We crossed the Charles Bridge to Mala Strana, also known as “Lesser Town,” from its position on the west bank of the Vltava River. Located on the slopes just below the Prague Castle, its opposition to Prague on the right bank gives it a historic, gritty charm, characteristic of the Lennon Wall, the only place where graffiti is legal in Prague, and the pubs and eateries that line its narrow streets. Each one advertised “traditional Czech food,” which we’d deduced consisted of bread dumplings, goulash soup, and knotty shanks of meat, but we were nevertheless impressed with the abounding oddities of Prague the Lesser.
Outside of the Franz Kafka Museum was the Proudy sculpture, featuring two six-foot mechanical bronze men urinating messages to each other in a pool of water the shape of the Czech Republic. A stroll through nearby Vojan Park netted two-story collages made from actual fruits and vegetables. And in Wallenstein Garen, we were greeted by a flock of peacocks as if in a medieval fairy tale—regal in their purple and green plumage—and in numbers bordering on pigeons at the feet of a bread-tosser in Central Park.
Amidst the startling bray of peacock mating calls, we started the winding trek up to Prague Castle, lined with tempting pay-to-cut-through garden entrances. Needless to say, we took the long way. The last portion consisted of a mile-long ramp, lined with shops on one side and a solid brick wall on the other. The experience did well to transport you to the past, where, as a lowly peasant, you made the trundling journey, a tiny speck trudging toward the towering castle looming above.
“What should we ask the king for?” Courtney asked, though I was too food-deprived to play along. Desperate for calories, we raided the food stalls surrounding the castle’s ticket booth, but not even the three Euro hot dog would quell my saltiness. I wandered the castle in a haze, my attention split between the stained-glass windows in the St. Vitus Cathedral, the vaulted ceilings in the Old Royal Palace, and the tiny apartments on Golden Lane, where a 15th-century herbalist and a castle seamstress were said to live next door. The rooms were sparse but seemed to share something in common: there were tapestries lining the herbalist’s walls and dried garlic hanging from those of the seamstress. The information placard made no mention of romance, but it was fascinating to imagine what would have passed for courtship in Middle Ages Prague.
After the Castle, we had wine at a monastery with a beautiful view of the city. Partly cold, partly averse to fancy things, and generally exhausted, I made for dismal company. What ensued was a conversation about our imagos, the repressed childhood feelings that make it unhappy and unfulfilling to be adults. You know, the usual romantic stuff.
It was our last day in Prague before taking a night train to Budapest. We had just enough time at the station to use our last Czech kroners on instant oatmeal, water, and power bars. The food had evidently kicked in; the overnight train exceeded even my wildest expectations. The bunks were cozy and functional, and there was even a sink and vanity in our private bunk. The conductor popped in to tell us to expect a box breakfast in the morning. Forgiving my poor company, Courtney invited me to sit down with her on the lower bunk. The train began picking up speed as it trundled into the next station. The small beds seemed reminiscent of the herbalist and the seamstress, as they might have listened to each other’s nightly stories, slowly lulling one another into sleep.