Czech Yourself

A story about second chances

Prague showing off

“I think Prague has to be about my favorite city,” my dad texted me on Saturday. Dad’s been to… oh, I don’t even know how many countries and cities within them, so these are strong words. I’d just let him and my mother know we were on our way to Prague for a couple days, having thrown together a last minute trip. Lilly had a cross-country meet that morning, so we couldn’t leave sooner. But Matt had Monday off, and it seemed a waste to just stay home. So after picking up Lilly from her meet in Stuttgart, we were on our way. 

But my thoughts as I read his text were a tense, Hmm. Interesting. Because the truth is, I couldn’t quite bring myself to say the same. Before anyone comes after me with clubs and pitchforks, please let me explain.

We’d been to Prague before, when Matt and I lived in Spain and our two oldest daughters were five and two. On that trip too, we hadn’t originally planned to go. Our flight landed in Munich, where we had a Mercedes rental car waiting because we were younger and crazier and it had been a stressful few months, and hey, we were in Germany, where Mercedes don’t cost that much to rent, so why not? We were going to spend a few days exploring Munich and Bavaria, maybe Austria, and then end up in Garmisch for five days. 

This was a decent plan. But I’m my father’s daughter, and my father is someone who always liked to walk just a little further down the road to see what was around the corner. If we were somewhere, and another interesting place wasn’t that far away… why not kill two birds with one stone, so to speak? Prague was a mere five-hour drive from Munich. We knew we were moving back to the States later that year, and when would we be this close to Prague again? 

[Narrator (preferably Morgan Freeman): “They would be back eighteen years later.”] 

It took some arm-twisting on my part. And by that I mean, a “discussion” was had at the Hertz desk in the Munich airport, while the agent, a sleek blonde woman, arched an eyebrow and tapped her pen impatiently. With an exasperated sigh, Matt finally agreed, though he was none too happy to hear we couldn’t take a Mercedes into a former Eastern Bloc country and would have to downgrade to a Renault station wagon. Furthermore, we were only allowed to take this to the Czech Republic¹ and (here the agent looked into our eyes with her piercing blue ones) absolutely no further.

Our first experience driving on the autobahn was a letdown. Rain and road construction made everything slow. We finally crossed the border where almost immediately, we passed frequent billboards for adult stores and escort services. Then our route into Prague went right through the red light district. The lens was set, and Matt couldn’t see it any other way. He bee-lined for “the known product,” aka the Hilton, where we spent way too much money on a bland room that didn’t include parking or breakfast. The next morning we checked out early to hunt down a place to eat and then sight-see before either finding a different hotel in the friendliness of daylight or heading to Česky Krumlov, a UNESCO heritage site a few hours’ drive due south of Prague that my dad and several friends had visited and declared utterly charming. 

Luckily, we quickly found a place serving breakfast, and Matt even managed to park nearby. Feeling starved, we walked in and ordered our food. And then we took a look at the dining establishment. 

On one wall was a giant mural of a centaur with three women on his back, not a stitch of clothing on any, their arms wrapping around each others’ waists and heads tilted to lean, eyes closed, against the neck of the other. Huh. Okay. Well, this was Europe. And it was a side view, so fairly tame. 

But then I noticed the relief sculpture of a centaur on the wall beside us. How could I have missed this when we walked in?! Again, it was a centaur (I sensed a theme) about seven feet tall, standing on his hind legs. I could tell it was male because exactly at eye level was a good eighteen inches of evidence. 

I looked at Matt and knew he had just noticed too. We suddenly became very animated, pointing the other direction to a man walking his dog across the square.

“Oh my goodness! Look at that dog!! Just look at it!!!! HAVE YOU EVER SEEN SUCH A CUTE DOG IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE?!” For three desperate minutes, we tried to direct our daughters’ attention to anything but the wall beside the table. We really scraped the barrel, and by the time we started exclaiming about the blue sky and white puffy clouds, Jayna turned her head the other way. Instantly her eyes grew wide. She covered her mouth and gave a snort of laughter.

“Mom!” she stage-whispered across the table behind her hand. “That horse man on the wall! I can see his privacy!”  

I feigned astonishment. “Well, I’ll be darned! You’re right!” 

Breakfast was delicious, even if it was a little awkward to be eating at eye level with an impressively large… well, “privacy.” After we had eaten, I took Jayna and Skyler to the restroom. An employee directed us down a flight of stairs where we found a lounge. There was another mural on the walls, this time a lone woman reclining, her body wrapping the whole room, wearing nothing. Think Rose in Titanic, minus The Heart of the Ocean. I had the feeling this was a breakfast joint by morning, and a whole ‘nuther thing at night.

“Why doesn’t she have any clothes on?” Jayna asked quietly.

“Um, well, this is where the bathroom is, so I guess this is how they let us know.” To my amazement and relief, this made sense to her. 

Our business taken care of, we popped Skyler into the stroller, took Jayna by the hand, and headed into Old Town, walking around many of the sites over the next couple hours.

A moment when all was well and Skyler was apparently napping in her stroller as we walked through Prague

After a few hours, we found a park and turned both girls loose, jogging after them as they raced along, relishing their freedom. Then Skyler took a tumble.

