Farmer's Market, Street Acquaintances, and Being Cute

I asked a woman on the street if she knew anything about it, and she said no, that she also had come for the market, but that apparently it was out of business due to the construction. She advised, however, that there was another market that we could get to if we took the #11 or #13 tram to the Pavlova stop (I asked her to repeat the stop's name, and she laughed and said “Pavlova. You know, like Pavlova's Dogs!). And she pointed us around the corner to the tram line.

 

We found the tram stop … but only for trams going what I thought was the wrong direction. So, we walked up a block up the street … and another block … and another until we had walked 5 blocks, and still no stop going the right direction. Finally, I asked a man walking toward us with his little boy, and he pointed another block and a half up the street to a sign indicating a stop. So, on we went, getting there just in time the sleek multi-carriage #11 tram.

 

Riding the tram in Prague is a delight because of the beautiful architecture. That's especially true in the older, more central parts, so we enjoyed the ride. But as we rode on, I saw that we were moving out of the truly lovely architecture of the central area of the center, and into the newer and less appealing outskirts. I had already suspected that we were, in fact, going the wrong direction, but I hadn't been able to figure out the lighted tram map inside the carriage. Suddenly I DID figure it out, though, and told Mary we needed to get off at the next stop.

 

We got off the tram, crossed the street, and stood at the platform waiting for the #11 or #13 going the other direction. There was a kid there, 15ish or 16ish or so, wearing headphones and looking at his phone. I interrupted his music, or whatever he was listening to, and asked him if he was familiar with the farmer's market the woman had told us about. He told us, in perfect English with an unplaceable accent, that he didn't know of a farmer's market around Pavlova, but that he was on his way to work at a KFC, and was going to get off one stop before Pavlova. He would be very happy to escort us.

 

The #13 tram, one of the old-fashioned single carriage models, came along and we boarded. On the tram he asked us where we were from. We told him New York, at which point he told us that he was from Tulsa, Oklahoma. We talked for a few minutes about the comparative lifestyles in Prague and Tulsa. He likes Prague better, he said, waving his hand at the surrounding city, “because public transportation is better, and everything, you know.” Of course we knew.

 

We rode on, chatting about this and that, until at the stop where we should have boarded to go toward instead of away from Pavlova, he pointed toward the back of the carriage with a proud smile and told us that three of his teachers had just boarded through the back door. He cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled “Mr … Barvo?” Something like that. A sixtyish man with a goatee waved and greeted him, and apparently shouted back at young escort what he was doing, because he shouted back “I'm just going to work.”

 

At that point I asked the kid (we never thought to ask his name) if he had become fluent in Czech. I thought the answer would be affirmative, because he had already told us his mother is Czech, that actually he was born in the Czech Republic before moving to Oklahoma when he was a young child, and he has been living here this time for four years. But no, “Actually, I haven't,” he said. “You know, it's a very difficult language, and enough people speak English that it hasn't been necessary. My school, you know, is the International School, with kids from a lot of countries, but everybody speaks English.” Thinking for another few seconds, he added “There's only 120 students, you know. And that's really a contrast to the public school I went to in Tulsa that had 4,000 students.” He looked down and shook his head in a way that implied he was greatly relieved to have escaped that public school in Tulsa.

Our young friend got off the tram at the Museum stop … this would be “the National Museum,” in the enormous and ornate Národní Palace, where today there are lots of Irish Setters and Wolfhounds and other Irish descent dogs sharing time with others of their kind in honor of a mythical Irish Saint's feast day tomorrow. Then we went on to the Pavlova stop, where we got off and spent a half-hour blundering around looking for the farmer's market in any nearby public space, which we never found.

 

It was not a totally wasted stop, though, because we did find an outrageously fun store called “Diana World Nuts.” I've never seen such a store so dedicated to nuts … green, roasted, salted, nut mixes, nuts covered with candy and chocolate and various coatings of all sort, nuts I've never heard of, cakes and candies made of nuts, the whole place is nuts! I was unfortunately hungry by that time, so we bought a few cacao-dusted almonds, which were to die for. We also bought a chunk of pistacchio divinity which we only opened last evening … and it is really, really good. So good that we already plan to go back to get more before returning to TrumpAmerika.

 

We asked a number of people if they knew anything about a farmer's market. But this is a relatively touristy area of “New Town,” called that because it’s a couple of hundred years newer than the very touristy 1,000 year old Old Town next to it. And while everybody we asked for help spoke at least a smattering of English and were very friendly, none of them could help us, because none of them were from Prague, and they knew nothing about a farmer's market.

