The Czech Republic on foot

A favorite bit of dialogue in Waiting for Godot as Vladimir and Estragon contemplate their situation, stuck as they are, waiting: "When you think of the beauty of the way. (Pause.) And the goodness of the wayfarers."

I have been a wayfarer—a traveler on foot-- for many years, contemplating my situation, to-ing and fro-ing. On an ordinary day, I try to walk about five miles (unless it's pouring), but the big walks have been triumphs and revelations: to the top of Mount Sinai for sunrise, to the bottom of the Havasu Canyon for a glimpse of Gauguin-like paradise.

My latest long-distance walk took me from Vienna to Prague in the company of a small group of likeminded folks gathered together and guided by an English company called, perfectly enough, The Wayfarers— the same outfit with which I walked coast-to-coast across England (the very best of my many excellent walks). In one week of serious walking, you can see interesting sights, learn a lot about the immediate world (which is why they call it "on the ground") and get plenty of exercise, which then allows you to eat delicious food and drink gorgeous wines in remarkable and obscurely located luxury hotels— if such things exist in the country you're walking in. A week of serious walking also allows you to look inward and ruminate while you're looking outward at the "beauty of the way."

The Czech way was certainly beautiful. It was also full of surprises. The first was that it wasn't a purposeful walk—we'd be driven to a Moravian town (Lednice, Mikulov, Telc, Jindrichuv Hradec, Trebon, Cesky Krumlov) and then, before or after we settled into our hotel, set out on a long walk ( 8-9 miles) mostly through forests. Once our guide found a gigantic Portobello mushroom and had the hotel kitchen prepare it as a separate course at dinner. Once we came upon a piece of what was once literally (who knew?) the iron curtain near the Austrian border: a tank deterrent made of nasty-looking crisscrossed iron bars. But for a goal-oriented type, these aimless eight- or nine-mile walks through forests seemed more like contrived exercise, pleasant though it was, denying me the triumphant feeling that one woman on the trip defined as the "How about me!" moment.

Second surprise: Prague reborn

I was last in Prague in 1993— only four years after the end of Communist rule there, and only one year after the separation creating the Czech Republic and Slovakia. The nation— city and countryside— is no longer grim, characterized by architectural restorations, bright colors and snazzy contemporary style (which, alas, doesn't include air conditioning or screens, but does include heat, mosquitoes and ticks; it also includes Starbucks and McDonald's). This means high prices (bound to go even higher once Czech Republic, now a member of the European Union, switches to the euro). The sticker shock was endless, from hotel rooms to bottled water. (Prague restaurants refuse to serve free tap water— potable everywhere in the Czech Republic— so they can overcharge for bottled water. There is no ice.) This must be what is meant by embracing capitalism.

Prague's pleasures are well known: Havel and Kafka pilgrimages are obvious, with a glance at Petrin Hill (which, if you know your Kundera, you'll recognize as the dream locale of The Unbearable Lightness of Being). The architecture shifts within one block from high Baroque to Frank Gehry, from art nouveau to leftover Soviet. Prague's occasional sgrafiato facades don't hold a candle to the astonishing small town squares where building after building creates the startling trompe l'oeil effect of a movie set— especially since, without the Prague crowds, they are bizarrely still and silent, stunningly lit after dark.

Surprises within surprises: A Kafkaesque convent

The places you come upon, unexpectedly, walking along by yourself, often turn out to be the best. Guidebooks tend to tout the famous (the Castle), the artistically accessible (Alphonse Mucha Museum) and the moving (the Jewish Quarter), but the art and architectural pleasures I stumbled upon by accident were superb and thrilling. For example:

St. Agnes' Convent is a massive medieval complex of churches without any apparent entrance. I walked entirely around the building, puzzled, and finally asked a man on the street if he knew where the door was. No, he replied, this is a Kafkaesque city and you never know. (True story.)

At last, down a curvy alley, I found a big door that led to immense stone 13th-Century silences and soft light, and an exhibition of religious paintings and sculpture yielding all kinds of discoveries: The six paintings of the 14th Master Theodoricus show the shift from the highly stylized medieval to the beginnings of realism, and thus what the future would hold. St. Gregory the Great, who wrote theological treatises, is shown holding a pen in a hand with dirty fingernails; the hands are unusually expressive because they have old veins and gnarled knuckles.

