middle where they would normally be folded, the kind you get from wear. This is bad. In the CZ, they're intense about their bills. Some of my friends have had experiences where there's a small, small tear in a bill, and the cashier at the store won't take it. One of them has been told she will never be able to spend that bill. At some point, I'm told this is because the banks won't take bills that are ripped or torn. I resolve to hand these bills off at the earliest possible opportunity.

I get my chance later that night at the supermarket. It's busy at the check out counters. All I've bought is milk, but I'm going to spend my 200 anyway. The lady sticks her hand out for the money. She doesn't pay attention as she sticks it in her drawer (which don't have different slots for different denominations of bills, by the way) and gives me change. Win.

Ok, this is a really long tangent--it's almost finished. Back to Old Town Square. I'm debating how to get back to the NYU center (duck under the barriers again?) when an entire tour group ducks under the tape and crosses over. Ha. I tail them to the next one. Suddenly, a bunch of kids on bikes race past on the little path that has been set up. OH. That's what all these barricades are for.

In front of the Astronomical Clock, there's as many tour guides as I've ever seen in one place, each holding their respective signs saying what tour they will be leading. I notice the Communism Tour lady is standing next to the Jewish Ghetto Tour lady. Last, I pass the man with the chiseled face--he's a fixture in the square. All the other tour guides are holding their signs down around their chests, but he's no slouch. He's holding his "The Experienced Guide" sign as high above his head as he can, just like always.

(33/78) This afternoon, I decide to take my own Communism tour. I wolf down lunch and am out of the dorm by 12:45. My class begins at 3 pm. That may sound like a lot of time, but in Prague, it's not--not with all the tram travel and walking to be factored in. My plan is ambitious. I'm going to hit four sights, all sights I've been meaning to see, all of them in some way related to Communism.

First stop, the Metronome.

The giant metronome sits above the tram stop Cechuv Most, on a giant plinth of concrete that used to support a giant monument of Joseph Stalin before he died and they destroyed it. We talked about it a little bit in travel writing class--someone had written it in previous years as their historical monument of choice. (You know, mine was Jara Cimrman's exhibit) Plus, while at the photo exhibition last week, there was a photo that I'll remember for a long time, where there's a man swinging a huge Czech flag back and forth from this plinth where the Metronome now stands. He was celebrating the overthrow of Communism.

Cechuv Most tram stop is at the bottom of the hill. The Metronome's at the top. There are a lot of steps in between. On the way up, almost near the top, I spot a couple making out just beyond the hedge. Discreetly, I decide to take a picture (a la Katie). Between when I set up my shot and when I took the photo, the girl spots me. The boyfriend/significant other glares at me. Oops. I hurry up the rest of the steps.

It's beautiful at the top. I understand why people said it's the most beautiful, peaceful spot in Prague. It's not the view that I like, per se. It's the fresh air. It's almost not being able to hear the traffic below, and hearing the rhythmic whirring of the metronome go while skateboarders, well, skateboard. I sit for a while on the edge of the plinth. It's unreal--so big. After a time, I decide I need a better view of the skateboarders. They're skateboarding along the back (this is a world-famous skateboarding spot, supposedly), and one is shooting a video.

It occurs to me that I'm in the way, after about two passes of this kid who's being tailed by another kid on a skateboard clutching a video camera. About three of them glance my way, but don't say anything. Sometimes it boggles my mind how much the Czechs would prefer keeping to themselves rather than talking to someone they don't know. Even these young ones. It makes me a little sad. Before the third pass, I jump up out of the way and decide to keep exploring. On the far side of where I've come up the stairs, pairs of shoes hang from a cable. Searches on the internet after the fact don't turn up much to explain this--I still don't know whether there's a significance, or if it's all just for kicks. But the atmosphere has lulled me into spending way more time here than I intended. Time to hit the tram again.

