Joy happens more often in memory than in life

The Charles Bridge in Prague was built between 1357 and the early 1400s. Its original statues of noblemen and saints on the balustrade have now been replaced by replicas. (Photo by Walter Foery, 2002)

Memory is selective -- and I am constantly amazed nowadays at what I do remember about my life. And what I don't.

Several threads came together during the past week to emphasize the point.

It began when I watched a travel show on Prague, a city I visited in 2002, about a decade after the fall of Communism in Eastern Europe. It's a beautiful, stimulating and energetic city, striving in those days to hurl itself headlong into freedom and capitalism.

I remember many details of the city -- the Art Nouveau architecture of the Old City (against a backdrop of square, spare, concrete Soviet workers' housing high on the hills). A funicular ride to a luxuriant park with a panoramic view of the city. Shopping in the city's biggest department store with only pointing and hand-gestures as a way of communicating. And staying in a B&B away from the city center: It was a bus ride and a climb up a steep four-block hill to Ron's Rainbow Guest House.

Staying there was my friend Walter's idea, and I agreed. A rainbow flag flew above the door. There was even a rainbow on the toilet lid. The décor was clean and spare with an abundant use of rainbow colors. But I was exhausted every time I walked up that steep hill to Ron's Rainbow Guest House and then had to climb two more flights of stairs to my room.

Yes, I remember that vividly.

And I distinctly remember two meals in Prague. One was outdoors at a restaurant overlooking the city. What I really recall is the view. It was a warm, sunny, relaxed afternoon in an almost idyllic spot. (Walter took the picture above while sitting at our table.)

The other was at an outdoor café at the end of the Charles Bridge (the far end in the image above). It was an intimate setting in an old and crowded part of the city. I have no memory of what we did before or after, or even of what I ate, but I recall sitting there with a good Pilsner while I people-watched. The sunlight was golden yellow. The casually well-dressed Czechs and tourists around me were just going about their lives, enjoying a brief break. I was content to sit, sip my beer and watch --marveling all the while that I was in ancient Prague, so far from home.

A third Prague meal was memorable, but for a far different reason. It was a drizzly night, and Walter and I set out for dinner with no destination in mind. We wandered the Old City. We read menus posted outside several places, and skipped them for various reasons -- too touristy, too elegant, too boisterous.

We stumbled upon a basement restaurant that seemed to appeal. The walls appeared to have been hand-carved out of the rock beneath the city, candles and fresh flowers sat on white tablecloths, the waiters wore ersatz tuxedoes, and -- best of all in those early days of freedom for the Czechs -- the menu was in both Czech and in fractured English.

But it wasn't the meal, which was perfectly fine as I recall, that was memorable. It was the finale. We wanted after-dinner drinks. I looked carefully at the English side of the menu and saw Drambuie listed. I ordered by pointing to it.

Perhaps I pointed to the wrong thing. Perhaps the waiter misunderstood, Perhaps the order got mixed up in the kitchen.

What I got was a chocolate sundae in a parfait glass.

There was no trace of Drambuie in it. But it was a fine chocolate sundae, elegantly served.

Walter, by the way, got the glass of port he had ordered.

Those are some of my Prague memories: Memories enable us to capture what brought us the most joy in our travels -- over and over again. The moments of delight come with traveling, experiencing the new, being surprised by choices, and realizing that customs, like adventures, are not good or bad, just different and sometimes exciting.

Perhaps I would do well to always keep in mind that simple joys can be memorable. That in itself is worth remembering.

More on memory next time.