My life lesson for today: When the town or situation you are in presents no apparent entertainment, you must make your own adventures.
After sleeping most of the sunshine away yesterday, Courtney and I were restless this morning, eagerly showering and ready to leave our dorm. Three steps out of our door, we each made a 180 degree turn and fetched a jacket from our closets: it was freezing outside, and raining with a mild but persistent vigor.
But how can water really hurt two young girls, full of spirit and enthusiasm for exploration? So we headed down towards the zoo, gazing at the swans and (what I think but Courtney disagrees was) storks, and caught the tram after much gesturing to the 80-year-old ticket seller for passes. After a quick stop for chocolate, we found ourselves on the main thorough-fare in town - the road that leads between the town square (the location of the info center and the one McDonalds) and the Tesco (the main grocery store in town). Because it is Sunday, every store on the street was closed, save one. That is how we found ourselves, about thirteen minutes after swan gazing, in a bookstore full of books on science, politics, philosophy, childcare, and tarot card reading... all in Czech.
But as we explored the back recesses of the store, we encountered a small, out of the way corner in which were antique books in every language - tiny, dirty, and fascinating. So I settled down promptly, on the dark floor, and started flipping through the pages of the ancient literary tombs.
It's amazing to me, the history held in a single book. The hands that it pasted through, the shelves it sat on, the pages you find that hold the wrinkles of bygone years. I fall in love with every text that has a message scrawled in a foreign tongue, wondering who was giving and who was receiving and how their lives played out. I marvel at the dates. Courtney and I searched every text we opened, first the front pages and then the back, hoping to catch a glimpse of a (seemingly) prehistoric date, and knowing, finally, that the years 1882 did exist... that there was a time before we were alive... holding in our hands solid evidence of the rift between the British and her American colonies... or a time before the function of the pineal gland was understood.
Sometimes, as teenagers in such a modern world, it is hard to grasp the existence of past generations. In the back of my mind, I know that they once did live, struggle, cry, rejoice, experience the same way that I did... but at the same time, it is just so hard to imagine. Holding those books today (some of which I bought) brought me back to that world. Cemented me into my day and age, a day and age that is only existing because of all of those people in the past, and it put me in a state of wonder.
So as I ran to catch the tram in a downpour, bouncing over tracks and laughing as we climbed aboard at the last moment, I couldn't wait to return to my room, my solitude, and read the book I purchased from 1927. A book that was printed with the warning on the front page to not distribute it anywhere in the American colonies. A book that is a time machine to the past.
I know I'm an idealist and a romantic... but today... today being here was fun.
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