Prague really is a magnificent city. Dark spires scream of the gothic and the flowing lines of a concert hall hint toward musty champagne and Art Nouveau. Medieval castles rub shoulders with communist scars and everything glints in an aging European glory
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However, even Prague can be sidelined when Bruce Springsteen is swinging by. In fact, Hattie and I spent the second day of our visit waiting outside a football stadium, on the edge of town, sun bearing down on our shoulders as we waited to see the Boss.
It’s been seven long months since Hattie first gave me a heads up about the concerty. I remember answering my phone as I darted through icy rain to a lecture.
“Bruce is playing in Prague, we have to go!” I agreed of course…anything to brighten up an afternoon of lectures.
July had never seemed so far away on that bleak winter’s day. But then Christmas came, and after that Easter with its burden of looming exams. Before I knew it I was joining the ranks of ageing rockers and enthusiastic young fans outside the stadium.
The show was amazing. In fact, that’s probably an understatement – it was a three and a half hour journey to small town New Jersey and back again, striking every chord of incredible on the way
Although, it wasn’t all about Bruce: Prague also played its own part in making our trip pretty unforgettable.
Just imagine a spiral of freshly baked bread – still hot from the charcoal bed it’s been cooked above – smothered in sugar and cinnamon. The stand selling these trdelnik is surrounded by vendors selling hot Prague ham and glorious hot dogs. The smell is indescribable. The backdrop is a dark church, spires piercing the sky. Jazz notes trail from one of the many side streets that coil around the Old Square. Everything is shadows, light and dark, bright and gothic. A patchworked city glowing in evening light.
I do hope that I find myself back there one day.
To The Table 