“Oopsy!” I bent to dust her off. And that’s when I saw it: a hypodermic needle nestled in the grass not even a foot from where she had fallen. All the alarms went off in my head as I scooped her onto my hip. I looked around, realizing there were mostly adults at the park, and now that I thought about it, they all looked high.

Matt and I promptly decided recess was over. We wrestled an indignant Skyler back into her stroller and tried walking a little more. After about fifteen minutes of her wailing, we decided it was time to check out Česky Krumlov. 

The thing you should know about Matt and me is that we can talk about almost anything for a very long time. That day, as we drove, the subject was Social Security. I know this because I would look back later and think, All that happened because we were talking about Social Security?!?! 

As we discussed Social Security, we apparently passed our exit (the sign for which, to be fair, was in Czech). Suddenly, I saw signs for Bratislava very nearby, and the rental car agent’s stern warning about “only the Czech Republic!!!” echoed in my mind.

I tapped the dashboard frantically to get Matt’s attention faster. “We missed a turn! We’re almost in Slovakia!” He took the next exit, and we found ourselves in the countryside on a two-lane road. Pulling onto the shoulder, he held up the map we were given at Hertz that showed all of Germany, plus parts of the Czech Republic and Austria. 

“Okay, Joy, show me where you think we are.” I studied the map for a moment and then pointed to the air a couple inches past his right hand.

“Right about here.”

“That’s not good.” It was a moment of profound observation. 

Just then, I saw a sign on the road for a town that actually was on the map. Feeling a glimmer of hope, we decided to drive there, and then we could navigate the rest. It all started off fine–until the road narrowed and the dividing line disappeared, and then we were on a dirt road that wound through the darkest forests I’ve ever seen in my life. We drove along, deathly quiet, subtly sharing terrified looks when our girls weren’t watching.

Then, suddenly, the dirt ended and the road was paved again! The trees parted to reveal the shining sun, and a few minutes later we arrived in the town on the map! As if by magic, all was well!

The next day we went to Česky Krumlov, which was gorgeous and also had a marionette museum that was maybe the strangest and most disturbing tourist attraction I’ve been to. But that’s a story for another day.

Despite almost two decades since then, these memories were strong as we drove into the city last week. This time, though, we saw no billboards for houses of ill repute. We drove into the city from a different direction, avoiding the red light district. We stayed in a nice Airbnb with a bakery nearby. Hello, kolaches! We walked over eighteen miles in our one full day there, taking in all the gorgeous sites. We even stopped at two parks with nary a hypodermic needle to be seen.

That night, when the others were cozy in the Airbnb, Lilly and I went back to Old Town, where all the buildings were lit up and took on a new kind of magic. 

In other words, this time it was wonderful. This time, I understood why everyone really, really loves Prague. 

We were kind of glowing when we got home.

And then the next day, I got my hair butchered. 

Back in July, I’d found a salon I really liked, so I headed there again with high expectations. This time, though, I had a different stylist, and things went south fast. I sat there feeling more and more dismal, telling myself things like, “It will look better when you style it the way you prefer,” and, “She is literally holding in her hands the power to make you bald.” So I took the grin-and-bear-it approach. 

When I got home, I realized it was even worse than I’d thought. Scraggly pieces hung down as if forgotten. There were lots of choppy layers and bangs that would have looked better if my eight-year-old had cut them. 

There are so many truly horrible things happening in the world right now, and I’m not going to pretend that this even approaches that level of importance. Nevertheless, knowing my hair looked awful left me sulking for the rest of Tuesday. It might not be the stuff of legends, but did my hair have to look this bad?

On Wednesday, my despondence turned to fuming. There was no way to fix the problems without taking off more length, and anyway, where would I go? Back to the place that created the disaster? Most of my friends and family² said no, that would be a terrible idea. Still, the first stylist did a wonderful job, and we had a fun conversation as she worked. Sitting in her chair, I felt like she was my first German friend (other than a few wonderful women I’ve known from other parts of my life who live here). Could I let that go? 

Generally speaking, I avoid confrontation, preferring passive aggression whenever possible. Maybe I could write a negative review and attach pictures with the evidence (so much evidence!). Everyone would be properly horrified, then sympathetic, and no one else would suffer the humiliation I had. Decimating their reputation would be sweet revenge, arguably even my civic duty. Besides, isn’t that what everyone does now?

But first, I decided I’d give them one more chance. Thursday morning, I took a deep breath and called the salon, asking to speak to the stylist I had liked. As nicely as I could, I explained what had happened and told her how much I’d enjoyed the results when she cut my hair. She asked if I could be there in an hour.

Look, I have a hundred stories that prove the “Fool me once…” adage true. But after last week, with our return to Prague and my two trips to the salon, I’m thinking about all the times a negative experience has led me to write something or someone off completely. I’m wondering if, in my haste to protect myself, to create buffers from more trouble, or to rain down my personal version of fire and brimstone, I might have missed something wonderful.

Today, my hair is shorter than I’d planned, but it looks so much better!

Even if you hate the style, trust me, it’s a vast improvement!

When I stood and thanked the stylist with an awkward, very American hug (had to! I love her!), she said, “Thanks for trusting me to fix it.” 

And, well, that’s going to stick with me awhile.

1. I know it’s Czechia now, but this was 2005, and it was the Czech Republic then.

2. Yes, I put this on my Instagram story, asking advice without naming names