Prague Spring and Summer Thunderstorms

I can't recall the last time I really walked in the rain: remaining so present in the moment, not caring if I made it home drenched, mascara running down my face like the Vltava in this abnormally stormy summer weather.

At one point, she took her shoes off. I watched her walk as her bare feet elegantly stepped one in front of the other in a surprisingly straight line. It was midnight; we’d enjoyed a few glasses of wine and were now walking home in the evening drizzle, stopping at the bridge where Tom Cruise filmed one of his greatest scenes in Mission Impossible.

The first time I met her, it was like reuniting with an old friend. She stepped out of the car, her wide eyes and huge lipstick smile showing a sincere, genuine welcome. This voluptuous woman came near, opened her arms and embraced me, took in the scent of my beach washed hair. It was my first real hug since home. So this was Marcella. I heard she had recently moved back to Prague from California… She spoke to me with such interest and I felt as if I embodied a place she had come to love and miss.

"Ohhh Aimeeeey. It’s nice to meet you! Tell me,” she took her hands from my shoulders, folded them and brought them into her chest, head tilted just a tad. “How is Califvornia? We miss ze ocean, za people, Maleebu. Oh, tell us how is it."

Hi Marcella, nice to meet you too. I wanted to ask her all about Prague. About her life here in the Czech Republic, how she met her French husband, why on earth she moved to California and what made her leave Europe. But we had just met and I knew there’d be time.

While standing at the west end of Charles Bridge in the rain, Marcella vividly described one of Tom’s opening scenes. I was intrigued with this bit of cinema history, but there was something more glamorous about her. With elegance and grace, she swept an arm toward the arches, an arm which lacked only a satin Shirley of Hollywood glove and long cigarette. We had been making our way home from dinner and after missing the tram, Marcella decided it was still nice enough to walk. Every few meters, she would stop. We’d take in the brightly lit sights through the mist while she spoke about the history of this beautiful city and what she loved most about it.

By this time I’d gathered that she also loved Tom Cruise. And Oprah. Chatting at the restaurant, it took me a few minutes to get that one; I just couldn’t quite imagine anyone jumping on couches in an opera house. She was also a drama queen and wasn’t too shy to admit it. I watched in amazement as she spoke with our waiter. I understood only her flirty body language, the dialogue lost on me. But she soon animatedly translated...

"I'm so sorry vwe are so loud,” she said. “I just can’t help that vwe are all just so happy!” To which our waiter admitted quite shyly he was sorry for having to say anything. 

We continued to reminisce about the beach and laughed about how we both would sit in the sand to work out problems with love and life. We agreed that always after a few tears, the waves helped reform us into new women. She told me about the day she decided to teach her children the meaning of “spontaneous.” Flipping a coin meant seconds between heading off to Mexico or San Francisco. And, it was in Los Angeles that she met her husband. Apparently he won her through French cuisine. "It vwas love at first bite."

Closer to home, it began to rain harder. The weather had been unusually unpredictable for summer; thunder, lightning and heavy rain mixed with warm, humid air.

"Those thunderstorms the other night,” my German friend said. “They were so loud, they woke me out of a dead sleep!"

"I know, I could not bvelieve it!” Marcella answered. “I sought ze Russians vwere coming!"

I laughed with the others, but had no idea why… I found Marcella’s last comment rather odd. I assumed it might have had a very dated implication of war, of a Russian invasion of the Czech Republic perhaps, but I couldn’t be sure. Not being a world traveler or history buff and a product of the California school system, I made a mental note to do some research and find the answer for myself. 

I turned my computer on and dried off. I must have learned something from my studies because my first search presented me with the exact answer I was looking for. It was 1968. Marcella couldn’t have been more than 10 years old on August 21^st, when all of Prague woke to an invasion. Soviet tanks had crept into the city early that morning, before the sun ever hit the horizon. In an effort to crush Czech economic and political reform initiatives coined as Prague Spring, nearly 200,000 Russian troops and 2,000 tanks took to the narrow cobblestone streets of the capital city. Wenceslas Square, with the National Museum at the top of the hill, looks now just as it did then. But old photos captured Czech protestors crammed into the city center, sacrificing their safety by standing up to armored vehicles, their barrels pointing at the statue of a patron saint on horseback. And Marcella was there. Maybe not at the rallies, maybe not pleading with Soviet soldiers to leave her people in peace. But she was there.

Oppressive Soviet control lasted until 1991; a very long 23 years. I was seven when the Soviets left the Czech Republic, living a life of impervious predictability; just about the age Marcella was when her whole world changed. And Marcella was in California; enjoying the beach, meeting her husband and starting a family. But she made it home, to her once again beautiful Prague.

I’ll make it back to California too, soon, but for now I think I can make this place my home.  

Comments

Posted on 7/12/2009 by

Laurie Cloward-Cater

I LOVE this story! Marcella sounds great. And thanks for the history lesson.

Posted on 7/13/2009 by

Beth Mitchell

I have tears in my eyes!

Posted on 7/14/2009 by

Phil Mitchell

Excellent story, Amy!!!

Posted on 7/19/2009 by

Mary Smith

... Can I be in the movie when you write the screenplay???.. XOXO

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