Budapest, Vienna, Brno, and Prague. 2009

Budapest, Vienna, Brno, and Prague. 2009

This was our most complex trip in a while. As Don said, three countries with three different monetary systems and three languages that we don’t speak. I got our tickets via Cheapo Air, and was dubious, particularly as they took us through Heathrow, which seemed out of the way, and then were altered when British Airways cancelled the flight to Budapest leaving at two and stuck us with one at 4:30.

As our flight was leaving Philadelphia at 9 p.m., we assumed there would be no dinner and got a really lousy calzone at the airport. I couldn’t even finish it. Boarded on time, took off, and lo, at 10:30 p.m. they served us a very good dinner with wine. “Have two!” the flight attendant said cheerfully. Accustomed as we are to US Airways, we were astonished but pleased.

In the morning we circled Heathrow for a time because of getting there early, but finally landed and had to go through their chaotic security for the ongoing flight. We had a five-hour layover because BA had canceled the earlier flight. Looking back, I realize that I should have insisted that Cheapo Air route us a different way instead of putting up with that. We inquired at the information desk about food on the afternoon flight; they were pleasant but totally baffled and called around to try to find out. Nobody knew. So we finally got a very good sandwich at the EAT kiosk (much better and less crowded than the Starbucks closer to the entry.) Then they fed us another sandwich on the flight. We were getting used to eating every three hours by this time.

The Budapest taxi system from its surprisingly small airport is good: you check in at a kiosk and tell the person what hotel you’re going to, and she gives you a chit which is what you pay no matter what. Our problem there was an enormous confluence of Sephardic Jews, there for some sort of festival at the Great Synagogue, who were hanging around praying, arguing, blocking the taxi lane (they didn’t want taxis), and trying to get themselves sorted out. We just had to elbow through them.

Then our taxi driver couldn’t find the hotel—the Budapest Museum Central Hotel. We went around and around, passing the National Museum (which I knew was across the street from the hotel) several times. The big street the hotel was on—the inner circle boulevard—was all dug up, so he finally let us out on a corner and pointed. We found the right door, finally found a bell punch with numbers, and punched. Nothing. Mild panic. Luckily, a woman inside was coming out and let us in, and we found (with difficulty) a lift to the first floor. We checked in, and they told us our room was offsite, two blocks away. The young woman was not overly clear about directions—she referred to the traffic light as a “lamp,” which we found a bit confusing—but she had a hand-drawn Xeroxed map, so off we went a little nervously in the dark. Found the street, found the address, but the street light was burnt out and it took a while to get the right key in the lock (not helped by the odd fact that Hungarian door knobs, signs, etc., are almost all placed very high, about at eye level, as if everyone were six feet nine). Got inside, no light. Stumbled to a small flight of steps and a light went on, faintly revealing a large, dim courtyard surrounded by balconies in front of us and a flight of stairs on the right. Didn’t know where to go. Just as Don was exploding, a woman leaned over the second-floor balcony, said something, and waved us to a door around the corner to our right. I thought it must be the lift, but Don managed to fit a key in and there was a nice bright little hall with three doors, one of which was ours. We discovered later that the hand-drawn map had a second part that showed a plan of how this worked, but the young woman at the desk had not pointed this out to us. (The light inside the entrance never was fixed, so we stumbled up the inside stairs for all five days.. They did replace the light on the street the next day.)

Once we were in the room, it was great, quite large, with wardrobe, two windows, kitchenette, washer, and even a Jacuzzi. We collapsed for a minute. We had, after all, been traveling since we had left home at six the night before—more than 24 hours. My feet simply wouldn’t work for a while. Don wanted to go out for a walk; I was thinking about dinner, though not terribly hungry. Some argument. Finally we went out for a brief walk, found a convenience store around the corner that had Fanta Limone (a rarely available favorite), went back to the room, and ate the cheese crackers Don had bought for the trip along with Fanta. Lovely dinner, but about all we were capable of. Exhausted.

Next day we took Rick Steves and set out to explore. It was a fair walk to Deak Ter, the square where the metros intersect and a big bus hub, plus the location of the Tourist Information Center, where we acquired a good map. We ambled down some pedestrian streets, heading for the Danube, and found it. Great view across the water to Castle Hill, which looks very impressive from afar, but has been rebuilt so much that it is less so up close. We followed the tram line that follows the waterfront and arrived at a linear park along the river, so we walked in the direction of the Houses of Parliament, where Rick’s Leopold Town (the northern half of Pest) walk started.