A family reclaims its castles

Another remarkable just-walking-along-the-road discovery: Museum Kampo, specializing in contemporary Czech art in a fabulous space— a medieval mill on the Vltva River, renovated with great sleekness and sophistication. Installations by Vaclav Cigler "“ all about water and time— were magical and beautiful.

Another wonder: the Lobkowicz Museum. This palace within the Castle complex is still owned by the Lobkowicz family, one of their 13 palaces, all lost first to the Nazis, then to the Communists, then all restored to the family. The heir to all this grew up in America (a kinder transport child), and his is the voice on the audio guide, full of charming anecdotes and stories. The treasures include Bruegels, Piranessis, Canalettos and other, less famous but fascinating pieces.

Third surprise: Europe's oldest theater

Czesky Krumlov was the knockout spot of the trip. The town's buildings are all 14th-- or 15th-Century, with only two "new" 19th-Century buildings. By the 16th Century Czesky Krumlov was such an important town that it minted its own money. Thirty years ago when our walking guide was an art history student working on archives here, the town had one shop and one pub. Now it's a gorgeous, thriving tourist destination— many hotels, restaurants, pubs, shops and authentically restored sites. I found ads for a forthcoming concert here starring Renee Fleming, with Vaclav Havel expected among the guests.

Europe's oldest theater is here, the baroque Castle Theatre, built in 1682, now nearly totally restored from what was, judging by the photos, a wreck 35 years ago. We sat on the worn-smooth backless wooden benches and looked at a stage as dimly lit as it would have been by only candles and oil lamps. Originally the shortest performances were five to six hours long (which is quite a while on a backless wooden bench, especially if you're corseted).

The stage, set with cutouts of scenery, creates the illusion of great depth, and the scene changes, worked with huge wooden winches turned by hand, were accomplished in an amazing ten to 12 seconds. The sound machinery— rain, thunder, wind— is functional again, as is the machinery to create spectacular lightning effects. Many of the original costumes and footlights are preserved in the Czesky Krumlov castle.

Another dazzler in this lovely town is the Egon Sheile Centrum, featuring not only many of this artist's great works and some interesting photos from his shockingly short life, but also his paintings of this town, with photos of the real places next to them. In addition, the Center offers temporary exhibitions— I saw a terrific Soviet poster show, agitprop that was eerily apropos now (workers in cubicles with injunctions not to waste time, warnings about people destroying the environment).

Fourth surprise: The unfriendly Czechs

The Czech people are startlingly unfriendly. I'm not talking about waiters and hotel receptionists— most of whom were both helpful and kind and all of whom would have good reason to be fed up with the hordes of tourists who can barely manage to say "Thank you" in Czech. I'm talking about how uncomfortable it feels to meet a fellow hiker on the road, or a family bicycling or a group of young people picnicking in the woods, and say hello or smile or wave and be entirely ignored. No one spoke, waved, smiled or even would meet my eyes. (Facile political theories spring quickly and speciously to mind.)

When I asked our Czech walking guide about this resistance to strangers, she told me it was because Czechs were by nature "tragical"— something she seemed quite proud of. Then we came upon a boy sitting alone on a log, with his bike beside him; she greeted him in Czech, asked him if he needed help, and became "quite cross" because he didn't answer her or even acknowledge her presence.
And so the trip was necessarily lean on those amusing or heartwarming anecdotes that traveling interactions usually provide. But the beer, which the Czechs claim to have invented, is brewed locally everywhere, and is excellent.

Advice from Thoreau

That great literary walker Henry David Thoreau once observed, ""Our expeditions are but tours, and come round again at evening to the old hearth-side from which we set out.... If you are ready to leave father and mother, and brother and sister, and wife and child and friends, and never see them again, if you have paid your debts and made your will, and settled your affairs, and are now a free man, then you are ready for a walk."

Well, maybe I'm not quite ready for that walk; I think I'll stick with mere "expeditions," since the "old hearth-side" still has its charms.