Robert and I wandered around the town today while Gord was at work. (Robert had already gone to the gym with Gord first thing in the morning, but I wasn’t having any of that on my vacation. I’m a Brit now.)
As we walked toward one of the main junctions, I heard my name. Turning around in disbelief, I saw — oh, Gord. He was heading out for lunch and we just happened to pass by him and one of his business colleagues. He introduced us to his associate, Otto Jelinek — who used to be Canada’s Minister of, what was it? Culture? Sport? Years before that, he and his sister were world figure skating champions. (I figured Mom would be thrilled that I met him.)
Later, I admit, Robert and I got turned around and thought we were on the opposite side of the Charles Bridge than we were. Oops. But we’d seen lots of nice sights and had a lovely, if overpriced, lunch on a patio beside the river that flows under the bridge. (Things aren’t expensive here, but it isn’t the bargain anymore that people have described to me in the past.)
Our afternoon winding to a close and our feet tired, we decided to get on a tram and head home. The red, black, and white livery of the trams is so similar to the TTC’s cars that I’d have forgotten where I was, if it wasn’t for the odd lettering on the car’s advertisements and maps. We rode, and after a little while it was clear we were heading in the wrong direction. We stayed on until the tram stopped at a station that wasn’t — just a couple of platforms and some rough cement staircases and walkways that obviously hadn’t changed since the time of the communist government. A young woman got off and said something back to us; we didn’t understand the words, but we figured out that this was the end of the line, so we got out and waited for the train to continue back into town.
Part-way back, a slightly dodgy-looking man about my age or a little younger approached us, saying something in Czech, and we automatically said no — the usual urban response to solicitation. Then he asked in halting English to see our tickets, looking back and forth at the digital clock on the train, and told us we’d been on for more than the allowed twenty minutes. Fine, we figured, and Robert handed him two more unused tickets. But no, he wanted us to follow him off the train, along with an even dodgier-looking compatriot who’d corralled a group of young women who also didn’t speak Czech. He asked to see our ID, and informed us that there was a fine for riding without a valid ticket, and it was 700 koruna — about £20. Ouch!
At this point, I asked to see his identification again, figuring that this would be just too easy a scam to pull on tourists. He had some kind of badge (meaningless to me), but he did issue us with receipts, with which we could ride the rest of the day.
Ah well. We broke the rules, I figured, and not knowing the rules isn’t an excuse. It’s bad PR for the city, targeting tourists, particularly given the transit’s choice of representatives, but what can you do?
Gord just arrived home and is totally annoyed about this, ’cause he says his local friends always “ride black” as they call it. He bought an annual pass, he said, and he has yet to be asked to show it.
Again, ah well.
Robert’s made a beautiful-looking salad and is cooking some spring rolls and potatoes for dinner. It ain’t bad having a restaurateur along for the ride!
P.S. I keep buying spirits — absinthe yesterday (in a shop where a man gave us a taste, burning the sugar cube on a spoon and all before stirring it in) and today Becherovka (yesterday’s clove-flavoured slivovitz), but I already know that all my friends back home will hate them!
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