Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Paternoster Prague-nosis
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
Some people use drugs, or drink, or have sex to forget. Others become workaholics or take up an all-consuming hobby. In my mid-twenties, and freed of college, I turned to my drug of choice: travel.
Back then, my parents were the pitch-forked couple in the painting American Gothic. No matter what I attempted, touched or thought, it only seemed to earn a stern, piercing frown. At the time—I am still convinced of it—I was certain they yearned for an different son. Late into the quiet of the night, they could not admit to each other, but I knew it was true.
I do know they badly wanted a son who would marry his college sweetheart, settle down, have a career, raise a family, become an industrious farmer, produce crops and grandkids. On graduation night when I told my girlfriend that we would always be friends, I broke her heart—and theirs.
Shortly thereafter, my own heart started cracking. My parents’ blistering condemnation left its mark. I doubted my capacity to love anyone, ever.
In Prague, my plan was simple. Live cheaply and pretend I had no parents. No friends, no girlfriends or anyone else for me to reject—or to reject me.
Existing in my private refuge from reality, I walked tree-canopied lanes and through the Old Town Square. I admired street markets alive with color and delicious smells. I tipped my head back to scan the city’s 100-plus spires. From the Vltava River shoreline, I smiled at the toy-like Prague Castle perched on a promontory commanding views of the entire city.
I rode the paternoster—a 20th Century elevator without any doors—that moves continuously, up and down, never pausing to pick up passengers. The trick is to quick step kinda like mounting an escalator except a paternoster moves vertically inside its cabin-sized shaft. Since the paternoster never stops, it is a precarious half-leap on and off.
The Art Nouveau city hall has one in full use, probably to preserve a bit of history. The word paternoster is formed from the first two Latin words of the Lord’s Prayer—a reminder to pray if you ride it.
Like my shambolic love life, a paternoster travels in non-stop circles. Ascent and descent. Into a basement of darkness, then towards more hopeful heights. Then down again.
Patrolling the streets of Prague, I paused to contemplate a community statue called Cloak of Conscience. The empty, hollowed-out, faceless form looked just like me. A public proclamation about my enfeebled capacity for committed love.
In pubs I devoured pork knuckles and reddish-pink sausages. I over-drank pilsner produced by a nation with the highest per capita beer consumption in the world. I didn’t try to keep pace, but my bar tabs were never small.
I wrote in my journal that I felt like a field rabbit scurrying to its burrow. Travel is good that way. A kind of burrowing.
My rabbit-like instinct for self-preservation, for restoration, kept me in Prague. I decided to stay one more week, then two weeks, until eventually I had been self-sequestered for longer than a month. Then, another month.
But a city, even a welcoming city, is not a caring parent. Not a concerned friend. Not an enchanting lover.
Repacking my few things, I said my goodbyes to Prague. I was sad when I arrived—and even sadder heading to the airport.
Leaving no one, I learned, is as wrenching as leaving everyone.
