After six months of being on the road I was taken in by a warm smile from home. Ronny had just moved to Prague to attend Med. School, and I, I was her free loading friend that jumped at the chance of a guided tour through one of Europe’s most beautiful cities. Prague is home to many artists such as Franz Kafka, author of, quite possibly one of the most painfully difficult books to get through, “Metamorphosis”. Although this novella consists of only three chapters, reading it in high school nearly led me to stab myself in the eyes with a fork if it meant I didn’t have to look at it ever again. But aside from its literary feats, Prague nurtures its musicians with a gentle hand.
On any given night, cafes, bars, and pubs alike erupt into a plethora of melodies, feeding the city’s many starving artists. But what most visitors to Prague don’t realize is the hidden city of Bohemia that thrives beneath the one caught on camera. Here the locals legally carry pot in their pants pocket, master quite possibly the hardest language in the world, and, of course, eat steaming plate after plate of roast pork and dumplings.
Before visiting the Czech Republic, I didn’t think there was any country in the world that loved potatoes more than Ireland: I was wrong. Czechs are the creators of some of the best and fattiest food I’ve ever tasted in my life. It was like the entire city put up this front of being cold, unsociable, and unfriendly just so they could save all the good stuff for themselves. Like that little old lady in the market line up practically burning a hole through the back of your head, was all because you grabbed the last ripe tomato.
On my first morning in Prague, I awoke to find the city covered in a light blanket of snow and was forced to bundle up tight before fighting my way out into the cold. Fuelled by our equal passion for fine architecture and even better food, Ronny and I took to the cobblestone. The air was fresh and the chilling sting against my skin reminded me of winters at home. Linked arm in arm we strolled down alleyways, crossed bridge after bridge, and spent the afternoon reminiscing about summers spent together. It was the strangest feeling talking with Ronny, my old friend that I felt I was re-introducing myself to. I was an ocean away from the life I’d put on hold and a million more miles from the person I knew I could be. But, for the weekend, I was home.
On any given night, cafes, bars, and pubs alike erupt into a plethora of melodies, feeding the city’s many starving artists. But what most visitors to Prague don’t realize is the hidden city of Bohemia that thrives beneath the one caught on camera. Here the locals legally carry pot in their pants pocket, master quite possibly the hardest language in the world, and, of course, eat steaming plate after plate of roast pork and dumplings.
Before visiting the Czech Republic, I didn’t think there was any country in the world that loved potatoes more than Ireland: I was wrong. Czechs are the creators of some of the best and fattiest food I’ve ever tasted in my life. It was like the entire city put up this front of being cold, unsociable, and unfriendly just so they could save all the good stuff for themselves. Like that little old lady in the market line up practically burning a hole through the back of your head, was all because you grabbed the last ripe tomato.
On my first morning in Prague, I awoke to find the city covered in a light blanket of snow and was forced to bundle up tight before fighting my way out into the cold. Fuelled by our equal passion for fine architecture and even better food, Ronny and I took to the cobblestone. The air was fresh and the chilling sting against my skin reminded me of winters at home. Linked arm in arm we strolled down alleyways, crossed bridge after bridge, and spent the afternoon reminiscing about summers spent together. It was the strangest feeling talking with Ronny, my old friend that I felt I was re-introducing myself to. I was an ocean away from the life I’d put on hold and a million more miles from the person I knew I could be. But, for the weekend, I was home.
"Then I fell asleep with the strange feeling of wanting to be different from what I am or being different from what I want to be, or perhaps of behaving differently from what I am or want to be." -Anne Frank
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