Bohemia is here. This computer’s dictionary points to it as “a region that forms the western part of the Czech Republic. Formerly a Slavic kingdom, it became a province in the newly formed Czechoslovakia by the Treaty of Versailles in 1919.”
That isn’t worth much as a map to get us here. See how that makes Bohemia sound like a far and distant place. What does it take to get here? Do we fly? Do we go on foot? A bus is perhaps the more convenient. Is it possible to go by bicycle? A motorbike? A train? When we come here, what will we find? What is here?
Every place is only as beautiful as its people. They work exactly the same as we do back home. We find places of wonder. We compare them with what we have back home. A judgment is inevitable though we know this is not really important. The best thing is always to find Bohemia is no better than home, our own neighborhood or barangay, our little space in the big planet.
There is nothing in Bohemia that can not be found everywhere else. But before we came searching for Bohemia, they would have been lost to us, invisible. They show themselves only to people who have been on the road or gone away from home searching for Bohemia only to find it is not a pinpoint place on the planet.
There is no large arrow flying over a map to show us where Bohemia is. Bohemia is a secret place that must be searched for despite doubts it will ever be found.
But if ever we do find it, we will find there is nothing in Bohemia worth the journey except the journey itself. Bohemia is addictive. Once the traveler has found Bohemia, there is something of the place that stays close to the traveler’s heart; a listlessness, a disturbing voice, reminding: Do not be too rooted! Keep moving!
Bohemia is a place remembered with the feet. They recall the most unanticipated mishaps. They have been lost before. And then found themselves. And then been lost again. Lost in Bohemia, lost among the multitude of other lost souls, happy resident-natives of Bohemia, its most treasured possessions, its main tourist attraction. Visitors come to Bohemia to walk its streets. And so, to be lost themselves, to rub shoulders at some cafe where confusing Bohemian poetry is read. And then to hear music strange to their visitor-ears.
But we will know we have come to Bohemia when we find we can look at home from the viewpoint of a stranger. Bohemia is here only to remind us of every place we have ever been. And when we complete the whole circle of our journey we will find, home is not what it used to be. It is better.
Things, once hidden, reveal themselves. And there might as well be flag over a large x, a large arrow pointing to it looking much like a large faded orange balloon with lights spelling out the letters: B, O, H, E, M, I, A.
Bohemia is every place we have ever returned from and every place we are ever going to. It is nowhere and everywhere at the same time. It is a place inside all of us who have ever tasted Bohemian food and watched Bohemian art. In Bohemia we eat and drink at places where we can taste and see Bohemia.
We look at Bohemian art, find out what its artists do to picture what they have seen here, or continue to see. We tell ourselves: So this is what it means to be lost. This is what it means to be happily confused and unsure of anything in the world. See, it is not so scary. It can even be fun.
In Bohemia we rubbed shoulders with other lost souls only to find we can be lost, and then find Bohemia just as easily alone with a book, quiet piano music streaming into our ears, as with our feet. But we must have been to Bohemia to be able to do this well. Come to Bohemia. It is here.