A naïve path carries me through the Castle Courtyard. I barely notice the lights go out; the tunnel that was once in the distance is covering me now. All feet have stopped and all chins are pointing up. All eyes are instantly drawn up by the unannounced appearance of a gracefully massive gothic construction, and higher still to peaks nearly touching the top of the sky. I blink.
A Honey, I Shrunk the Kids complex sweeps over me. Just as quickly I am inside the fanny-packed parish, my eyes darting about without any effort. I have not yet been able to control my breathing. I make the choice not to mind.
“Oh, wow.”
“Oh…WOW.”
The high altar catches me first and stops me like a brick wall would. I can hear the rustling of the contents of the tombs and relics buried below my feet and I can feel the parishioners celebrating the Czech spirit. I can feel 750 years worth of celebration. My altar pictures are coming out blurry. All pictures I’ve ever seen of this place have a lack of crispness. I understand why now, I understand that this cannot be captured by a soul-less device. I have been standing here for ten minutes now and I have yet to make sense of it.
Now I’m in front of the Art Nouveau windows. They had waved me over and I can see why— they have nearly as much to offer as the altar. There is a story in the art on these windows that tells of the fathers of Slavic-style Christianity. I have read about it over and over, first as a teenager and again last night, but all of it escapes me now. I forget about remembering and painlessly allow the art to be a joy to behold.
My eyes are on the ceiling now. Stained glass decorations pull me in and hold me tightly. A strong, conscious effort is all that saves me from spending the rest of my visit eye-locked there. I glance back at the sites I have seen and study them carefully so as not to forget. My heartbeat and breathing entwine themselves into a meditation and I forget briefly where I am and where I am going.
Heavy steps to the door. And then I’m out.
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