My tormented husband suggested we need a break. Deciding what type was easy: it had to be cold, very cold; anywhere that would soothe and cool my menopausal madness and tropical insanity and hopefully save his life!! So; Prague it was, in February. The attraction: it was going to be minus something, according to the weather chart; I actually knew very little about the city. With cases full of long johns, woollies and all things thermal, we were ready to go.
The first thing that hit me about the city, after the cold that is, was the sheer beauty. It took my breath away. And so began my menopausal magical blissful break.
Ahhh the memories... of the cold, the beautiful sprinkling of snow, of getting lost on the trams and not really caring how we would find our way back; of being surrounded by people with not a word of English, where every word they spoke seemed to end with ky or iy. Memories of being wrapped in layers and layers of woollies and still feeling cold [bliss], of wandering around the beautiful market stalls in the old square, buying hand-painted eggs, puppets and wooden toys. Memories of drinking hot grog to heat us up, lots of hot grog from lots of market stalls. Of being asked by himself, how’s the hot flushes? and wondering what’s he talking about. Of watching the town clock doing its magic, an image of time like no other. Time that suddenly seemed so precious to me as I navigated another stage of my life.
Memories of walking miles to see the Child of Prague statue and being amazed how small it was. Memories of the night before my wedding, of my mother putting her statue outside the door to guarantee no rain on the day [old tradition]; of saying thank you to the child for a sunny day in 1983 and whispering thank you to my mother for her love.
Memories of going to a classical concert and meeting some Irish lassies having fun, chatting to them and not really hearing the music. Sure we only went because everyone said “you have to go to a classical evening when in Prague”. Of drinking beer, eating dumplings, stews and heart-warming food. Memories of dogs dressed in all sorts of coats, Of buying one for our mutt and embarrassing my whole family when I walked her down town wearing it.
Memories of wandering over Charles Bridge, savouring every smell sound and feeling that permeated my being. Memories of immense gratitude for being there, being alive, being able to feel good, to walk ,to wander, to meander, to just simply sit and watch the world go by in a haze of freezing fog and grog.
Travelling home, my menopausal self didn’t seem quite so bad; hot flushes seemed like a distant memory. When they do appear I just call on the memories, imagining myself sitting under the clock as Prague does its magic.