Halfway along, we encountered a site we had read about. During the last days of World War II, the Nazis apparently felt they hadn’t done enough to exterminate the Jews, so they lined up many of those left alive along the river, made them take off their shoes, and shot them. Sometimes they tied several together and shot one to save ammunition, so they all fell into the river together. Now, as a memorial, there are 50 pairs of shoes cast in iron, all kinds, all sizes, boots, pumps, kids’ shoes, work and dress shoes, all scattered around in a long row on the edge of the breakwater. It’s very chilling and moving — so simple, and so horrifyingly evocative.

A bit further along we suddenly came to the realization that there was no way to get from the waterfront park across the very busy highway that separated us from the city and the Houses of Parliament. The river walk did not have a way to get off without going all the way back (and we had walked about a mile). We had assumed there would be stairs at the bridges, but not so. A tour boat docked in front of us, and we tried to catch up to the disembarkers, who managed to stop the traffic by sheer force of numbers. Couldn’t make it. We got to where they had crossed. The highway split there: the road going to the left went uphill to a bridge, while the road going to the right kept going back the way we had come. Suddenly there was a lull—the first—in the streams of traffic. Don and I scrambled across the fence and scuttled across the first part, then found we could actually make it across the second part without getting killed.  Don’t know why the gap, but it was a blessing, and we climbed up to the buildings. (Later discovered that Rick casually mentioned this problem in his book and warned against taking that route. Read ahead next time.)

The parliament buildings were heavily influenced by the British ones and are very ornate and neo-Gothic. We didn’t go in, having read that there are miles of stairs and also seeing the very long lines waiting for tickets outside. But Don did take a bunch of pictures, because it was so very Gothic. We kept on with Rick’s walk, finding a lot of statues and little parks, including a very charming one with a statue of Imre Nagy standing in the middle of a bridge, the bridge being part of the sculpture. Also a statue of one of their favorite poets, sitting on some steps, hat in hand, resting with his coat thrown on the steps beside him. (Somehow we neglected to take a picture of either one. Don has never gotten over the save-the-film syndrome, despite our digital camera.) Finally sat down at a little café by one of the larger parks and had some hot chocolate, much needed, plus a restroom, also much needed. Then we went to see a newly restored art nouveau building nearby, which is a fancy hotel now, and looked back across the park at the palace that is now MTV—Magyar Television. It was wild-looking. Imagine an enormous (block-long) and poorly designed neoclassic building, with bad Ionic columns, on top of which someone has erected two towers that look like part of Angkor Wat. Bizarre. (We learned, by the way, that Magyar, which means Hungarian, is pronounced Mudjer. That’s about all we learned to pronounce.)

After a couple of other bits of Rick’s walk he led us to a market hall (built at the same time as the Great Market Hall, which we never managed to get to). Both of them are like the Reading Terminal Market, though this one was quite small. Lunch seemed like a good idea, and we ended up perched on some stools eating, of all things, Thai food.

We went further along the walk, seeing more of Budapest’s over-the-top architecture, and ended up at St Istvan’s Basilica. (Istvan is Stephen) Another bizarre building—it had three architects, each of whom embraced a different style (neoclassic, neo-gothic, and baroque), and it looks it. Here we bought concert tickets for a chamber orchestra event the next night.

Then we went back to Deak Ter and caught the #16 bus to Castle Hill. About this time we noticed that nobody but us was using a ticket on the bus. We each had a book of tickets, but despite the dire guidebook warnings about not paying we wondered. Just because we had the tickets didn’t necessarily mean that we had to use them. We got off in the main square, Moszkva Ter (this part of the city is Buda; the part we stayed in is Pest), and went off to see the gorgeous views over Pest from the ramparts. Wandered around the various parts of the castle grounds and ended up going to the Budapest History Museum, eschewing the National Gallery. One can manage only so many museums. We got in free on the basis of age, though that’s only supposed to apply to EU members. We didn’t argue.

The museum is built on the remains of several much earlier palaces, which got very mixed up over the centuries. After exploring some exhibits on the main floors we descended to the basement It’s a complete labyrinth, with long passageways, stairs in every direction, and a secret walled garden. They had tried to put a few plans on signs in various places, but it was hard to make sense of them because of all the layers of different buildings. It was also almost deserted, although we did run into a couple of American women and a very nice guard who spoke no English but wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything. I think he was glad to see someone. Some parts were Gothic, some were parts of Matthias Corvinus’ Renaissance palace. He’s a big hero, because he was the last Hungarian king before the Hapsburgs took over.

