The beauty of Prague is not in anything tangible that can be demolished and rebuilt again. It doesn’t depend on something so impermanent. It is not something that can be explained or written about. It is not in words, but in the whole being that Prague is. In her mysterious soul, her poetry.
It is in those moments when the twilight gradually takes over and the vanishing light becomes an artist’s brush. The evening disappears in the depths of the purples and blues, and the night silently falls over the city.
It is when I wander through the darkness into the soft yellow light of magical street lanterns. Then the familiar sound of a tram breaks the silence of the early hours, and I suddenly find myself back in the old times.
It dwells in the flickering lights reflecting in the moonlit river, the cobbles on Charles Bridge glistening after the rain, the red-tiled rooftops and white chimneys. A quiet midnight hour on the Castle steps, a morning walk along the river through the sunlit haze. It is 6am on top of the hill, watching the sunrise wander into the valley, which resounds with church bells chattering away and echoing through the morning mist.
It happens when I give up the desire to decide where to go next, when I just let the feet take me wherever they please, and when I allow myself to get lost in the maze of cobbled alleyways, hidden corners and ancient streets.