Love Letter to Prague, Sort of~

Praha. 

How to describe her.

Prague is that high-maintenance Eastern European beauty who shows up late, smokes in your face, and somehow still makes you feel lucky just to be in the room with her.

She is effortlessly stunning, at times outright hostile, and absolutely worth all that emotional whiplash.

This city. 

Is such a tease. She shows you her beauty, then hints there is more to come. The cobblestones, proverbial crumbs keeping you on the path, and hook. 

Twisting lanes spill into grand squares, and cathedrals rear up from rounded corners, towering over you. They know they are commanding your attention, inspiring awe, and generally besting you in every category. It’s almost like they’ve been waiting centuries just to make you feel small. And it hurts, and humbles, so good.

The rooftops blush in the sunset, and the water of the Vltava hums below it all, like a secret being kept. Prague is the kind of place that could melt even the most jaded traveler into a puddle of poetic mush… if only she wasn’t so busy ignoring you.

Because just as you’re about to fall headfirst into the romance of it all, Prague lets you know she is far more than some one-dimensional Disney beauty. The message, or shall we say text? No, definitely sext, is clear. 

And that brings us to the sex machine museum.

Yes. That’s a thing. 

Tucked away in this fairytale landscape is a quirky little shrine to kink, complete with rusty contraptions, a whole lotta leather, and a gallery of “devices” that would make even the feisty, sex-positive Freud short-circuit. 

If you are anything like me, you’ll vacillate wildly between myriad emotions: morbid curiosity, mildly embarrassed fascination, and utter confusion/horror intermittently. You will also stay longer than you meant to, and most likely leave wondering why half of Europe seems to be okay with swinging from the rafters. It’s emotional whiplash round twenty-two, or something similar (I’ve lost count, to be honest), and it’s perfect. Because this is Prague. She seduces you with stained glass, then smacks you with a mechanical spanking bench.

And I think that’s kind of the point.

There’s a defiance to her, a brazen middle finger unfurled. Like a gorgeous cup of warm, velvety coffee, with a whiskey kick. There’s a chill in the air that isn’t the weather. Customer service that borders on existential protest.

But somehow, weirdly, I respect it. Maybe even love it. Certainly am fascinated and intrigued by it. In a sex machine museum vacillation of emotions type of way. 

Because Prague doesn’t beg to be liked. She doesn’t bow or bend to the man (or in this case, woman — love is love).

She doesn't smile just to please. She dares you to look deeper, past the Instagram charm and fairytale castle turrets, into her onion-esque maze of bizarre layers—the hedonic, the haughty, the horny. 

This is a city with a dark sense of humor, and zero interest in your approval.

Of course, we find that kind of intoxicating.

Just Like The Moon~

Barcelona

I awoke early. Bouncing out of bed, I was eager to get to know you. You slept. You made me wait. I tried to go back to sleep and be patient, yet I felt restless...listless...lost. I am a morning person, didn't you know?

As I waited on you, I had time to think; time to pace the chilled marbled tiles, giving my icy feet time to remember (and grieve for) the warm, Hawaiian sand they'd so recently burrowed beneath. I had time to worry...to fret over how many mornings alone I would spend during our time together--time to calculate that loss in not just days, but hours...minutes...seconds...moments...and loved ones. I looked outside. Not even the sun would shed its light; instead making me wait in momentary darkness. I felt you were closed entirely to me, Barcelona. Even your shops and markets had no warm welcomes for me this morning....signs seemed to scream in resolved solidarity: "CERRADO!" I was awake, alone.

Unaffected, you took your time. As mid-day approached, I (being nearly at my wits' end, and certainly almost out of patience) watch as you nonchalantly amble towards me. Slowly, you beckon your day to begin, acknowledging noon in an unhurried aside. I follow at your heels, anxious to see who you are; what you are all about; to discover why you are so beloved among your people. To possibly understand why those who arrange their entire lives just to stay near to you possess such fierce loyalty in your name.

You stroll down the street, round three corners, cross one plaza, and slow. Sidling up to an unassuming sidestreet cafe, you enter...no introduction necessary. This is your spot. Here your table is ready--your coffee and croissant are waiting to warm you. I eat as well, feeling energized by the welcome repast. Yet, still, I wonder what it is exactly that is so special about you. You seem so quiet; almost rude; arrogant in your way. I wait to see.

You settle the bill and I assume we are on our way. My heart drops as I watch you leisurely reach for the daily news, shifting your weight ever so slightly--settling in. We sit for what seems like hours, observing as people pass. Your neighbors, your friends, your colleagues...all greeting you in quiet nods and familiar double-kisses from cheek to cheek. Your streets begin to slowly grind their gears--street vendors pedaling their wares; citizens shifting their paces into one slow and steady, collective hummmmm (yet in a reserved and almost regal way). I begin to see glimpses of life in you, Barcelona.

We share a lite lunch in a little cafe, and you open up a bit more in conversation. Gestures are more animated, and your muscles along your jawline (as well as your stiff upper lip) become more relaxed. I think I may have even caught a brief and fleeting glimpse of a grin at one point.

I begin to get excited, but now, where are you going? "Siesta," you say?!?!? But...isn't that just an exotic and very European-ese way of saying..."NAP?!?!" (as in the kind I used to be forced to endure back in the day...in Mrs Frye's Kindergarten class...while relegated to an orange foam mat that I DISTINCTLY remembered smelling of a grievous mixture of urine and cheetos?...) Well, if so (and I sadly fear it is), to be quite honest, this idea of wasting so much of my day away when I could be getting to know you, leaves quite the same odious stink to my senses). * Boo *.... Yet, I humor you, and we place our days on hold as we sleep. * sigh *

We awake and, surprisingly I feel refreshed. Almost, yes, almost as if this is morning anew. YOU bounce out of your bed and leave ME in the dust! There is much to do, you say, as I dash after you. We make our way through the (now bustling) streets; streets awake and alive with people yelling, heralding their family and friends across the avenues. I dodge children and papas giggling through a frenzied futbol session in the square...watch as a tiny curl-crowned Spanish princess passes by, greedily gobbling up her gelato--a tiny pink trail of sticky sweetness the only evidence remaining of her afternoon's delight.

Arriving at the pub, we sit. We eat. We drink. We laugh. And..I watch you come alive...mingling, dancing, reveling in fellowship and light. It is not until now that I see you, Barcelona. You, to me, personify the very rhythm of your days. We got off to a slow start. I only felt darkness from you...until I understood and looked closer. You, too, shine....the moon to Hawaii's sun, you are now understood, and recognized, with respect and newfound wonder.

I collapse into bed as we return home. How about tomorrow, new friend, let's sleep until noon....