One week in Prague.
A week my constitution could have done without, but one which my heart reveled in. I had fun. I needed this Prague week of people running all around, cheap beer, and laughs and jokes. I slept days rather than nights.
The Golden Sickle Hostel is the place to leave your bags if you wish to party in Prague – I cannot say that it is a place to sleep, because nobody sleeps there. It is three floors of joking, fighting, and drinking with a splattering of young people from the far corners of the globe. The party current is strong here, and, rather than perilously trying to go against it, I flowed right along with it.
I had fun.
It has been far too seldom in these past years of studying, writing, and traveling that I have tossed all notions of personal regard to the wind, and just laughed, joked, and drank. It was fun, but the Road called all too quickly.
Kafka at bar in Prague. Photo by J. Chip Howell.
But one week in Prague left me full of memories. The following stories in the below three posts are but a glimpse of what I can readily recall from my wine nights about the city. In point, I had to get out of Prague while I still had my head above water.