The map of the city of Prague floats just behind my eyes in what I imagine to be a flat, open-map sized, space between my brain and forehead. The Vltava River divides the space, on the map, that is, as it divides the city. Prague, the guide books say, was four small cities that now make up the city proper. I'd write their names, but I find, in this, my very first entry, that the blog I am using does not allow me to put in Czech accents—and that language relies very much on accents to indicate pronunciation. My self-learning book warned me of that. "Mispronunciation," it states, "can lead to a breakdown in communication."
I've been watching—and listening to—Czech movies hoping to pick up the music of the language: "Kolya", "Closely Watched Trains," "Fireman's Ball," "Valerie and Her Week of Wonders." (The latter will come in quite handy if I meet a vampire while I am there.) But I'm afraid I will have more to be concerned about than pronouncing a word incorrectly since I haven't learned very much of the language. What will happen, of course, is that I will get there knowing not much more than good day, hello, thank you, excuse me, and How do I get to the Dancing House? But that might be just enough to start.
When I went to Paris years ago, I planned it for a long time. For years I had the map of Paris on my wall. The arrondissements and what art work, museum, or cafe was where, were etched in my brain. really etched. By the time I got to Paris, I didn't need a map. In fact, I must have looked supremely confident. More than one person bearing a map and a quizzical look stopped me to ask where to find a landmark or street. And, to my astonishment, I always could give the direction, albeit, not in fluent French. I'm not anywhere near that with the Prague map in my head. So I'll carry a guide book and I'll be the one asking directions.
