Impressions of Czechoslovakia.
By Olga Folda.
What can I tell you about this life in Prague? It is all so different from everything at home just as I hoped it would be. I didn’t want to be disappointed. I wasn’t. Perhaps the first thing that came to mind when I stepped off the tiresome train, was that people seemed to be overwhelmingly gallant. You couldn’t possibly get lost, the station men won’t allow it. They seem to love giving directions and repeating them in various intricate ways. When we stepped into the door of the hotel, the Golden Goose Hotel, the whole force seemed to arise—including the elevator boy. It made me think a royal family must be following us in the ceremony. But no, everyone is welcomed as pompously, it seems. Now, I know the secret—it is training—such deep constant training that they do it mechanically. The first time I went into a shop and bought a few crowns’ worth of apples I was shocked beyond expression when I heard the clerks, about four of them, call out to me as I opened the door to go: “Ruku líbám, slečno,” (I kiss your hand, Miss) and then like a shower—one after the other “Má poklona, Má úcta, Děkuju zdvořile,” etc., etc.,