We had a pricey soda at the little museum café and walked back along the back ramparts to the square. Dutifully trudged uphill to the big Matthias Church only to find it swathed in scaffolding. Took that as a good excuse not to visit: it has been rebuilt so many times that there’s really nothing original—most is 19^th or 20^th century. We got the bus back to Deak Ter. At this point we realized that in our wanderings we had covered most of Rick Steves’ Town Center walk except for the Great Synagogue, which we didn’t visit because of the festival we’d read about.

We meandered a bit more and headed back for a nap. That night we bumbled around all the dug-up streets in our area and made it to nearby Ráday Utca, which is restaurant row. Found the recommended Soul Café and had a delicious dinner with superb if expensive Hungarian red wine.

Saturday we headed for the National Museum, which was practically next door. Got caught up in the excellent prehistoric exhibits on the main floor and never managed to get upstairs where the actual history of Hungary exhibits are. We had a really good hot chocolate on the little street between our hotel room and the museum and then headed off down Ráday Utca (the restaurant row street) till we got to the Museum of Applied Art. It wasn’t that we wanted to see the exhibits, but we had seen the building from our taxi and just had to see it up close. It is bizarre—more yellow swirly railings than you’d believe and a dome that defied description. Even Gaudi couldn’t have done anything stranger.

We got a tram on the Great Boulevard, the second of the ring roads (our hotel headquarters and the National Museum were on the Small Boulevard, which is the inner one). We got off at the Oktagon on Andrassy Ut, which is being developed into a high-end shopping boulevard toward town and has very impressive housing farther out that is generally Embassy Row nowadays. We should have descended into the little Metro Line A, which is the oldest subway on the continent of Europe, but hated to use our tickets, so we walked and walked up Andrassy. Finally got to Heroes’ Square and headed for the Museum of Fine Arts. They had some good European art, thanks to the ever-acquisitive Hapsburgs, so though our feet were worn out we enjoyed it. We took the little subway back. It’s amazingly shallow: just one flight of stairs down under the street. Don loved it.

We trudged back to the hotel for a rest and then, as this was the night (Saturday) we had tickets to the concert, we walked back a long way to a Rick-recommended restaurant right behind St. Itsvan’s. It wasn’t too great for food, but the waitress-owner was fun, plopping down on the bench beside Don as a joke and then telling us exactly what we should eat.

We went to the concert, which would have been very enjoyable in a different place. St. Istvan’s is domed and all hard surfaces, which meant really awful acoustics. Two men sang a duet and sounded like a choir because of the echoes. Too bad.

Worn out, we decided to be daring. We hopped on the trolley to our area and didn’t use a ticket. No problem. Decided to save our tickets for subways, which have turnstiles.

That morning we had gone to our hotel headquarters and asked them to telephone the Danube Bend tour place to let them know that we should be picked up on Pushkin Ut rather than at the main hotel site, and they had gladly done so in our presence. So on Sunday morning we ate our late breakfast (it was supposed to be delivered at 8, but was often late) out on the sidewalk and waited for a half-hour for our pickup. Nothing. Finally gave up—at least we hadn’t paid for the tour—and went back in to finish eating at leisure. I was looking through the guidebook to figure out what else to do with the day when there was a commotion and an apologetic young man appeared, admitted by the maids. It was our pickup, who certainly never got the message about where and had been trying to track us down. He managed to convey that we were going to chase the bus, which was waiting out of town, so off we went.

We caught up about 20 miles or so out at a rather strange place that was sort of a jewelry store in the middle of nowhere; obviously the owners hoped that the tourists would buy lots of stuff. We were all shown a video about diamonds and given some coffee, and then we piled into the bus and took off. The very nice tour leader kept up a running commentary in both English and Italian over the microphone as we headed to the northernmost town, Esztergom, which is the birthplace of Hungary’s first Christian king—St. Istvan—and has the country’s biggest and most important church. The church was about all we saw, and it is indeed huge, but it’s neoclassical and 19^th century, so not too exciting. The views from out back (it’s on a hill) were the best part, over the town and the Danube to Slovakia. The bridge between the two was only rebuilt in 2001.

Next we drove back down the road to Visegrad, which we had now driven through in both directions. We turned off the road and drove up and up, with good views of the ruined Citadel but no visit, and stopped at a very nicely designed restaurant obviously built for tour buses. It didn’t look that big, but there were about ten buses and lots of cars parked around. We had a leafy room for our group and ended up sitting with a delightful British couple who were very entertaining company. We stopped for a photo op at a clearing on the way down for more Danube views and photos of the Citadel, then passed the ruins of the royal palace of King Matthias Corvinus—very elaborate Renaissance stuff once, but buried by a mudslide and only excavated in the 1930s. This was the site of the Hercules Fountain, which had wine spouting from lions’ mouths. Matthias knew how to party. It’s now in the National Museum. Again we didn’t stop.

