[Part 1] Prague

It was close to six in the evening, but bright as an Indian summer afternoon. Squinting because of the sun, I faced my phone's front camera, made sure St. Wenceslas and I were both in the frame, and proceded to take a Sharmada classic (read: nervous smile) selfie. After posting it to my family group as evidence of being out and about, my father sent me a private message asking me to photograph with a more normal expression. Oh Appa, if only I could; my selfie game has never been strong.

I found space next to an old lady and her dog on a bench at the Square, unsure of what I should be doing once seated. You see, I had imagined spending European summer evenings taking in the views or thinking deeply about world peace, the refugee crisis, personal life goals or chatting with strangers who would reveal their life stories to me in a Humans-of-New-York-manner, spontaneously. My reality was giving my imaginations a chance to make themselves manifest. Instead, I felt lonely, apprehensive, exhausted and generally, meh.

In all my meh-ness, I spotted it. That which was familiar. That which felt warm and inviting. That which reminded me of my brother's city. A symbol of coffee, of capitalism. Starbucks; where everybody knows your name (okay, not quite, but they try hard to spell it incorrectly). True to my millennial status, I felt like a magnetic force was reigning me in. Once inside, I saw bottles of water and realized that in addition to being exhausted and scared, I was also dehydrated. I was also in Prague, Czech Republic for the very first time on my very first solo trip to a city where I didn't know another person.

*** 

At 7 AM on a Saturday morning, mid-June, I landed in Frankfurt. Always the layover, never the destination, my instincts were telling me to look for my flight to Amreeka. The happy realisation that I was finally doing a solo trip to a city where I knew no family or friend was only mildly subdued by the stern German immigration officer and his level of interrogation. Confident and excited, I marched ahead looking for my boarding gate to Prague. Exhaustion and sleep deprivation of the previous couple of weeks caught up when the gate seemed nowhere in sight. 

When I finally reached, my fellow passengers included a curious mix of a group on a bachelor party and elderly couples. While I slept through most of that flight, I woke up randomly in the middle to notice we were approaching Prague. I could see a river winding, multiple bridges and golden pointy things (Prague is known as the city of a thousand golden spires). I was excited and awake and had a possibly manic look on my face - this was happening!! - because the elderly British couple seated next to me were not amused. 

We landed at Vaclav Havel, which before being an airport, was the President of the Czech Republic. Before baggage claim, I remembered a friend's advice about exchanging some currency at the airport - but not too much, given the rates. The lady at the counter was a little like Umbridge - smiling while being assertive about a ridiculous thing. I will make an admission right away: I've not been a very assertive person most of my life, I am not a fan of conflict and need mental practice before I say no. I would say I've improved as an adult - I politely got out of joining an Indian Christian cult. However, while dealing with the currency exchange lady, my mind switched on the archaic-colonial-hangover part where white skin can mean authoritative knowledge. Don't judge me - she made some point about banks and weekends and I was tired and needed her to stop talking. 

Shortly after, I redeemed myself by getting heads to turn as I wore my 75L backpack (with rainbow coloured shoelaces) in one go, while carrying my larger than normal daypack in front and walking without faltering or tripping. For the first time ever, I had someone waiting with a name card for me at an airport. I asked my taxi driver his name a second time but it was clear at that point that neither of us could pronounce the other's name. Once my pool passengers joined us, we headed to the car. In true Indian fashion, I headed for what I thought should be the passenger seat - almost opened the door to slide right in but stopped myself in time. 

We pulled out of the airport and I began to wonder what the protocol is. I'm used to Indian and American taxi drivers. Americans in general, are chatty. I had no idea what the accepted European behavior for taxi travel was, specially with other passengers. I've met Japanese taxi drivers who have watched Shah Rukh Khan or co-passengers whose kids were hiring Priyanka Chopra or folks who have listed pros and cons of living in SF or NYC. The couple seated in the backseat didn't want to be disturbed. The driver, perhaps in anticipation of small talk from my end, quickly turned on the music - Bryan Adams singing "When You're Gone." 

*** 

Unfamiliar with the buzzer system, I am certain I annoyed M at the hostel reception, before I made it inside the building. While checking in, I was informed that my room wouldn't be ready till 2 PM. It was 11 AM at the time. I say this with no doubt: my "woke up like this" or "airport" looks can have me confused with a cleaner version of the homeless pigeon lady from Home Alone. The prospect of spending the next three hours without a shower or clean clothes rattled me a little. There was also the matter of currency - Airport lady may have screwed me over with a high rate, but the notes she gave me were all higher denominations. I had to pay for the room, the taxi ride and a refundable deposit upfront. Card payments would have high charges. M and I struck a deal - I would head out for lunch and do money ka intezaam (figure out the cash situation, although saying intezaam makes this sound more Bollywood). Sitting in the common area after stashing my backpacks in a storage room, I spent some time mentally preparing myself. I willed my body to not fall ill just because I was heading out for the day without a shower (this is a weird psychological reaction with me). I charged my phone and asked for vegetarian lunch recommendations. 

