So why did you come to the Czech Republic?

The title of this post one of is the first questions you're asked as foreigner in the Czech Republic. It is, to use a cliche, a long story, and I've recited all the ins and outs of it so often, that I tell people - only half jokingly - that I'll write a book about it.

Well, here it is, or rather a super-condensed version.

For me, Prague is a city where bizarre connections and strange synchronicities seem to occur with astonishing frequency, so it’s fitting that the story of how I came here involves a coincidence.
It started in an era when, unlike now, the only Czechs coming to Britain were those fleeing Communism. Very unusually, one of my fellow pupils at primary school was half-Czech; his father had escaped Czechoslovakia and settled in Britain. Jan changed school after a few years, but our class had learned a bit about Czechoslovakia while he was with us. Perhaps that’s why I was intrigued by a neighbour’s beige Škoda “Estelle”, as it was absurdly styled in Britain. It’s probably also why I recall floundering attempts to spell “Czechoslovakia” – presumably after Jan had left – in an essay.
Later, I studied the former Eastern Bloc in one of my high school classes and became very curious about the part of Europe run by a cabal of doddery dictators. Shortly after, the 1989 revolutions broke out, which dispatched the dictators to history but brought me a step closer to Prague. A few years on, at university, my classmates and I had to “choose” between the Ruhr coalfield in Germany or Prague as a field trip destination. I think you can guess which….

That week was one of the best of my life. Prague mesmerized me, partly because then the Czech Republic seemed so different and the spiky-looking Czech language was so unfamiliar. Consequently, even the more mundane aspects of the trip, such as metro journeys, were lifted out of banality. As we were billeted with families in Háje, we had plenty of opportunities to travel by metro and marvel at the profusion of technicolour concave panels and other station idiosyncrasies. We found the metro announcements quirky too, and they had a sort of hypnotic effect on us, eliciting maniacal group chants of “Ukončete výstup a nástup!” at the slightest excuse.

When I returned, I just couldn’t get Prague out my system, and after completing a post-graduate course in building conservation in 1995, I started to think about combining my conservation and Central European interests. I finally came to Prague in 2000, to follow up on potential job offers, but progress was extremely slow. I was determined to stay in Prague and make things happen, so I decided to investigate other opportunities.

I’ve always enjoyed writing, and gradually moved into editing, and later journalism. I has a passion for languages too, and moved into translating from Czech to English. I particularly enjoy writing about travel and anything that helps newcomers to Prague Czech Republic.

Let's hear it for Czech public spaces!

I'm sitting in one of my favourite cafes in Prague. I've parked myself by a large window overlooking a very visually satisfying square, making my spot ideal for people watching. And despite being a cold, sun-bereft day, people are sitting on the square. No doubt this is partly because the space is extremely welcoming. It was redesigned a few years ago and features some excellent public art - a trio of small, sturdy bronze horses, unobtrusive seating, a cluster of neatly pruned trees, and a pond traversed by little bridges. What's more, even though it's in a fairly prominent position, there's almost no vandalism, and the square looks just as fresh as it did when the work was completed.
I studied building conservation at post-graduate level and therefore such spaces greatly interest me. Indeed, I still filter them through my conservationist perspective. One of the things I find most striking about Czech towns and cities is the quality of their public spaces. And even in an era when penny-pinching and the "cost of everything, value of nothing" are the basis for every decision, granite sets - which don't come cheap - are frequently used, including in resurfacing. What's more, compared to my native UK, there's much less of an effort to make streets that already have plenty of aesthetic worth better by introducing "olde-worlde" street furniture, such as the dreaded "heritage bollards" as we used to call them on the course. But most of all, too often British historic streets are ruined by garish, ugly red paving stones, and a lamentable lack of natural materials.
Even though I've lived in the Czech Republic for a while, I still find myself making mental comparisons between it in the UK. In my opinion, public spaces generally much better in my adopted home country. But must admit that I still find this perplexing. Why is the quality of public spaces in the UK so hit and miss?

The accommodation scene in Prague has got better over the years, but finding somewhere good to stay in the centre without demolishing your bank balance is still not easy. But here's a little tip. Why not consider self-catering (or vacation rentals)? This option can work out a lot cheaper than a hotel, and offers you a bit more flexibility too. Bohemia Apartments offers a range of self-catering properties all located right in the centre of Prague. So if you're booking a holiday in Prague and want to be in the centre but at a reasonable price, why not consider this company. wwww.bohemia-apartments.com

My first Czech election

Yesterday I voted for the first time in a Czech election. I learned a few weeks ago that as I have permanent residence in the Czech Republic and am an EU citizen, I'm entitled to voted in the local and European elections here, but not parliamentary elections. So I decided to exercise my democratic duty and vote, prompted by the novelty of the situation and feelings of guilt at not voting in elections in Britain.

For weeks we voters have been bombarded with all the usual promises and policies, as well as pictures of all the candidates looking improbably youthful. We've been bribed with concerts and food, and we've had to put up with unrelentingly trite slogans about how the world would be an infinitely better place if candidate X from party Y were elected. I consider myself a political junkie, but the last few weeks have been utterly tedious billboardwise, even for me.

Yet somehow I felt excited as I approached the local polling station, in the pavilion adjoining the local football ground. But as I entered the drab polling room, and saw the election staff lined up like judges in a talent show in a village hall, it all felt very familiar, even though there was no potato wedged in the ceiling, as was the case at the last polling station where I voted in Britain.

Minor consternation ensued when one of the officials realised that I wasn't on the list, and I was relayed to his kindly supervisor, who confirmed that I could vote as I my name had been added to a supplementary list. I did the democratic deed and put my ballot paper, which was almost as big as the football pitch outside, in its envelope. I scanned the room for the ballot box and saw two people putting their envelopes in what was, without any shadow of a doubt, a bin. Yes, a bin. I looked round for the ballot box but couldn't see anything apart from a table and the grey plastic bin. It dawned on me that the people entrusting their votes to a receptacle for refuse didn't seem to be confused or making angry protests, but simply voting. I doubled checked by opening the bin furtively, It contained a substantial pile of envelopes, which in turn contained - I assume - ballot papers. So I popped my ballot paper in it, thereby joining the democratic throng. As I left, I pondered the bizarre ritual I had just participated in and wondered whether I had imagined it all. Was it a huge mistake, or I had voted correctly in a not very fraudproof system? Whatever way you looked at it, a bin as a ballot box is a very telling comment on democracy. And the all too obvious thought occurred to me - was it all symbolic?