There is a police station just inside the southern gate of this Prague cemetery, perhaps for good reason
, as many guide books will tell you to beware of thieves and pickpockets in the most unusal of places. Several of the crumbling tombs and mausoleums are obviously inhabited by more than ghosts of the Habsberg Empire; just peeking inside a broken window you might see a collection of shopping bags and some sort of rough sleeping accomodation neatly organized next to the partially open crypt. But my heart really started pounding upon hearing the tireless rustle of the magpies scurrying under the ivy like rats, the tough looking widows tending graves, men wandering aimlessly (more aimlessly than an artist?) between the headstones, the noise of the unseen traffic and streetcars filtering through the green light, and the historical sense that you are always being watched by the faces of the living and the dead. It was 10 a.m., broad daylight and I didn't lose my wallet, this time. Imagine what it would be like at midnight after the gates are closed.
