Prague and Vienna: Money, Music, and a Massive Surprise

Prague is cheap

That is what I was told before I left for the June Trip: Prague is cheap. Of the four countries we visited, it was the only one that had its own currency, and it was weak currency, at that. For instance, our “decent” Prague meal (since we always reserved one “nice” meal at which to sample traditional—and usually pricier—international cuisine) cost me about 300 Czech Crowns. Because approximately 30 Crowns equals 1 Euro and 1 Euro equals 1.5 US Dollars, my meal cost me about $15. This is pretty average for a proper meal in the US, but in Europe, it is definitely less expensive than the usual. (When spending GBP or Euros, I almost always spend over the equivalent of $30 at any given restaurant.) However, believe it or not, my bus ticket to Vienna—an international bus ticket at that, since Vienna is in Austria—actually cost me less than that meal (270 CzK). However, since converting monetary units was so complicated, it was too much effort to determine a “good deal,” so I generally shied away from buying things. I took 2,000 CzK with me and did not manage to spend it all.

Unfortunately, I spent all of my Euros. Our stay in Vienna proved to be more expensive than I had anticipated, because we attended a performance of the Vienna Boys’ Choir. Michelle was enthusiastic about the prospect of seeing this choir perform, but Angela was absolutely ecstatic. A singer herself, she demanded that we take the best seats available in the allegedly “best acoustic theatre in all of Europe.” During the performance, she swooned over their clear, bell-like voices, particularly that of the soprano soloist.

As for me, I appreciated attending the performance, particularly because it will no doubt be a once-in-this-lifetime experience (and because I can now brag to all of my singer friends that I saw the Vienna Boys’ Choir). Nonetheless, I feel like all of the expertise I have gained from my mother and sister has turned me into a choir snob. I couldn’t help but silently ridicule the boys’ technique (or lack thereof): they didn’t open their mouths when they sang; they didn’t stand up straight; most of them didn’t even look like they wanted to be there, especially the older ones (“older” being a relative term, of course, when the average singer appeared to be about eight years old). They sounded lovely, no doubt about it, but I wasn’t particularly pleased with the size of the theatre (it was very small), nor did I like the arrangement onstage. The boys stood on risers on either side of a piano, which their conductor played as accompaniment during some of the pieces. Surely, if this choir was as prestigious as its reputation, the venue could afford to hire an accompanist? For 58 Euros, I suppose I expected something more impressive, something less like a recital.

The most interesting part of the Vienna leg of our trip was our hostel stay. We stayed in Panda Hostel, which turned out to be someone’s apartment converted into lodgings for travelers. There were only two bedrooms, housing a total of maybe twenty people, at most, and this many only because the high ceilings permitted the installation of triple bunk beds. The kitchen was fully equipped with cutlery and dishes (which is unusual for a hostel) but lacked—of all things—a stovetop. Consequently, all cooking had to be done with the microwave. Then, there was one bathroom with a toilet and sink, one bathroom with a bathtub and sink, a table in the entrance hallway to serve as a “dining room,” and that was it.

While we failed to personally acquaint ourselves with any travelers in either Dublin or Prague, Michelle, Angela, and I got to know several of our hostel mates in Vienna. The first were a group of boys traveling together from New York. We went through the preliminaries with the chattier two (there were five total): where are you from, where have you been, where do you study, etc. It was during these introductions that I mentioned I studied at Rochester. One boy, Victor, stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re not serious.” Of course I was, and he proceeded to tell me that he, too, attended the University of Rochester. Talk about a small world! He was only entering his second year there, so it is logical that we had never encountered one another. Nevertheless, I wonder if I will see him on campus when I return in the fall, since I will now recognize his face.

I can just imagine the encounter: I approach him, maybe in Wilson Commons or Rush Rhees, greeting him by name. He looks puzzled. “Who are you?” “Vienna, remember? We stayed in the same hostel….” And then there would be little else to say. Maybe I just won’t recognize him.

Alcohol in Dublin

Dublin—not surprisingly—had by far the largest drinking culture of all the cities we visited. Ireland being the home of Guiness, Michelle, Angela, and I pair homage by going to Temple Bar (the area where all of the bars were), entering an Irish pub, and ordering a half-pint of Guiness. Actually, Michelle and Angela ordered the half-pint; I just tasted it. I made out on the deal, though, because the alcohol was so thick and strong, neither of them wanted any more than a tiny sip, either. The best part of the experience was getting to listen to live Irish music in an actual pub atmosphere. It was exactly the way I would picture it: brightly colored wood, very crowded, with bearded men bobbing their heads as a fiddler and singer performed loud, lively melodies. I could have done without the singer, but the fiddler was phenomenal.