Then on to Szentendre. This town was originally an artists’ colony, and like most such places is now a mass of tourist shops mixed with artists’ studios of varying—mostly low—quality. We wandered for a while and were sucked in by the Marzipan Museum, which was worth every penny of the 400 forint (about $2) we spent. Can you imagine a life-size Michael Jackson in marzipan? A six-foot-long replica of the Hungarian Houses of Parliament? Also Muppets, a huge wedding cake, fairy tale figures and on and on. I think there might have been more worthwhile  things to see in the town, but this was our choice and we don’t regret it.

We all gathered at the boat landing and when it opened piled on. We managed to get seats in the open-air top level and enjoyed the hour or so ride back to the city very much. Best part of the Danube Bend trip. Saw a fair number of people water-skiing, which somehow I didn’t expect on the Danube, plus a number of places with beach houses, and saw Margaret Island, a big park in Budapest.

We had passed a little restaurant in a courtyard near our hotel on Friday night and tried for it but it was closed for Sunday. So we went back to the Soul Café and had another excellent meal.

(Note: Vácí utca is supposed to be the main shopping street and tourist magnet of Budapest, with lots of touristy restaurants, but Rick Steves said so much about it being a rip-off that without thinking about it we never got there at all. We must have walked within a block of it several times, but never saw it. Looking back at Rick’s book, I realize that we missed a number of things—House of Terror, the Great Synagogue, the Great Market Hall, though we were busy all day for four days.)

Next day, Monday, we (smartly) took the tram without using a ticket to Deak Ter and then the little old-fashioned Subway line 1 under Andrassy Ut again. It seems so shallow—you descend only about 20 steps and you’re there. We were headed for the big City Park, which sounded like a marvelous place, but after we’d seen the outside of the castle that was built for the 1896 exposition (in multiple styles) and been amused by it that was pretty much it. The castle is not open to the public, which I didn’t realize. Rick’s big thing about the park is the thermal baths, which he is very enthusiastic about, but Don wouldn’t hear of it. We wandered around for a bit, went back to Heroes’ Square, and found a place for hot chocolate and resting of feet across a street from the Museum of Fine Arts. Took the subway back to do Rick’s Andrassy Ut walk sort of in reverse. We found a pizza place on a side street near the Opera House, but they explained that nobody on the street had any power and they couldn’t serve us. A block away we found a place right across from the opera that had sandwiches and beer, so we sat and enjoyed it—particularly the excellent singing that was pouring out a window from some rehearsal.

We saw the Opera House in a very crowded and expensive tour and were not very impressed. In retrospect, we should have saved our pennies for the Vienna one, which we didn’t get to see. We then went and sat in Franz Liszt Square to people watch for a while, and back Deak Ter to find the railroad ticket office, where we got our tickets for the next day to Vienna.

That night we tried the now-open restaurant in the courtyard down the street and had a perfectly lovely meal. We had used the washing machine in our room and hung clothes on the Ikea drying rack, so we were all fresh and ready to pack.

Next morning we took the Line 2 subway right at our corner to the Eastern train station. We discovered on this trip that train stations are, not surprisingly, much less attuned to the tourist than airports—almost never any signs in English or any English-speaking people. And though I tried a little, I was not successful at learning much (read “any”) Hungarian or Czech. This makes the train stations a little nerve-racking. Even with our tickets we were uncertain where to go. A porter took charge of us, but when we went to tip him he didn’t want forints, he wanted Euros, which we didn’t yet have. He had been nice at first, but wasn’t now. I finally dumped my forint change into his hand and we told him that was it. Tough.

The train was quite luxurious: I think we had accidentally gotten a fancy one by pointing to a certain time. Certainly when we took a creaky old one from Vienna to Brno it was much, much cheaper.

The Vienna train station was luckily the one quite near our hotel. All these larger cities seem to have at least three train stations, and it’s really guesswork to figure out where you’re going to arrive or depart. We got some Euros and headed out. Found the Pension Hargita okay and checked in, to find that our room was really a single room with a trundle bed. Rick goofed, and we should have objected to the size. There was really no excuse for putting two people in there. The bed was wedged sideways into a niche, with the trundle extended into the room, so Don had to climb over me to get in and out and I had no headboard to lean against because the window was behind me. We had to take turns dressing because of no room. It was also up two very long flights of circular stairs (but worse was to come in that respect in Prague).

