The weather in Prague was photogenic like a supermodel. We traipsed around Stare Mesto and the Vysehrad, admiring wooden puppets and watercolor paintings. He bought me a pair of earrings with a music score imprinted on them. I bought him dinner at the Bellevue. It was an era of abundance; we spun around endlessly in a sea of colour and of the light of life.
The city has so many clocks. Every church spire is adorned with a huge timepiece ticking away. The Old Town is famed for its astronomical clock in the square, telling you the day of the year and the shape of the moon, the time of the sunrise. A bugler plays a tune every hour, marking the passage of time, and the stillness of it- years pass, and still the same bugler plays still the same medieval tune. It is comforting and haunting all at once.
Bohemia is also full of artists. Painting ceramics, crafting candle holders, making puppet theaters and playing accordions. Metal workers and glass cutters and music makers gather every day, all working in the business of beauty. Stay there a few days, and you too will feel the irrepressible desire to create something of your own. If you belong to the Bohemian race, of course. Everyone else passes by, washing up on its shores with a mild curiosity but no real talent of their own, washing out on the next tide. The blind stumble up the castle hills and stumble back down again, with a thousand photographs of darkness.
We are loaded with so many trinkets, so much of the local produce. Things created with their hands and their imaginations, a poor facsimile of their land and of their culture. We, like our dear Mr. Fox, are finding our way out of the dark.