Before I ever heard the word
patriarchy, before I became a feminist, I was a Narnian.
Narnia made me a
Bohemian. I moved to Prague, capital of the ancient kingdom of Bohemia, Prague,
and discovered an adult Narnia, at 30. Emperors' and Kings' castles dot the
countryside, River Vltava wends between city walls and stone villages and
medieval parks with their ancient trees—Stromovka in particular: While
its contemporary incarnation sites an amusement park next door and 1891 world’s
fair exhibition grounds, Výstaviště,
it was, eight centuries ago, sacred: The game park of King Přemysl Otakar II back when royalty were
still believed to be the gods’ representative on Earth.
But most of all, Prague,
like Narnia, is full of magic. It breathes up from the cobblestones in
the hours before dawn; the Charles Bridge fills with angels dancing to Jirasek,
breathing in Dvořak, gossiping about Milena and Kafka.
Tinkles of defenestration and alchemy shimmer in the air. The stone
towers whisper as carp break the water at Lavka.
There is beauty in heavy
old tables, laden with decades of hops and hopes, both gone stale. Every
doorway—every threshold—has a symbol, for a time before all people were
literate. Everyone knew the Tři kočky,
though, or the bear at U Medvídků .
On a bitter January night, snow up to the window sills on the outside,
you can find your path through the heavy doors, and the substantial curtains
behind them, into a hot smoky room with a roaring fire, straight out of The
Hobbit.
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|
Adršpach-Teplice Rocks, in the Narnia of
Bohemia (for more:
http://www.praguemorning.cz/the-hidden-narnia-of-the-czech-republic/) |
There are no pubs in
Narnia. There is Mr. Tumnus’ cave, decidedly neat and tidy. The
Beavers’ den, within the dam. There is drinking of wine, and mead even, I
believe, but in none of the books can I remember a pub scene. Consequently,
Middle Earth—most likely The Prancing Pony—will have to do.
Or, of course, the pub
in Game of Thrones. I’ve been in some that weren’t far off. I have
heard U spivačku compared to the bar in Star Wars.
Generally, however, at
the least offer to speak Czech, to banter a bit with the výčepní,
don’t make a fuss, don’t expect more than what they have,
At the same time, if you
put the Shire and Mayberry, RFD, together, you’d have a typical Bohemian
village. Lots of beer, in generous mugs, starchy food, and a cast of
characters.
Narnia was where I
belonged. I felt the sting of Aslan’s mane when Susan and Lucy rode him
after he returned to life on the Stone Table. I stood on the deck with
Lucy and Edmund and cast disgusted glances at the puling Eustace. The
dark tunnels of Golg, the sinister underground where Jill and Eustace find
themselves at the mercy of the Green Witch and the mad Prince, terrified me.
When the children began to repeat, “No, there is no Narnia” and were, it
seemed, in the witch's spell, I was utterly undone. How could Aslan save
them now.
But it wasn’t Aslan.
It was Puddleglum. Puddleglum, who would probably be a Republican.
He’s definitely a good ole boy, but much more Barney Fife than Jason
Stackhouse. He’s a negative nancy who always sees and expects the
worst.
He puts out the fire
(from which the witch’s spell emanates, in heavy, sweet odor) and fills the air
with the smell of burnt Marshwiggle, which acts like smelling salts.
And he makes his
declaration, to "Live Like a Narnian" (see preceding post).
This is what I must do:
Despite pessimism or surety of failure, still, Live Like a
Narnian.
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