We found a fast-food fish place just down the street for a good lunch and then hiked into the part of the city within the Ringstrasse. We followed Rick’s city walk, which was good but very tiring. It started at the Opera and covered most of the landmarks and big shopping areas. We liked what we saw of the city and were eager to explore more. Began to wish we had brought the old city walks book that Portia had lent us—it goes into great detail and would have been a help even though it’s 20-odd years old. We did go into the great St. Stephen’s Cathedral, which is the center of Vienna and quite impressive. When we had finished Rick’s walk we tried to deal with the metro, but didn’t understand that the line right outside our hotel veers to the left before it reaches the Ring and therefore couldn’t figure anything out with the ticket machines, so we just went back to the street and walked home. Whew! We staggered over to an Italian restaurant that we could see from the hotel window for dinner. It was passable. The guidebooks said there were lots of restaurants in this area, but they seemed to be heavy on the fast food and not much else.

That night I had a thought. “We’re going to be here three more days,” I said. “We can just get three-day transit passes and do whatever we want.” Excellent idea, Don thought. We both felt better. Hadn’t realized that the pass would work in our time frame—the next option was six days and we didn’t need that.

We had opted out of the hotel breakfast at five euros each, so in the morning we backtracked to, of all things, McDonald’s up the street a couple of blocks. We both had fresh orange juice, Don had an Egg McMuffin and yogurt, and I had a McCroissant (with ham and cheese) and cappuccino. We were both happy and it cost way less than hotel—a little over six euros for the two of us.

Then we essayed the metro right at the hotel and actually managed to buy two passes from the machine.

Our first object was the Kunsthistorische Museum—the big art place on the Ring. It was staggering. Esthetic overload. We went through several miles of Italian painting, including Don’s beloved Canaletto, stopped for a refreshing hot chocolate and pastry in the center of the museum, and went on to the northern European stuff. A whole room full of big Breughels. Van Eycks. Vermeer. Everybody. The Hapsburgs were champion collectors.

We reeled out in a state of exhaustion, wishing we could just lie down and take a nap and then keep going later. We could not take in another painting and our feet were dead. Now what to do for lunch? We gazed around for a restaurant, but nothing was in sight. Then I realized that there was a sausage stand right in front of our noses. Go native. The menu was on the side of the trailer, so I asked for zwei hot-dog bratwursts and zwei Cola Light. The guy nodded, asked something I didn’t get, and then pointed to a ketchup bottle. Don said yes, I said no. He took two foot-long buns, cut an angled bit off one end of each, and rammed them down on a very phallic-looking contraption to warm. Then he took them off, squirted mustard in both and ketchup in Don’s, and inserted the big brats in the hole from the warmer. Put the lids back on, and handed them over. They were delicious; we sat on a nearby bench to eat and watched the Ring traffic and trams while facing the Hofberg.

No more walking. We boarded a tram to do Rick’s circle tour of the Ring, which required one tram change and was very interesting. Look right. Look left. Look right. Look left. Good way to get a small sense of the center. With a considerable sense of triumph, we managed to get the metro back to the hotel with no trouble at all. After a rest, we went back in on the metro and found one of Rick’s recommended restaurants and had a nice dinner—outside and a bit chilly, but fine.

Next day we tackled the Hofberg—the giant Hapsburg palace, which takes up half of the Ring area and consists of many, many buildings. We particularly wanted to see the Ephesus Museum in the new building (new is a relative term—I think it’s 19^th century) because we’ve been to Ephesus four times now and have seen the work of the archaeologists. The museum was deserted and marvelous—wonderful statuary and objects very well explained. We got a bit confused at some large photographs made by a prominent photographer, blown up from his book, and finally decided that no matter what the dignity of the museum, the photo was printed backwards. Wished we had some of our pictures to compare—it seems so unlikely that they would goof.

We walked over to the grand neo-gothic city hall on the Ring, which has a very large food court in its front yard. It was confusing, with options that we didn’t understand, but we finally settled for a beer and something recognizable—I forget what. We had really intended to come back to the Hofburg to see the library and the musical instrument museum that afternoon, but ran out of steam. So we walked around a lot of little streets, still wishing we’d brought Portia’s walks book, and found various landmarks and squares, and even the small clock museum that I’d wanted to see. We bumped into a tiny Romanesque church, not knowing what it was, and found later that it is the oldest in Vienna. Unfortunately it was locked, but we walked all around it. It all made for a very nice afternoon.

