The Colour Of Brno
I take the 9.06 train to Praha: it isn't busy, and the ticket inspector, a contented old man who's in no hurry seems delighted by my ticket to Brno. The girl opposite me is fast asleep, and he tickles her under the chin to wake her for her ticket. Through Karljensen in a deep river valley, the cliffs rising to an enormous castle overlooking the town, the train carefully tiptoeing around the tight bends dictated by the river's course that the line hugs. I change in Praha for EuroCity107, on it's long journey to Budapest, foregoing the madness of the station booking hall for the sanity of a seat in the Speisewagen - restaurant car - to wait while the clock approaches departure time. I find a freestanding armchair at table in the smoking area, a chrome and glass lamp on the linen tablecloth, a little condiment and toothpick holder next to my espresso and notebook. The waiter is waistcoated and polite. The romance of rail has been modernised by the network of red and white EC trains that link the capitals and major cities of Europe, but not lost; worth every penny and minute more than a low cost airline: the fine art of travel.
There is a framed advert for Budjejevicky Pilsner on one wall, and strangely, an ethnic print of an African mother breastfeeding her baby on the other. I cannot make any connection, if there is one. The landscape to the East of Praha is flat, sparsely lined and dotted with distant trees; it reminds me of Flanders, and a haunting visit to Ypres I made the previous year.
Through the serving hatch of the bar, I look into the galley as the chef expertly tosses an omelette in a cast iron pan once, twice, then out onto a plate: we are rattling over a junction at 160kph, and I doubt I could even stand up straight let alone manage such a feat with such casual ease.
I change trains at Trevoba for a local service to Brno. It's slow, dirty and hot, and the paint is flaking from the nose of the class 242 electric locomotive, rust poking through the welds around it's windscreen.
I walk off the platform at Brno into the subterranean shopping complex below the tram station and am immediately lost. Vietnamese vendors sit on stools outside their "Textil" and spice stalls, sullenly eating bowls of rice or noodles as the heaving crowd rolls by without seeming to even register their presence; the stale air is laden with the reek of fried food, sweat, and cheap perfume. I find the "Informance" office hidden on the street above, and ask about a Pension. The woman seems helpful, but completely misleading. I point to a place in a brochure she studies: "Hmmm, but it will be very expensive". It is not. "But it is not in the centre; you must take tram". It is a three minute walk, right in the centre. I ask her to book it: "Hmmm - I will try, but it might not be possible". I check into the Pension Orange 10 minutes later.
It is very orange: curtains, floortiles, towels, and bed - everything is orange. I feel slightly ill.
I walk to the Nadrazi and have soup and dumplings for dinner. On the platform, I drink a beer at the inevitable booth, surrounded by hardened drinkers, all on the home straight and probably heading for a bed under the nearest viaduct. They are not threatening, or even interested in me. I watch an ancient Russian railcar depart for some unknown suburb, it's diesel engine sitting in a compartment just in front of it's passengers. I walk to an internet cafe. As I finish the last paragraph of a blog post, the internet connection goes down and an hour's work flashes out in an instant. I start again, and by the time I have finished, have to wake the girl behind the counter so I can pay. I resist the temptation to tickle her under the chin.
I walk back to the pension and crawl into my orange bed.
There is a framed advert for Budjejevicky Pilsner on one wall, and strangely, an ethnic print of an African mother breastfeeding her baby on the other. I cannot make any connection, if there is one. The landscape to the East of Praha is flat, sparsely lined and dotted with distant trees; it reminds me of Flanders, and a haunting visit to Ypres I made the previous year.
Through the serving hatch of the bar, I look into the galley as the chef expertly tosses an omelette in a cast iron pan once, twice, then out onto a plate: we are rattling over a junction at 160kph, and I doubt I could even stand up straight let alone manage such a feat with such casual ease.
I change trains at Trevoba for a local service to Brno. It's slow, dirty and hot, and the paint is flaking from the nose of the class 242 electric locomotive, rust poking through the welds around it's windscreen.
I walk off the platform at Brno into the subterranean shopping complex below the tram station and am immediately lost. Vietnamese vendors sit on stools outside their "Textil" and spice stalls, sullenly eating bowls of rice or noodles as the heaving crowd rolls by without seeming to even register their presence; the stale air is laden with the reek of fried food, sweat, and cheap perfume. I find the "Informance" office hidden on the street above, and ask about a Pension. The woman seems helpful, but completely misleading. I point to a place in a brochure she studies: "Hmmm, but it will be very expensive". It is not. "But it is not in the centre; you must take tram". It is a three minute walk, right in the centre. I ask her to book it: "Hmmm - I will try, but it might not be possible". I check into the Pension Orange 10 minutes later.
It is very orange: curtains, floortiles, towels, and bed - everything is orange. I feel slightly ill.
I walk to the Nadrazi and have soup and dumplings for dinner. On the platform, I drink a beer at the inevitable booth, surrounded by hardened drinkers, all on the home straight and probably heading for a bed under the nearest viaduct. They are not threatening, or even interested in me. I watch an ancient Russian railcar depart for some unknown suburb, it's diesel engine sitting in a compartment just in front of it's passengers. I walk to an internet cafe. As I finish the last paragraph of a blog post, the internet connection goes down and an hour's work flashes out in an instant. I start again, and by the time I have finished, have to wake the girl behind the counter so I can pay. I resist the temptation to tickle her under the chin.
I walk back to the pension and crawl into my orange bed.
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 5:01 AM
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