The next day, because Angela was determined to see it, we set off to find the James Joyce museum. We walked up the street where it was purportedly located but failed to see any sort of façade that might demarcate the front of a museum. Thus, we turned around and began to walk back down the lane, looking more closely at each address over every door. As we passed one doorstep, we saw an unkempt straggly-looking woman sitting on the bottom step. She reached out to us, calling, “A hand, ladies….” Having been similarly approached by other beggars and bums, I proceeded to walk past, ignoring her.

As the three of us continued on our way, we all three mentioned feeling badly. I had noticed crutches resting on either side of the woman; she probably just wanted some assistance getting down the street. Nevertheless, traveling and seeing so many homeless beggars and tramps has made me wary for my own safety, so I was perfectly willing to proceed to the museum, which I soon located a good ways down the street. Turning, I found Angela right behind me. Michelle, however, was a good ways back. “We found it!” I called, but she only nodded and continued to proceed slowly. Once she finally reached us, Michelle handed us her bag. “Here, watch this,” she said. Then, she turned and jogged back up the street. Angela and I were thus faced with a dilemma: should we follow her? We decided to wait outside the front stoop of the museum and watch her, to make sure she would be safe.

The woman had indeed wanted some support walking down the street. Angela and I watched as Michelle supported her at the elbow and the two of them progressed very slowly toward us. The woman clearly could not support herself with the crutches; she was trembling so violently that she and Michelle had to take two breaks to sit on a step before they managed to reach us. Finally, they made it to the museum, and the woman virtually collapsed onto the steps. “I’m going to go get you some food,” Michelle told her. “I need vodka,” the woman corrected. “That’s the only thing that stops the shakin’.” She held out her hands as if we couldn’t see her whole body jerking around. She couldn’t even sit still on the step. “I’m going to get you some water and some food,” Michelle repeated, and set off down the street. Maybe I misheard, I thought to myself. Maybe the woman just asked for water, and I misunderstood because of her accent. However, soon the lady was beseeching me and Angela to go to the store and get her some vodka. It was just right around the corner. Wouldn’t we be a dear and get that for her so she could survive. She might not make it much longer, and treatment centers wouldn’t act fast enough, she knew that. Angela and I politely declined, saying that we had to wait for our friend to return.

Because the woman was sitting on the step and I was standing upwind, I suddenly discovered how horribly she stank. Not only that, but upon closer scrutiny, I could see that her pants were completely undone. This was what alcoholism had reduced her to: a quivering, chattering, pitiful skeleton that stank like shit. From seeing her condition, I truly did believe that if she did not get alcohol sometime soon, she might indeed die. And yet, drinking was what was killing her.

As it turned out, the woman got her vodka. After Michelle finally brought the food and drink back, the woman insisted upon being helped down to the bus stop. We walked along with her down to the corner, and there, at the corner—just as she had claimed—was the liquor store. She wanted to go in, and although Michelle had only agreed to walk her to the bus stop—not to buy her alcohol—if she let go and left, the woman would surely collapse right in the doorway of the liquor shop. Therefore, she walked the woman inside, stood there as she bought vodka, and then led her to the bus stop up the street.

I have been thinking about this incident ever since. Michelle is a staunch Christian, and she no doubt helped this woman out of the “Good Samaritan” ideal that Christianity promotes. Yet, did her actions actually benefit the woman? She did what the woman asked and made her “happy,” but was helping her to feed her addiction actually an act of kindness? How can you define a “good” act when some people’s desires are not—as we might define them—good? The man the Samaritan helped was obviously in need of medical help, and that was what he asked for. However, this woman was also in need, but what she needed was intensive psychological and physical care, and what she wanted was a quick fix. We couldn’t provide what she needed, and we felt morally opposed to providing her with what she wanted. If the intent is what counts—which is no doubt what most Christians believe—then I suppose Michelle did the right thing. However, I cannot help thinking pragmatically: did what she do actually help that woman, or did it just help her to hurt herself?

June Trip Return

The twelve-day trip was lovely, but I am tired, and I want to go home. Perhaps I will blog about what I did and saw there once I get back to the States. For now, suffice to say: Dublin is overrun with pubs; Prague has pretty architecture but not a lot to do; Vienna blatantly flouts its classical music influences despite the fact that almost all are male and are either under twelve years old or dead; and although the Red Light District was quite an experience, the most shocking thing about Amsterdam was the number of people who ride bicycles. I saw parents riding their children to school…on the fronts, sides, and backs of their bicycles! And instead of having a “parking garage” for cars--as we typically think of one—I saw a three-tier parking garage for bicycles!

Also, I must add that I feel much more aesthetically appreciated in Europe than I do in the United States. On these trips abroad, I have been danced with, complimented, oogled; and even propositioned by strangers, and while not all of these advances were welcome, of course, they are--in at least a minor way--a bit flattering. You would think these European men never saw a tall girl before!