That night we followed Rick’s directions to an area that had lots of restaurants between our hotel and the Kunsthistorische Museum. Got thoroughly confused. We went into one that was cavernous, with lots of young people watching sports on TV, and didn’t really like the people who were trying to seat us, so we walked out and went around a corner into another place. Stood in the entrance for quite a while being ignored, though there was plenty of room, until finally a nice patron got up and told us just to sit down wherever we wanted. So we did, and a waiter promptly came and served us. Who knew? Yes, that’s the way diners and fast food places work at home, but not restaurants, and we hadn’t encountered it in Europe either.

Next day we headed to the far side of the Ring with the aim of seeing the Secession building and the Museum of the History of Vienna. The area—Karlsplatz—was one with dozens of wide boulevards swirling with traffic going fast, with many expressway signs but not much help for pedestrians. It was fine to have a map, but very hard to see where you were on the map. We finally managed to find the Secession, which is the building created by the avant garde artists early in the 20^th century. It was terrible controversial at the time, but actually it looks rather normal now, except that it has a huge globe of gilded laurel leaves on top. I noticed that it had been much fixed up since the photo in Portia’s Vienna Walks book. We went in and descended to the basement to see Gustav Klimt’s famous Beethoven mural creation, which was largely blank walks with figures and Art Nouveau patterns occasionally. It was fairly impressive, if strange. Then we tried some things on the upper floors—little partitioned-off spaces with short films in each one. Way too avant garde for us. Joked with a couple of British ladies about how much we had paid for how little: we were more or less satisfied, but they clearly weren’t.

Then we looked for the Museum of the History of Vienna (Vien Muzeum Karlsplatz). Again, total confusion about what boulevard we were on, or crossing, or coming to. We were at Karlsplatz, with all the highways swirling around it, but where was it? (Found that Portia’s book of walks had excellent little maps and directions—after I read it again back home. We really should have brought it.) While we were standing, bewildered, on a corner I looked across diagonally and saw some sort of odd sign on top of a biggish building. We headed for it, and indeed, it was the right place. Only after we had seen most of the museum did we understand the oddity of the sign on the roof, which as I faintly recall had the words cut off—something like MUZE instead of MUZEUM. There was a special exhibition by a lot of artists going on, with many installations, and the museum was using it to dramatize the fact that they badly need a new building. It was called 2020 or something like that, and included a sign half blocking the entrance, a collapsed wall on the second floor that Don thought was a major problem until a docent told us it was part of the exhibit, and a few other weird things. I hope they made their point.

Anyway, the museum was fascinating. On the first floor they had the original stained glass windows from St. Stephen’s, which were gorgeous, plus lots of the statues from the church too. On the second floor there was a huge model of Vienna, very well done, plus all sorts of artifacts. We stopped midstream for hot chocolate in the café, then continued until we had seen it all. Excellent place.

The Academy of Fine Arts, which we had wanted to see because it has a terrific painting collection, is in restauro and closed to the public. Oh, well. Time for lunch. The only place we had seen was something called Arts Café, a big and I think rather famous place, but Don took against it and we wandered looking for something else. The only thing we could find was—dear me—MacDonald’s on a big square. So we again ate at Mickey D’s—something we had managed to avoid on our whole trip across the U.S. in an earlier year. It wasn’t that bad.

Then, feeling very competent, we got on the proper tram and went out from the center to the Belvedere Palace. We went in by the big gate; there was a driveway going off to the right and a path off to the left; the upper palace was directly in front of us, but sideways. No sign for the entrance. We took the driveway and walked all the way around the very large palace finding no door. Finally found the entrance at the corner by the path, but the sign leading to it was conveniently placed around the corner so you couldn’t see it until you walked up the path. If we had gone ten feet in the right direction we would have saved a quarter mile in the wrong direction. The palace was built by Prince Eugene of Savoy, who was rejected as small and ugly by Louis XIV, so offered his services to the Hapsburgs and being a military genius won all sorts of major battles for them, becoming extremely rich in the process. No heirs, so the state got his property and it became Austria’s first public art gallery.

The views over the gardens were really wonderful from the first (second) floor, despite the persistent drizzle. Don took photos without even being reminded. The views over the city are grand, too—the palace is on a gradual rise and is unexpectedly rather high up. And the palace itself is very ornate and impressive.

