On the Beautiful Blue Danube: Part 3

     When we look on the past we find colors limned in either vibrancy or dullness. Unless pleasant or putrid, scents settle into dormancy until we brush with them again. While dots on the past timeline become rigid objectively, other points gain animation and begin to mash in our heads. They scramble to anticipate the motion of the pinpricks that waver about the future with indiscernible frequency and order. In our heads, we see what we want to see, and we strive to connect everything because of our sense that everything actually is connected. Emotion alters memory as a writer embellishes a story.

     It seems to me that many months have passed since my return from Europe, so Prague and Vienna begin to merge in my memory. Without looking at my notes, the first thing I remember about Prague is its surfeit of cobblestone. Stretching to eternity beneath renovated buildings, these stone walks of two-inch cubes form into designs that sometimes move under clumsy feet and tipsy minds. Groups of men always hammer them into the ground one after the other. These groups repair and replace old stones with new, black, white, and grey.

     They – the men and their stones, the minute and numerous garbage trucks – keep the city pristine. They all ensure that Prague remains worthy of being seen by eyes the world over. Conscientious strollers dress quite fashionably; they put us all to shame. Yet, the shopping is cheap because of reluctance regarding the conversion from crown to euro. Restaurants, etc. near and around Old Town Square make practice of scamming tourists and chase them away to Vienna, I suppose, where music fills the streets.

     On the popular streets of Vienna, quartets count time and hearken back to another age when musical giants gravitated to the city. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Strauss are paid homage by men clad in 18^th-century garb. They gesture and prompt ticket sales to upcoming performances at the Vienna State Opera House. They speak German and English while they extend pamphlets to diverse bands of people dispersing and assembling around musicians and cafés.

     Warm with wine, we hop from this café to that. We eat cake and visit Haus der Musik, the museum of sound and music where science and history nestle into its floors. On the big screen of the interactive installation at the peak, the Vienna Philharmonic applauds the successes or jeers at the failures of baton-wielding conductors. We experts follow the rhythm of The Blue Danube and a myriad other classical works.

     I wonder now if we could have taken the Danube River from Budapest to Prague and then to Vienna. Maybe then, along a smoother flow, the memories wouldn’t blend so soon. Moreover, I know that journeys through several time zones tend to damage “internal clocks”; they cast a haze over “reality.” So now, here in Kansas, back here in the center of the most developed part of the New World, I’ll ground myself. I’ll relish the moments and forget about the seconds between now and the time I choose to see the world again. 

Footless on the Charles Bridge but ready for rain in Prague

Fin