The Iron Curtain - Our Part In Its Downfall.

Long ago and in a country far away, my children, your parents changed the world.

In 1989, Jamie was on tour with the band and I was bored.
So I went to a revolution.
I had a nice time.
Then I went home.


That's the short story.
Now for a slightly longer version.

When Jamie went to work in those days, it was for months at a time. The band's world tour was for almost 2 years. I would stay at home and when I wasn't working I would hop on a plane and join him wherever he was, for part of the tour. I'd stay for as long as I could bear it. Then I'd fly back to the UK.

Goodness, touring is boring. Yes, it is. Really. It IS! Long journeys in the tour bus, or lots of time at airports, hanging around waiting for sound checks to be over so we could get back to the hotel. Sitting backstage trying not to eat. And feeling desperately bored in the company of the skeletal trophy girlfriends whose conversation consisted solely of fashion designers and chemical peels.

There were some interesting times too, but those are the subject of another post. Sometime. After I've checked with our lawyers.

So, I was home one December, when a friend, who happened to work as a journalist, rang me up to chat. For a journalist, she was always remarkably oblivious to world events. She mostly relied on me, and the Sun newspaper, to tell her what was going on and point her in the direction of a good story. And since the Sun mostly concentrates on photos of ladies who forget to put their blouses on when they get up in the morning, she mainly just had me. I had studied International Relations for a minor at university, so naturally, I considered myself a Top Expert.

We had a conversation that went like this:

Me: Hi! How's it going?
Her: Great. I've got 2 weeks off! I'm going on holiday.
Me: Yeah? Where are you going?
Her: I'm not sure. Behind the Iron Curtain somewhere, I think.
Me: Really? Where?
Her: I've always fancied Prague.
Me: You know they're about to have a revolution there, don't you?
Her: (impressed) How can you tell?
Me: (knowledgeably) Well, all the communist governments are falling right now. The Czech one is bound to go in the next couple of weeks.

4 seconds of silence whilst she contemplated hard...

Her: Cool! Do you want to come with me?
Me: SURE!

Well, I did tell you I was bored.

So, after long days of waiting in a queue at the Czech Embassy in London for a special visa, which was unaccountably granted us, we were on the British Airways weekly flight to Prague.

The exterior of the Hotel Gulag

The first hotel we stayed in, which was booked through the communist tourist agency, looked like a prison for political prisoners. To this day, I'm not completely certain it wasn't exactly that. There was even piped 'music' and 'news' blasting though a speaker on the bedroom wall at certain times of the day and night. Whether you liked it or not. Elayne the Oblivious Journalist admires the Christmas decorations inside Hotel Gulag

And a large, scary concierge who occupied a small chair near the main door, for no apparent reason other than to scrutinize and intimidate us as we entered and left the hotel. After two nights of misery and several meals of gruel, we tunneled out and dashed across Prague, dragging our suitcases full of shoes, to the unauthorized but swankier International Hotel. Where we celebrated with Slivovitz. And Borcht. Unfortunately, not in that order.

Dorothy celebrating with a bottle of Slivovitz in the International Hotel

The only 'internationals' who ever went to Prague in those days were East Germans and Russians. And spies, obviously. This WAS the Cold War. All our conversations with the Czech people themselves had to be in my stilted schoolgirl German. They were used to Germans, but not British.
A lovely square in the middle of Prague, the city famous for its defenestrations.

Nowadays, Prague has thankfully reclaimed its rightful place as beautiful, cosmopolitan, weekend-destination right in the heart of Mittel Europa and everyone and his dog has been there. But then, it was, excitingly 'Behind the Iron Curtain' and Exceedingly Strange, as this photo amply demonstrates.

A shop window in Prague. This is what all the Chic Czechs were queuing up to buy that year.

We did notice a lot of excited activity in the evenings. Even my friend, Elayne the Oblivious Journalist, noticed. Everyone was on the move. And all in the same direction! They were headed off to Wenceslas Square for the Revolution!

After briefly worrying about what to wear to a revolution (we settled on Sensible Shoes), we followed the crowds and joined in. Students and workers join forces in the Velvet Revolution

We asked someone to translate the slogans on the banners and placards we saw everywhere and had found ourselves shouting. 'Vaclav Na Hrad!' Apparently, it meant 'Vaclav (Havel) to the Castle!' The Castle was the seat of government and they were demanding that Havel be made President. Vaclav Havel, a dissident playwright, was still at that time a political prisoner and the Russians still had Prague in its iron grip, but by the time *WE* left Czechoslovakia he was free and its famous Velvet Revolution was well underway. Havel was voted in as President on 29th December 1989.

Coincidence?
I think not.
Dorothy looking VERY happy about the sensible shoes decision

What's that? You were wondering what Daddy did in the Cold War? Well, he is the reason the Berlin Wall finally fell. Simply everyone in the East wanted to know where to get tinted glasses like Jamie's, and stampeded through the Brandenburg gate.

And that, my children, is your parents' legacy to you.

Havel Na Hrad!