High up from the tower of the old city hall, we survey the sea of red tiled roofs. There are sharp crests and gentle rolling troughs of brick red. Skylights and chimneys blend in, but a few modern ventilation systems create turbulence. Out in the distance are the sharp, pointy masts of castles and assorted churches. Perhaps, winged Nazguls alight on these spires on dark nights.

A stiff breeze keeps us cool, and we circumambulate the outpost more than once. The streets below have gnomes shuffling in and out of curved arches. With a little bit of elevation, it’s unnerving to see how we mostly wander in tight formations. 

In a few hours, we all gather at the foot of this tower to watch a seven-hundred-year-old clock. It’s a funny thing, with dials and hands that have golden globes, which probably represent our celestial neighbors.

A skeleton (from a long-deceased gnome, no doubt) adorns the side panel. There are other curiosities. Besides the skeleton, there is a bearded and turbaned Turk, who represents lust. Eating a well-spiced juicy kebab was probably a sin for the meat and potato-loving medievals. There is also a jew with a pouch of money, and we can safely assume that he does not represent free trade. 

It’s supposed to be a clock, crafted by watchmaking savants, but try as we might, I am unable to tell the time. The crowd here isn’t gathered for such boring time checks, though. Exactly on the hour (thankfully, the other side of the hoary old clock tower has a more modern timepiece with an easy-to-read dial), a little show is put up.

The skeleton comes to life and bangs a drum. Bony fingers pull a pulley, and a little window opens. A bunch of figures peep out and rotate. I am told they are apostles and certified good guys. But to the untrained eye, the Turk, Jew, and the good apostles all blend in. Only the little dancing skeleton stands out. Dhanya informs us that the faces painted on the clock dial were scandalously “restored”  by a contemporary artist to resemble his friends. 

We all clap once the show ends. Truly, these medieval watchmakers knew how to automate entertainment.  

Wandering around the old town square, we discover a roasting pig and gladly tuck into it. Potato pancakes will have to do for my mom. There are logs of firewood around the food cart, and an aura of faux-aunthenticity. Czech grilled ham makes for a nice snack. A large flock of Jackdaws alight. I have long wanted to see these dainty crows. In my Indian book of birds, they occupied the exotic realm of the trans-Himalayas. Here, they nibble at fallen bits of ham and bread along the old town square.

In the middle of the square is a flock of black statues that seem to be in some sort of distress. A robed, bearded type rises up. This is Jan Huss, an ancient Czech religious zealot, who tried to invent a form of Protestantism before the Germans. For this deviance, other zealots had him burned to a crisp in good medieval style. It was called a “secular” execution, so it was lawfully done. These days, he is popular once more in these parts.

All of this was called Bohemia in those days. The word Bohemian in modern parlance usually applies to artists living in a sort of voluntary and chic poverty, but looking at the richly decorative facades, pointy spires, and pastel shades, it is more reminiscent of luxury tinged with a bit of Oriental overindulgence. A bohemian waxwing, more than a free-wheeling artsy pants. 

This is, of course, where the influential and opulent citizens lived. A short walk away is the old Jewish quarter, where we bought tickets to see what was claimed to be the oldest active synagogue and other sights. The synagogue turns out to be damp and smells as old as it looks. A few American tourists were eagerly lapping up a guided tour about their heritage. We skipped the grim Jewish cemetery, forgoing the full value of our tickets.

Arjun instead had a wonderful ice cream with real fruits at the bottom.

Next door is a cathedral, where Vivaldi’s Four Seasons plays every day of the week. We buy tickets from a big man who has a Turkish head on a Salvic body. He fist bumps Arjun on his way in. The church organ picks up, and we all turn around and look up towards the source of this deep musical resonance. Then the violins start, and I recognize snatches of the famous bits. 

We are all enthusiastic clappers. A woman does the soprano singing, although my dad is insistent that Vivaldi’s Four Seasons is supposed to be only violins. Perhaps, the modern interpretation allows for church organs and some high-pitched singing. Anyway, we are all heathens here.

I learn from my dad that Mozart had a special relationship with Pargue. His operas were most loved here, and today, the finer establishments have Mozart concerts, where musical heathens like me would not be welcome. There is a  Mozart barber shop next door, though.

The old Charles Bridge has street musicians who slap on magical hang drums and blow air through clay pipes. The bridge has old bronze dog sculptures polished bright by a thousand petting hands. Arjun likes the musical scene here more than the Four Seasons, which he bravely tolerated for an hour and ten minutes.

An old curvy tram, a time capsule from when the Soviets dominated Space and Eastern Europe, takes us home for the night. 

As the soprano smiles and ululates, the cathedral amplifies it as if there were speakers and microphones involved. There are none. It strikes me that this was how Bohemians passed their time for centuries, listening to music concerts and operas.

And musicians and sopranos were the stars of those times. Even the hapless King of Bohemia is enamored by Irene Adler and comes out on the wrong end of the affair.