The walk to Etnosvet was beautiful. Every building I passed was gorgeous - the colours were different from back home, the air was less polluted, the surroundings were clean, I could cross roads without survival instincts turned up to the maximum. Etnosvet has a vegetarian only menu, including but not limited to - brace yourselves - Indian dahi bhalla (just in case you confused it with the Ethiopian one). The first of many "table for one" situations and dates with my Kindle and mobile phone.  

*** 

My room - six-bed, mixed dorm, bright, spacious, with an attached bath - was ready at 2 PM, as promised. Before I could indulge myself with that refreshing shower, M, who had been flashing looks that suggested she didn't think she could trust me, asked for the rest of the cash. Having paid by card at Etnosvet, there was no chance for khulle/chhutte paise. I could not tolerate someone feeling like they couldn't trust me - I'm usually sincere, heck I want you to trust me with your deepest secrets (not really, but if the moment calls for it...). In my earnestness and attempts to nip this mistrust in the bud, I sadly parted with more than was asked as the refundable deposit. I was assured it would be returned in full on the day of my departure. 

I was fresh and clean but all I wanted to do was sleep. I almost napped but received enough messages telling me to step out and set my sleep cycle straight. Reluctantly, I started in the direction of the Old Town. I had a map and Google maps and a decent data connection, unstoppable, no? 

Since I had no hard and fast commitments, I wandered towards whatever caught my sight, like a church or buildings with golden pointy things (which was most of them). The neighborhood near my hostel was a non-touristy, quiet one. I am comfortable with silence and less people for certain periods of time. But blocks and blocks went by and I wondered if some of those utterly plain looking buildings (the gorgeous buildings were right next to the hostel) were abandoned after the communist regime for more fancy options. The vibe in pockets reminded me of 1984 (the book, not the year) very briefly. 

Suddenly though, I hit a well populated area. I was near the Wenceslas Square.    

***

Travelling alone and to Europe had been on my list for a very long time - one could blame a DDLJ obsession for the latter. The backstory about the planning and execution can be talked about another time but let's just say, everyone knew of these hopes and dreams of mine. I think if I had harped on it any longer, someone would have started a crowd funding initiative for their peace of mind. So, I hope it's clearer why I felt like I was carrying the seemingly invisible weight of "Log Kya Kahenge?" and the pressures of social-media-appearance-keeping-on-phoren-trips. I was behaving like Akshaye Khanna in Aa Ab Laut Chalen - I had arrived in a foreign city carrying not only my dreams, but that of my family and friends. I had a lot of people rooting for me. But he drove a taxi despite having computers mein degree (I think it was computers, Wikipedia offers "jobless graduate") - what if I couldn't survive alone for a week after talking about this for years before. 

At Starbucks, with a bottle of water, (I have already been judged about buying drinking water in Europe, yes) a cappuccino, a strawberry cheesecake (paid for by card), I was messaging my brother. I had the entire floor to myself (I had checked) and so I began crying. My brother called me and I started telling him about my fears - what if I could speak to no one, what if I was all alone, what if no one spoke to me, what if i had no money, but most of all, what if I hadn't planned well and would ruin this trip, this first chance? He did his best to calm me down, convince me that it didn't matter what others thought and suggested solutions. 

We had agreed that the first step would involve finding an ATM if not a currency exchange place (this area was touristy, the latter could mean a repeat of the morning incident). I found an ATM which had a smattering of English on the screen. I tried and failed to withdraw cash. I walked back the route I came on, dejected but a little less frightened. Closer to my hostel, the quieter and less crowded neighbourhood - I saw a man walking his dog. I walked slowly behind him on the sidewalk. He stopped in front of an ATM. I stopped right behind him. He turned to look at me, perhaps worried I would mug him. To lessen my creepy vibes, I walked very slowly and stopped a few steps ahead, because that would somehow put him at ease. When he was done withdrawing cash, I turned around and ambushed him - not the best strategy in hindsight, but it worked. I asked him how to work these machines. He looked and sounded relieved (me too, sir, me too) as he explained it to me. 

Armed with a bottle of water, cash, and dreams of a comfy bed, I headed to my hostel.