photos

This is the only photo I took in Prague that feels like a 'real' artistic photograph. A temporary tunnel beneath building works, bright winter light creating silhouettes and somehow bouncing around the bodies enough to highlight their footsteps. A suggestion of a cross. Two people walking in stride, at tempo, synchronized yet distinct. Captured. Moving.

Living with a photographer, living with an incredible photographer, you learn to look out for exceptional moments. Trust your instincts. Don't resist the pull. Be led by the impulse. Be taken over by the joy of seeing something beautiful in the world. Show people what you see that they might have missed.

I see every step from Rajska Zahrada to your ground floor apartment. Odd-one-out surname by the buzzer. Long pause. Crutches. Hugging a version of you that was somehow too small. Your favourite photos framed on the kitchen wall. Homemade schnapps. A card from many (not opened until I left as you knew you would cry), a present from me, opened and laid out on your quilt. Later, by message: "Can't wait to wear it in spring."

You were so happy to see me free from many of my old worries. The anxieties and habits and traps that kept me static whilst you moved and grew all those years ago.

You used to take photos of me to show me how you saw me: versions of myself I had yet to apprehend. Tortured poet. Peaceful partner. A musician at home in himself.

You didn't need a camera that day. You knew the journey had let me see myself the way I needed to.

Originally posted on 24th January 2024

coffee

I spent my first full day in Prague by myself, exploring the city under bright, white clouds that mirrored the crunchy snow on the streets. Power cables and sculptures. Delicate ironwork. Wide roads. Alleyways. Street art passages scary and inviting. Trams to dodge. Phrases to practice.

You shared a list of 28 places we could go to if it was possible. Gathered, researched, wished for. I didn't want to go to them alone, so stumbled upon others instead and took photos. I reviewed the coffee, cake and atmosphere of every one; shared them in real time, listing brewing methods, farms, countries, roasts, tasting notes, decor, music, staff moods and movements.

The best photo that day was of a coffee set in the second café. It also had the best coffees and became the one place I visited daily.

When you live with a barista you remember that small amounts of effort and attention can transform everyday experiences into moments of concentrated pleasure.

I once gave you a book about a man who tried to thank literally everyone involved in making his daily coffee. You didn't enjoy it and told me. I always respect and admire this honesty. Part of it might have been because the book took him out of the moment, away from that mindful, immediate response for what he received. He turned a pause into a journey, a photograph into a movie.

I pledged to take a photo each day of my trip. Distinct moments that now transport me back to specific points in time. Travelling to be still.

Originally posted on 23rd January 2024

anniversaries

Anniversaries confuse me. If we met on a Tuesday, the anniversary should be the Tuesday a year later, because each day of the week has a distinct feeling. But the numbers make me follow rules, so:

I arrived in Prague a year ago today on a Sunday evening. Snow covered the fields and paths near the airport. A Czech man taking a holiday home from Bristol guided me to the tram and kept me company into the city: got me to a stop one minute from my hotel. The air was cold, but drier than the humid chill of Welsh winters that used to make my chest wheezy before garlic soup cured it. I took deep breaths and didn't rush to get inside.

After some confusion about payment, the receptionist trusted me to sort it in the morning. I dropped my bag in my room and headed to the nearest pub that looked ike it would have a cheap, limited choice of beer that would get served the traditional, frothy way. My "Jedno pivo, prosím" was so convincing that it garnered a fluent response from the woman behind the bar, at which point I had to admit my Czech accent was now more advanced than my conversational skills and switched to English. It had, at that point, been 7 years since I lived with a Czech. I was there to see her again.

I had three beers (they are tiny when poured this way, after all), some peanuts and a shot of Becherovka as a nightcap, whilst messaging to say I'd arrived.

I forgot how high the bar stool was when I hopped off and almost fell. This made me feel more tipsy than I was. The regulars might have thought the tourist couldn't handle the local spirit, but I knew it well. I was alert. Wired. Cold air: clear mind.

When you live with a traveller (who pops to Berlin for a day cause the flight is the right price if they go via Amsterdam or to Japan because they have to know if it feels the same as the best photographs make it seem) you get used to patience and distance. It's healthy and nurtures trust. But you also learn a precious anticipation for the person being back on the same piece of land as you. Counting minutes til you are in a room and can share the joy of what they discovered and learned. Somehow, in Prague for the first time, I was the person returning.

Originally posted on 22nd January 2024