In which I take really crappy pictures of Prague

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but here in Prague I find most of my photographs fall miserably short of capturing the moment in front of me. And so, in lieu of a normal blog post, I offer you a few word pictures of my first days.

1: The Flea Market.

A girl flips through a stack of old postcards and portraits. A rainbow of size D bras, hanging from a tent, swings in the wind behind her, and black dust swirls around the blue tarps. A box of dried fishes with flies buzzing in empty eye sockets glitters like silver in the sun. A seven foot man in army fatigues crosses his arms in front of a naked baby doll; a honey-brown teacup puppy shivers.

2: Vysehrad.

A gated cemetery of tombs with more individual personality, even, than the composers, writers, sculptors, and scientists now etched in gold leaf across their surfaces, blanketed with ivy, or red glass candles, or thin white women on their tiptoes. A boy looks up from his wheelchair to the sound of bells shimmering down from the top of a Gothic cathedral.

3: Casemates.

A musty stone tunnel with a mud floor hidden inside the battlements. A woman in long black wool leads a line of shadows, breath frozen like a spiderweb in front of each face, as they plod to the cavernous end.

4: The River.

A barge floating on brown water, surrounded by swans—one with a wing wrenched completely away, just four yellowed sticks of bone sticking out from its side. A foaming glass of blueberry beer casts amber light on a pale hand, and an owl-faced man laughs wildly.

5: Kampo.

Crates of dried melon and hazelnuts. A turning water wheel. White fatigues, white boots, white guns—hanging silent on the café’s four white walls.

6: Hike.

Steep uphill climb through an orchard of plum trees, green fruit dripping from the low limbs. An imitation Eiffel Tower, straddling a café, spikes into a blue, cloud-dappled sky at the top.

7: The Castle.

Hundreds of soot-stained gargoyles, like howler monkeys frozen in alarm, extend their necks from ornate ledges. Drip sandcastle spires reach out of sight into the royal blue of a dusk sky. The handful of humans at its base look up: dots at the bottom of a masterfully carved mantle figurine.

8: Charles Bridge.
A girl with long blonde hair rubs a section of the statue raw: eyes closed, praying she won’t die of drowning. City lights, in reds and yellows, scintillate on the river’s surface. A girl pushes a boy’s hair out of his eyes.

And OK, here are some real pictures for you too.

Iridescent cathedral door.

My first panorama! Don't even know what bridge this is.

Breakfast in Beth's adorable apartment with a view of the park.

Czech play money.