But the art was greater. Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, and so on, plus an impressive collection of Klimt, who is something of an acquired taste but I began to like him. The artist who really blew me away, however, was Egon Schiele, whom I had never heard of and who died in the flu epidemic at the age of 28. His portraits are absolutely astonishing. He also did a lot of rather distorted and erotic nudes that I could do without, but the landscapes and portraits are marvelous.

We got the tram and subway back and had our usual rest. Don had decided we should go back to the Rick Steves-recommended restaurant inside the Ring for dinner, but when we got there it was totally full. We then picked another Rick choice and went up and down the street looking for it without any success. God knows where it was, but it certainly wasn’t visible at the address he gave—or at least, though we were on the proper street, we couldn’t find the number he listed. After a half-hour’s search Don was in a fine temper. We spotted an entrance to a totally unknown restaurant and I said “Let’s try here—we’re hungry.” We peered in, were welcomed and seated, and had a delightful meal. Don calmed down.

Next morning we checked out of the inadequate hotel without regret, but wishing that we could stay longer in Vienna. We managed the metro to the Ring and the same tram we had taken for the Belvedere which went on to the proper train station, and set off for Brno. Don had insisted on Brno in order to see the Tugendhat Villa, a Mies van der Rohe masterpiece and the only tourist attraction in the town. I had fished around for a hotel in a borrowed guidebook and found one in the center of town—more expensive than we’d like, but it was only one night. After a bumpy train ride we arrived in a hopelessly confusing station. Finally found an ATM to get koruna instead of euros. Went out front, Google map in hand, and couldn’t figure out where we were from the map—trolley lines, cab stands, hills, streets going off in three different directions. We took a cab. Big mistake: not yet understanding the money we got royally ripped off.

But the hotel was very nice, and I had the happy thought of asking them to reserve a table for us in the hotel brew pub/restaurant that night. We unpacked, then asked at the desk how to get to the Tugendhat. The desk woman gave some rather confusing instructions about trams (we certainly didn’t want to risk a cab again), we found the tram stop and a little kiosk that sold us tickets, and with the help of a transit map and a friendly young man who had a tiny bit of English, actually got on the right tram. We got off at the right stop.

We walked up the long hill to the Tugendhat Villa, which had a nice sign out front saying “open Wednesday-Sunday” just as the internet and the guidebooks had said. This was Saturday. It was padlocked. Since the entrance is just a plain concrete and iron fence with a concrete patio, there was nothing to see. We rang the bell over and over, pounded on the gate, and cursed. No luck. And this was the only reason we’d come to Brno.

Disconsolate, angry, and hungry, we walked back down the hill to a little courtyard snack place we’d seen on the way up. The young lady said they only had pancakes; we said fine. We told her our sad story and she and the young man were very sympathetic, but it was still a bad deal. We took the tram back to the hotel and then wandered around the main town square, found a very pretty old church to look at, and rejected the idea of going to the not-much-recommended castle up the hill. We’d had it. Don said later on that we should have made a big thing at the hotel desk about the closed Tugendhat; maybe they could have arranged for a tour. We always think of such things too late.

At least dinner was fine, our table was in a nice niche, and we each had two enormous Czech beers to console ourselves. The young waiter tried to teach us how to say “thank you” (my effort at the phonetic guidebook listing was not comprehensible), which sounded like a sneeze. We never did get quite how to say it. Next morning we managed a tram to the train station, with some difficulty found the train (they listed the platform and the track as two different numbers, which we didn’t understand, and also the train was way late), and went to Prague.

The extremely modern station in Prague was baffling for a bit, but with a map we managed to get on the right Metro to get to the Little Quarter, or Mala Strana, across the river where our hotel was. We got off the Metro and were again stymied. Outside in the road there were two tram lines going in opposite directions, and we didn’t know which one. Don went across the big street to see if the sign over there was a map. As I stood there with the suitcases, a middle-aged man in a blue sweater with about as much English as I have Czech asked if he could help. I said “Mala Strana?” and he indicated that all around us was Mala Strana. He hadn’t heard of the hotel, saying “many hotels,” but when I said Charles Bridge he pointed to the right. Then he went out in the road and stood in the middle of the track, pointing down at it, to show us which one to take. Bless his heart. Don came back, we thanked the man profusely, and got on the tram, which took us the two stops to the right street. Had, of course, difficulty finding which was the right street off the big square, but we finally trailed down the hill and found the hotel.

