...or, a broken leg--the gift that
keeps on giving...
 |
| P. on the left |
When I landed in the hospital with a
broken leg back in February, I was unable to use five of our
pre-purchased opera tickets. We decided to give them to friends who
might be interested in attending the opera in my place.
Me out of the hospital a few weeks
later and Road Buddy gets an email from P, who had used one of the
opera tickets, asking if she and I would be interested in going to
his “ashram” in the Prague suburbs, as a kind of thank you for
the opera ticket, to eat sushi and meet his friends and fellow yoga
enthusiasts. I found the prospect intriguing since I had studied yoga
back in my university days in the 1960s and have practiced it, on and
off, ever since. However, being on crutches with limited mobility I
was a little reluctant and had R.B. ask P about stairs and distance
from the station, etc. He said there were some stairs to get to the
basement kitchen and it was about a “10-minute walk” from the
station (20+ on crutches I discovered). I decided to go and told R.B.
to respond with a joke: “Tell him that I broke my leg while doing
yoga!” and to accept the invitation. He agreed to meet us at our
apartment and show us the way.
So, an ASHRAM in the Prague suburbs?
** Traditionally,
an ashram
(Sanskrit/Hindi:
आश्रम)
is a spiritual hermitage...
today the term ashram
often
denotes a locus of Indian cultural activity such as yoga, food, music
study, etc.
 |
| saying grace, meditating... |
It
is in this secondary, more modern sense that the Prague suburban ashram we
visited should be understood. It is lodged in an ordinary suburban
house originally designed for three families and modified for use by
the members who all practice yoga. The house is owned (on a mortgage)
by a few of the members headed by P, and the others pay a modest rent
for room and board. They share the large kitchen in the basement and
live as a kind of large family. This is also a financially
advantageous arrangement since salaries for younger people are not of
the extravagantly generous variety in the Czech Republic and many
young people, I learned, share houses and rooms to economize.
 |
"the missionaries" and friends
and road buddy's hand |
This
party was an opportunity to meet many new people. Three of them were
Korean women who came as guests of P. Getting acquainted we decided
to play a guessing game to determine precisely what these three
ladies were doing in Prague. Yes and No Questions delving into the
more obvious occupations yielded zero. They weren't associated with
government, business, students or language teachers, nor did they
practice yoga. Finally the idea of religion came into my mind and I
asked if they were associated with a church. They admitted that they
were. Eureka, “You're missionaries!”, I said. Yes, they were, and
proceeded to try and convince me of the uniqueness of their church.
It sounded like it was an offshoot of Christianity that wanted to
restore the position of the female to the godhead (lot's of mention
of the “Mother”). This is, of course, heresy to the patriarchal
nature of Christianity--it probably gives the clerical hierarchy
nightmares of the return of pre-monotheistic Astarte worship and
temple prostitution. Oh, horrors! But they were perfectly charming
and delightful proselytizers. I didn't have the heart to burst their
bubble.
 |
| the man with two passports and friends |
I
assumed that another young man who stands out in my mind was a Czech
national. I was saying to P that I was surprised to find that
everybody, who I assumed were Czechs, spoke English quite well and
there were little handwritten signs about the kitchen like: “Please
keep this area dry.” and “ Please clean up the stove when you
finish cooking.” P said not all the members were Czech, some were
foreigners, that English was their common language and then pointed to the young man across the table from me.
It
turned out that he had two passports and alternated them to get
around the three-month limit tourist visa in Schengen countries.
When I asked him why he had two passports—and what were they, by
the way?—he told me the story. He held Argentinean and Israeli
passports. His parents were Jewish Argentineans who emigrated to
Israel when they were in their twenties. “So,” I said, “You're
a sabra! Were you born on a kibbutz?” He said, “No, I was born
in Jerusalem! “Oh, a city boy,” said I. “What are you doing
here?” I asked. He said he liked to travel and had studied yoga in
Romania and was now a teacher here in Prague. Where to next? Who
knows?
Thinking
about that, it occurs to me that that could be the motto on my own
coat of arms: “Where to next. Who knows?”
 |
| more friends |
Photos courtesy of my friend Tomoko.
**
Wikipedia
A couple days ago I posted this grab from my computer
on Facebook and my sister-in-law commented that I looked sad.
I got the full invalid treatment with
wheelchairs and quick check in and security. One small moment of
anxiety at the Prague waiting lounge; the attendant seemed to be late
picking me up and taking me to the boarding gate so we started to
leave on our own, crutches and all. But, just as we were leaving the
lounge the man showed up and wheeled me to the gate. At Incheon, the
wheelchair person was a very attractive and charming young woman. Again, in
Okayama I got wheeled out quickly through Immigration into a waiting
taxi and so to bed--slept a full 12 hours. Kudos to our travel insurance company. 
