Baden-Baden > Stuttgart > Prague > Home
Brenners Park Hotel is everything I remember, down to the green and white striped awnings. Of course, it is winter, so I take coffee by the fire in the Kamillehalle. The hotel kindly upgraded my room when I extended my stay, and my room overlooked the main courtyard. I do love mansards. It is cheerful and roomy.
The spa facilities are as you would hope/expect. Tasteful, tranquil and scrupulously clean. I love the UK, but I cannot for the life of me fathom why all of the cellar/basements wreak of excrement in a way that European countries often (not always, but more than not) manage to avoid.
I have dinner twice at Fritz and Felix (named for the deep abiding friendship between the fox and hare) and both nights the food is lovely. The sour dough bread and chive butter alone...well.
The first day out, I have coffee and strudel at Böcker in the old town centre. It is buzzy and efficient, the strudel solid. I have a hot chocolate and it is all I could want, but the atmosphere is a bit impersonal. I take a short hike in the rain, and take in a couple of small exhibits, then tuck myself into bed early. The next day, another walk, tea and strudel at Café König, which is more atmospheric and seems to prefer the candy floss colours and faded grandeur of the Belle Epoque. I am in bed by 11pm.
The breakfasts at the hotel are exquisite but I tend to not want to speak to people first thing in the morning, so much so that - at home - I take coffee in my bedroom so I can be awake and verbal after my required solitude. I like to choose my food and table service makes me feel pressured and judged. Too many choices, too short is time. 'Salmon with your avocado toast.' 'No, thank you. The poached egg.' 'Salmon.' 'Poached egg.' It always begins to feel a bit like a stand-off brewing, before the server relents and I can slump back in relief. I love being surrounded by the language but it takes me about twenty seconds after an exchange for me to have organised my words. My German is still that of a 4-year- old, drunk on comraderie and bewilderment.
I almost stay an extra night so I can book treatments - I didn't actually get around to having any, which is deeply ironic, given that I came to hike, take the waters and spa hard. Ultimately, I've traveled several hundred miles to sleep and think. Could I not do that in England? I mean, there is more to it than that and yet...my bones don't ache here, my frazzle is softened.
Instead, I make my way to Stuttgart. I debate about whether to cruise past Robinson Barracks and the hospital but that almost feels too much like torture. I want be back but not to traumatise myself. And ultimately, it is more about making the trip we had joked/planned and spending that time. The last solo trip I had with my parents was when we went to Marathon Island and Key West, 2008, I think And i miss that kind of time with them. I mean, I still have it with them because we talk every damn day, but it isn't the same, reaching across spectral planes. I know how altering the past can go wrong, so I don't wish for that but I do long for them.
In Stuttgart, I debate about where to stay and opt for the Hotel Zuckerfabrik (€115, including breakfast). The hotel is stylish without being overly fussy and only 10 minutes walk from the U-bahn, though I do opt for a taxi initially, to get my bearings. It's ideally located for the State Theatre collections and storage. Again, the ease of travel is comforting. U-bahn tickets can be purchased through the SSB or VVK app as individual tickets or extended stay passes. My round trip into town is the same cost as a day pass at €5.30.
I walk around the Christmas Market and the centre and see what the phlebotomist means...in the last 30 years, the change is...startling. I can't say for better or worse. But there is a lot of it, in stark contrast to a city like Baden Baden or Rothenburg ober Tauber, that has actively capitalises on its attributes. Of course, Stuttgart is the home of Porsche and Mercedes-Benz, which have always been cutting edge, and that kind of mentality...it can honour and challenge heritage. As it should. Yin and Yang.
The Christmas Market is heaving with people. I treat myself to a schnitzel sandwich and wander around, choosing a couple of small gifts for the kiddos. It is quiet as I walk back to the hotel.
The train connections from Stuttgart Nuremberg to Schwandorf and on to Prague are smooth and I remember why I chose to take the train through Schwandorf, as opposed to the route DB kept trying to encourage (through Cheb). The train from Regensberg takes 4 hours; from Schwandorf, 3 1/2 and the landscape is charming: dense forest familiar architecture. I laugh with my parents as I remember how our house in Kaltenbrunn would shake when Reforger was in full force, artillery fire reverberating. Very occasionally, there would be a misdrop, including a jeep. 'The look on his face,' my other gasps between laughter. I think about Gäuner, our mad dachshund and how he and Sinatra the cat would torment field mice, about long summer days exploring both Bad Windsheim and Kaltenbrunn, feeling like Indiana Jones closing in on the grail.
The couple in my coach are from Kazakhstan and we chat briefly over coffee. The woman hands me an exquisitely wrapped chocolate bar. 'From our country. You will come and visit.' Their son is studying at the Economics School and loves the city. I smile. I love when people love Prague, not just on the surface. When they love the idiosyncrasies and stubborn resolve that powers the city. And the Czech deep appreciation of the absurb and bizarre. As we near Plzen, we pass a lone platform and I think about
I stay at a friend's flat near Narodni Divadlo, but if I were staying at a hotel, I would probably stay at Hotel Mosaic or their sister Moo. The breakfast is gorgeous and you really can't beat it for location. Although, I am a bit sentimental about the Hotel Imperial, even if I find the renovated dining room stilfling and there isn't jazz improv on Sundays. A 24 hour metro ticket is 120kc, however Prague is still one of the most walkable cities.
My trip is two-fold: a check-in with a long standing Czech client and scattering more of my parents' ashes. I walk for hours along the river, walking past a few old haunts. In Malestanska, I find earrings for my daughter (maybe a pair for myself) at Alé Alé, so reminiscent of Pavel Janék, one of my favourite architects and designers, I am almost giddy. I mention why I love them to the clerk and she smiles. 'My mother is the designer; she will be so happy you know her influence!'
I cross back over the river, doubling back towards the Philharmonic and my old Literature Faculty, in to Old Town and the City Gallery. I was heading towards the Black Madonna (one of my favourite Cubist buildings) but I find myself just letting my feet take charge. The trip was so spontaneous (for me) that to adhere to habit feels counterintuitive. Besides, I will be back more often, I think to myself. It's home, in so many ways. At a vintage pop-up, I score a gorgeous L E M dress, a handknit Fair Isle pattern cardigan, and a gorgeous pair of navy gauchos that both the daughter and I can wear. At Digger I find a gorgeous black lamb jacket and have a chat about the transitions in the second-hand market.
I head back towards Narodni Divadlo, debating whether to go to the theatre or not. I have such an early flight and though I have slept and slept, I am antsy. If I were a rabbit, my nose would be twitching in apprehension, my paw ready to start thumping. I opt for a quiet night sketching and listening to the fourth book in the Lisbeth Salander/Millennium series, remembering reading the 1st book in one night, starting on the Tube, pregnant with my daughter. I pause in my sketching to remember how I discovered Janet Evanovich just down the road at the Globe, after they moved from Prague 7, and I smile at how books continue to shape my world and the worlds of people I love, at how fortunate I am to have this life that has given me such a rich palette to work with, even if the weight of being sometimes feels to be crushing my bones. Ultimately, we are all dust, I think the next morning, as we taxi onto the runway, behind our masks and expectations, the triumphs and small failures that imprint themselves on our DNA, in the crooks of a smile.
And how quickly time and geography can move: in 3 hours, I will be having brunch with my Archives Co-hort at Kings Cross, then lunch at F&M's Royal Exchange outpost with former colleagues. In 7 hours, I will be home, with my littles. It's a strange world that we can move through our many selves with the speeding twirl of a revolving door.
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