It’s an odd hotel: the Charles Bridge Residence. There’s no front desk, and the door is kept locked. The young manager has an office on the top floor opposite our room, and luckily he was there—he isn’t always. We trudged up and up and up; we were on the fifth floor and there is no lift. Since I was hobbled by my arthritic knee and an unexplained swelling of the opposite foot, this was something of a problem. The room, however, was magnificent, very large and well-appointed with simple décor and a beamed ceiling. There are only two rooms per floor; it’s a tall, narrow row house of great antiquity that has been beautifully converted, but it really does need an elevator.

After unpacking we wandered around and went down to look at the famous Charles Bridge. It is, of course, in restauro, but is quite beautiful as a sculpture garden and a medieval structure, with towers on each end and beautiful views of Castle Hill and the river. All pedestrian.

We decided to eat at a Rick-recommended restaurant in Mala Strana and passed several embassies to get to it. Seems all the embassies are here because it is just below the castle where the government still is housed. The restaurant was almost deserted except for a sizeable party of Germans who were keeping the sole waiter busy, but we got our very good Czech beers and decided that we’d go native and order what we had read was the national specialty: dumplings.

Don had goulash, which featured a plate swimming in gravy with six circular dumplings that looked and tasted like undercooked Wonder Bread. I ordered what was called a filet mignon, fully expecting that it would be more like Swiss steak, as it was. A small slab of meat rested in a sea of gravy. It was topped by a thin slice of cheese, and on top of that was—the killer—a circle of sweetened whipped cream. Let me be the first to assure you that much as I normally love whipped cream it goes with neither steak nor beer. I scraped it off. We both made a stab at the dumplings, but were defeated. Not our best meal.

Next morning we ventured across the Charles Bridge into the old town. We got into the square just in time to see the striking of the famous astronomical clock, which is indeed a thing to behold. It would be impressive enough as a present-day thing, but it’s several hundred years old, and how they did it is a mystery to me. The square is very nice, with a big monumental statue of Jan Hus in one quarter, but for some reason they have allowed booths selling gewgaws and food to spread all over. They are clearly designed to match each other, and we found when we went up in the old Town Hall tower later in the week that they are arranged in a pattern, but they look trashy. Plus at least one of them is a food place that puffs out big black clouds of smoke all day.

Truncated summary of the rest of the trip: Tram to castle area. Monastery at top. Great views. Walk with RS guidance to castle itself. Changing of the guard. Cathedral—very good one. Chaotic ticket buying experience for cathedral, utter confusion as if it were the first time they’d done it. Gothic Hall along one side of courtyard. More views. Long walk down the hill—very bad idea with bad knee and foot. We should have taken another tram. I was badly crippled up for the rest of the trip. Lunch at metro stop place at bottom of hill. Crowds. Mucha Museum, pretty good. Italian restaurant one night when we couldn’t find RS restaurant despite 45 minutes of searching. Good ice cream place. More crowds. Prague is really full of people, even though this was not high season. Went up in tower of Old Town Hall and loved it after way too many stairs (and then discovering that one of the two lifts worked after all—the sign was badly placed). Island under Charles Bridge—residences and restaurants. Long park near us along the river with paths and modern art, where we watched a photo shoot of a model with some of the really strange statues. Tram to see Frank Gehry’s “Fred and Ginger” building—terrible place. Tram back to Mala Strana. Lennon Wall near the park, where after John’s death everybody grafittied comments and signatures (“Give peace a chance”), which the communists would paint over every night and everybody would repaint the next day. Had one dinner at the place next to wall called John and George. I wanted concert in old church—Don didn’t. Garden in Mala Strana with weird wall of grotesque objects and nice statues. Not really enough in Prague for us to fill five days. Discovered on our last evening that our hotel manager could have arranged a day trip to Cesky Krumlov, which we had badly wanted to see but thought was too difficult to get to. Damn. Should have read the brochures in the room. We’re so used to do-it-yourself that it didn’t occur to us and though that because I had checked out public transit we had done all we could.

Our flight was at the crack of dawn, so we had to be there at 4:00 a.m. Of course the hotel had no desk, so we managed to set the alarm clock provided and met the driver called by the hotel (who Don was sure would not be there to meet us). Long drive to airport way out of town, deserted airport at that hour, another long layover in Heathrow, and home.

In retrospect: Should have cancelled Cheapo Air after BA flight to Budapest was cancelled and gone through Frankfort instead of Heathrow. Too much time traveling and hanging around Heathrow in both directions. Should have spent at least five days in Vienna. Might as well have skipped Brno; should have gone back to hotel and made a stink about Villa Tugendhat. Should have spent four days in Prague, not five, and should definitely have taken day trip to Cesky Krumlov. But it was basically a good trip, new experiences, saw stuff that was memorable.