Back to life in a hostel (worst one yet) sharing the midnight hours with seven fellow travellers (worst ones yet (after Callum and Rory’s departure (not bitching about you two (yet))) staying for my first time in yet another new city (one of the best ones yet). When I arrived into Prague’s central bus station* (one hour behind schedule) the sky was overcast and heavy and with it a hum of humidity accompanied me on my walk to the hostel. Not the best first impression. Check-in was standard (now that I’m such a backpacking pro an’ all). By the time I had dumped my stuff I was absolutely ravenous. It was almost 4 pm and I hadn’t eaten lunch. What a travesty! I needed to find somewhere quick. And I needed to find somewhere good. A thirty-second stroll along a winding alleyway from my hostel entrance brought me to the most idyllic looking restaurant. Seating in an outdoor garden, a menu that was right up my street, and – to my surprise – prices to match the budget of someone who had recently lost £438 worth of travel (if you’re lost see asterisk, below). Warm chickpea salad with spinach, courgette, aubergine and sundried tomatoes. That had my name written all over it. And it didn’t disappoint. (I even went back two days later for round two of the same.) prague was taking a turn for the better.
Aside from the obvious – beautiful buildings to admirably gaze up at, narrow cobbled streets to get wonderfully lost in, delicious ice cream to indulge in around every corner – I had insider info that made my stay in Prague even more spectacular than it might already have been. I’d met a Praguer (correct – I looked it up) at my first hostel in Ghent, and dropped him a quick line in preparation for my stay in the Czech capital. Expecting a few quick bullet points of tourist hotspots, I instead received a long email detailing all of his favourite spots in the city (including how to get to them) which opened up my stay to a whole new world of the real city behind its touristy facade. This was bloody brilliant. Following said advice I discovered the most amazing secluded secret garden full of perfectly preened bushes, perfectly sculptured statues, perfectly placed pretty pink flowers, and about two other people to share the whole place with. It was like stepping into a different world of serenity amidst the hectic selfie stick clad tourist filled streets of the city centre. And relax. A chilled evening on the shore of the Vltava river with a couple of beers and a catch up on life since Kraków with Californian babe Sophie was another recommendation that made me feel like I was way cooler than all the other tourists who didn’t have the local lowdown. And to top it of, the best recommendation of all was an incredible rooftop bar, just steps away from the Old Town square, which had fabulous views over the city centre. We arrived up at the fourth floor terrace and as we were being seated were amazed to find that we were the only people up there! The whole bar to ourselves, delicious cocktails, wonderful views and the early evening sun as a lovely warming blanket of happiness. It was pretty perfect.
But it wasn’t just the insider spots I checked out. No. I totally did the tourist thing too. On the heaviest day (31,873 steps taken, 18 km covered) I walked up to the gigantic Prague Castle complex (the largest in the world I’ll have you know), making my way around the extensive grounds, exploring the cathedral, basilica, palace… They were all great to see, of course, but I’d definitely overdosed on my quota of historical buildings that day. Now for some of the great outdoors. I embarked upon the tall, steep and sweat-inducing Petřín Hill. And if climbing its hefty 327 metres wasn’t enough, I decided to tackle the lookout tower poised at the very top. ‘Loosely inspired by the Eiffel Towel’ (slightly offensive to the Eiffel Tower – it is actually quite ugly), I conquered its 299 steps and got yet more beautiful views across the whole of Prague and beyond. Thank God a breeze got up as I was seriously sticky. After a successful descent I made my way back to the dorm for a quick power nap before more fun and games in the evening with new Scottish pals Callum and Rory.
First stop: renting a pedalo to cruise around the river. Wahoo! (My long-awaited first time on any waterway during this trip.) I suggested bringing my selfie stick with trepidation and was received with unanimous positivity. We were definitely on the same page. After dinner (and much pissing about time, on their part) we made our way down to the river, chose our pedalo, and off into the sunset we went. With three in a boat it was a bit of a balancing act (literally) but the selfie stick got a lot of love, and our thighs a much needed workout. We avoided the danger zones successfully, rounded the island (Shooter’s Island to be precise) and made it back to the pontoon in three (whole) pieces (after some interesting mooring navigation from one of our party. (Not me. Or Rory.) Now it was time for football. It was the England friendly against France and, as I was with Scots, they were going to support the French, obviously (they were still wounded from the Scotland / England draw the previous weekend). But first we had to try the city’s gelato-en delicacy: trolo – rolled dough that is wrapped around a stick, grilled, topped with a sugar and walnut mix, and filled with ice cream and a whole host of other calorific delights. I went for the ‘King’. It truly was regal. The deep fried dough spiral was filled with vanilla ice cream and topped with – wait for it – chocolate brownie pieces, walnuts, salted caramel sauce AND chocolate sauce. I mean… trés bon. Trés, trés naughty. Now for the footy. We found a cosy Irish pub from which to watch. The game, although disappointing (on my part), was fun to watch, and we got the added extra of a live Irish band post match. We just needed someone Welsh to complete the kingdom! After a quick costume change à la hostelle we headed to the Jewish Quarter for a cocktail in airplane-themed bar Hanger. Interesting. The cocktails were inordinately strong (maybe that was the altitude), and the waitress was wearing a rather comical and kitsch stewardess-wannabe outfit (tilted hat included). We survived the gin-induced turbulence and called it a night before being dragged out of our double-booked seats kicking and screaming.
For my final night in Prague I decided to treat myself to the opera, darling. An interesting performance of Rusalka (basically the story of The Little Mermaid) awaited me, with even more interesting English subtitles alongside. I wouldn’t say that it was the most earth-shatteringly exsquisite artistic performance I had ever been witness to, but it was rather jolly. (The merlot I ordered during intermission #2 was barely drinkable, but that’s another matter.) And that concludes my stay in the Czech Republic!
I’m now in Munich, in a hostel that strongly contests the first bracketed clause (of many, I’m aware) in this post. I’m midway through my stay here (I started this post while on the bus two days ago but couldn’t power through the travel sickness enough to type), so will get back to Bavaria and fill you in in due course (wish me luck).
*Now that my mum knows, and the associated worry has been and gone, I can disclose that there was in fact another mildly infuriating event in the Polish capital (this one unfortunately less mild) which, previously unstated for fear of inflicting unnecessary maternal worry, was the cherry on the dumpling-filled cake that was my trip to Warsaw. As I started packing my valuables back into my backpack in preparation for checking out I soon came to realise that I could no longer find my month two and three interrail passes… How mildly i n f u r i a t i n g. As I emptied my ENTIRE backpack onto the dorm room floor (much to my room mates’ delight) I checked every pocket and zipper (thrice each) to no avail. Warsaw really had run out of luck. So obviously the first thing I did in this situation was go to the hostel bar and order a beer. (Well it was happy hour.) As I – all at once and in a hurry – offloaded to new Dutch gal pal, emailed every hostel I had stayed in so far to see if they had the passes and downed a bottle of Tyskie, the panic began to subside (that’s Polish beer for you) and I calmed, ready to tackle this latest revelation with positivity. Now I didn’t have to begrudge paying compulsory reservation fees; didn’t need to always get the train because of my pass, even if the bus was more convenient; and didn’t have to carry around the stupid ruddy old fashioned paper (paper!) ticket and fill it out by hand for each and every journey. No. Now I was free to travel whichever way I wanted. Now I was officially a bus wanker. (And thus I celebrated with my pierogi dinner (and you know how that ended).)