 

Until finally I asked a couple of young women, maybe in their early 20s, if they knew. They were American, very friendly. “We were just there!” one of them exclaimed with a big smile, holding up a white paper bag of unknown contents to show us. “It's fantastic!” She pulled out her phone, and showed me the map on a tram ap to a destination a 30 minute walk or 10 minute tram ride away. Clearly it was not the same farmer's market the woman at the church had told us about. But that didn't matter. We wanted to see the fantastic one! So we followed the instructions, went around the corner back to the Pavlova stop, and boarded a 10 tram to the Vltava River, where we finally found our farmer's market, two blocks up from the Dancing Building. Below the street, on the promenade along the river.

 

It was actually more than just a farmer's market … with lots of cooked food, and some handicraft stuff (nothing from China!) I was starved, and bought a truly succulent foot-long link of grilled spicy kielbasa for $4, served with thick slices of rye bread and mustard. We wolfed it down, then strolled the length of the market looking at the amazing collection of baked goods and other treats. After a lot of indecisiveness, we chose an apple cake of a sort to split for dessert. Then we bought a big round loaf of seeded rye for about $2.50 (60 czech koruna), and a big leek, a huge celeriac, a big half-head of cabbage, and some parsley and garlic, all in plans to make something to eat at home at some point.

 

The prize of the shopping, though, was a couple jars of duck liver pate, truly memorable pate, one with Bordeaux and one without. About $6 per jar. We stood around the booth trying all the 8 flavors of pork, chicken, and duck, which were smeared on pieces of the ubiquitous Czech rye bread. So good. I love good pate. And we loved the guy selling it, a big hefty guy who reminded me of one of those fat Italian chefs memorialized in kitsch kitchen art or in front of Italian food stores or on pizza boxes. This guy was cool, with a winning smile and a charming personality. He asked “Do you like Trump, or are you Democrats?” We assured him we hate Trump. He hates Trump too and worries about him. Very sensible, and a real pleasure to chat with. I told Mary that if we go back to the market next Saturday, I want to take his picture, and she immediately agreed that we need to do that.

 

Finally, we took our heavy bag of veggies, bread, and pate and made our way back up the ramp to the street along the river. As we got to the street, I decided I needed to take a shot of Mary with the lovely buildings across the river in the background. So I got her in position, and was taking a close-up of her lovely face when three 20ish kids came walking by, two girls and a boy. From Canada. One of the girls smiled big and with a French accent asked if we would like our picture together, and we said sure, that would be great. She took a half-dozen shots of us with my camera, saying several times, “You guys are so cute, just so cute!”

 

Then she pulled out her phone and took a picture of us with that, before digging in her purse for what looked like a big flat camera. “If you have just a minute,” she said sweetly, “I want to give you guys a little gift.” We watched her as she put the phone close to the little machine. “This will only take a minute,” she said, “but I want to give you a gift because you guys are so cute!” We stood there looking down at what she was doing, and by and by a strip of paper rolled out of the machine. It was obviously an undeveloped polaroid picture. Maybe 2×3 inches. She gave it to us, saying it would develop over the next few minutes. She hoped we would like it because we were “just so cute” she wanted to give us this little gift!

 

She, they, were charming. And while all that “You guys are so cute” business, she must have said it 10 times, made me feel a bit ancient, it was still a very pleasant interlude. Because they were so cute too. Pretty girls, a good looking red-haired/red-bearded boy who professed that he is assiduously non-political. Avoids politics like the plague, which seemed to us like probably a survival strategy, given that even though he is Canadian, he said he now lives in Georgia.

Anyway, in all honesty young people have told Mary and me we are cute for many years. Usually in stores, though, and not on the street. Because? I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because of the way we banter?

 

From there we meandered back to the corner, checked out the marvelous monument on the corner that I suppose commemorates something or somebody … With caption plaques only in Cyrillic Czech who would know. Then we caught the #10 tram back to Pavlova, and while waiting there for the #11 or #13 tram we met a really beautiful 10 month old Portuguese water dog. He was a delight, and we enjoyed petting him. Mary commented on his shiny black curly hair, saying “What beautiful hair? It's the kind of hair every girl wants, right?” to the dog's lovely straight-haired blond human. The lovely dog and girl got on the #13 behind us, and in transit to our stop the dog had a excited vocal exchange with an English setter-looking dog a few seats down on the tram. Then the dog and girl got off at the same stop we did, by the Sacred Heart Church where earlier in the day the absence of the usual Saturday farmer's market initiated our adventure. The blond woman and the black dog went off to the right from the tram stop, and we went left, crossing the street to trudge home.

 

Market adventure day #1 over.