Next stop: the John Lennon Wall

Here's my lazy stab at the history behind it. The Lennon Wall (belonging to the Knights of the Maltese Cross) borders a church and sits directly across from the French embassy in Prague. Beginning in the 1980's, after Lennon's death, it became a place for young people to express their discontent during Communist times. The nod to Lennon comes from how, once upon a time, they drew John Lennon-inspired graffiti and quotes there, as a sort of mock grave. When it first appeared, authority people whitewashed the wall, but it was filled up time and time again, even when they stationed police there to prevent that from happening. The myth is that in '89, the French ambassador asked the authorities not to paint over the wall again.

Now, the amount of unrelated graffiti and less-profound writing saddens me a bit. Regardless, it's still a cool thing to see. "Imagine" holds prominent space on the wall, as do the many "All you need is love"'s and peace symbols. It was around this time my camera started flashing low battery signs at me.

Third stop, the Memorial to Communism.

The name: Simple, yet effective. I'm not sure if there's an actual name for this memorial, off of the tram stop Ujezd, and if there is, it didn't turn up in my search. It's not a particularly obtrusive memorial--which is why I always missed it, even though I've been to that tram stop multiple times--just a progression of five or six naked men that are in various stages of decay/dissolution, representing the harm caused by the Communist regime. A set of difficult steps (really high) leads up to the section with the men. At the bottom of the steps, a plaque reads, "Obeti komunismu/205486 odsouzeno/248 popraveno/4500 zemrelo ve veznicich/327 zahynulo na hranicich/170938 obcanu emigrovalo."

Roughly translated, that means "Victims of Communism/205486 convicted/248 executed/4500 died in prison/327 died on the border/170938 citizens emigrated." The words run all the way up the center of the stairs, to the very top.

Three Asian women, as giggly and with high-pitched voices as the stereotype goes, stood near the disintegrating men, giggling at me as I read a memorial inscription off to the left side. One of them came up to me as I was jotting down the inscription I mentioned above, and asked me to take a picture. What was I going to say, no? They dispersed among the sad figures of the men, giggling more. I wanted to hit them. Do you understand what you're standing amongst? It's not FUNNY. They spoke English, at least, the one who spoke to me did. They saw me read the memorial's description. They could have read the description. Instead, they giggled, and took photographs with the funky looking men missing body parts.

In travel writing last week, we debated whether or not a 'tourist' and a 'traveler' mean something different. THIS is the difference. I mean, I know I'm going around semi-goggling at all the Communism sites and memorials, but at least I'm trying to understand. Right about here, I turn off the screen display for my camera, hoping to save enough battery to take a photo of my final destination (I'm being optimistic that I'll actually find it).

Finally, the Hands Memorial.

Mood slightly dampened, I boarded the next 22 across the river, determined to find the little plaque with the hands I've been searching for since orientation week. This time, I got off at the national theater, at the very beginning of Narodni street. I wasn't about to miss it because I unknowingly overshot it on the tram. In case you haven't been reading, I previously knew it was on Narodni, in a little archway, but didn't know where. Then, I knew it was on Narodni trida, which I took to be the road where the "Narodni trida" tram stop runs along (that would be my biggest mistake). I finally looked up the word "trida," which among its many meanings, means "street." Lastly, I learned it was near Narodni 16.

So I walked up Narodni. The monument is here because masses of people protested on this street, marching up to clash with police in 1989, protests which contributed to the overthrow of Communism. I pass No. 23 on my left, and the numbers are going up. I start to get a little worried. I pass No. 16 on my right. It's got to be here somewhere.

Then, BAM. It's right there. 17.11.1989, it says, November 17, 1989. The date the students began peacefully protesting. The hands are both open and in the "v" symbol. Open hands, which became an icon representing the students' peaceful demonstrations, and the "v," for victory.

The plaque is under these arches that you wouldn't necessarily even walk under (I think you can walk outside them); I must have passed this spot two or three times and not even bothered to look around. I spent almost four weeks looking for it. My camera cooperates, thank god. It coughs with finality and shuts off after I've taken the picture. I suspect it would not take another one if I tried.

Immediately after, I head to my 3 pm class. Crazily enough, I have forgotten my phone, so I don't know what time it is, but I make it there. It's my Economics class, and today, we begin our segment on--what else?--centrally planned economies. Communism. It's everywhere, even 20 years after it's been gone.