A loud bang rocks our cabin door in the middle of the dark morning. It is the ticket officer returning the tickets he held hostage for the entire night now carefully stamped and voided. The convoy slows down and enters  Hlavni Nadrazi Station in Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic and my friends for the night and I wish each other good luck around the steam of a cup of hot chocolate and a morning croissant in the small cafe next to the departures hall. I leave the backpack in one of the blue lockers and light-weighted, I walk outside to the cold sunshine.

Two weeks in Africa mean I have to wear shorts when the mean temperature is nearly below zero. Fastening my pace, I try my absolute best to warm up in a time in which the city is covered in a thick blanket of fog that mysteriously seems to hide the silhouettes of Gothic buildings.

‘A lonely tourist from Romania seems to be lost and asks me for directions only to find out we are in same predicament: a visit to Prague with no maps or any references whatsoever, but only a mental image of what the city might look like and what I would like to see.
We both follow street signs engraved in Czech and, through narrow cobblestone alleyways smothered by tall medieval buildings, we emerge at a large square where a Starbucks sells ventis next to the golden moving details of the Astronomical Clock.’

And so, my first and lingering memories of Prague are the ones of a stunningly beautiful city in the emptiness of a cold autumnal morning. The memory of Old Town Square only populated by stray cats that purr next to folded chairs and cleaning staff. The memory of naked trees at Charles University saluting the intricate and quiet passageways of the Jewish neighbourhood and its Hebrew clock.

Below one of the many bridges criss-crossing the Vlatava River, lone fishermen emerge from the fog with long fish rods and frustrated cold faces.  The sunshine timidly tries to break through the wintry fog reflecting on the wet tiled roofs and, over Charles Bridge, focus landmark of my visit to the Czech Capital, creates a phantasmagoric sight of pure medieval magic.

Across the bridge, the valley turns steep and climbs over walls that have protected the Castle for centuries. I rush to climb the steps and take pictures before a coach full of American tourists in the distance stops, parks and unloads walking backpacks and cameras over the shiny cobblestones.

I drink my first coffee of the day when the sun finally sets for the day and introduces a city of red tiles, marble and stone. I sit on a beige puffy chair, recharge my phone and sip on my coffee at possibly the most scenic Starbucks in the world.

Recharged and caffeine replenished, I leave the coziness of the cafe and down the steps, I collide with a city transformed in the space of an hour.
Memories of empty alleyways in a foggy lullaby turn into a fight against an army of cameras and selfie sticks walking to the top of the largest ancient castle in the world by area. The grandeur of the Bohemia of the past, the indecency of the Prague of today.
And Prague seems to be just that for the rest of the day. A truly remarkable place of architectural wonders, clogged with the heaviness of tourists.

I order a plate of svickova in one of the local restaurants, and the combination of meat slices is promptly served in a white flat plate smothered in thick buttery gravy and a bed of bread dumplings and cranberry sauce. Stodginess comes to my mind first, deliciousness comes right after. Washed with a kofola, I take my time at the restaurant, while catching up on my writing and avoiding holidaymakers.

I indulge in the dense sweetness of a trdlnik in Old Town Square at sunset, the sugary cinnamon sprinkled over the rounded piece of batter as soft as the clouds hanging over the vanilla sky upon us.
Rushing towards Charles Bridge when the sun dies, I think of Prague as the most flamboyant bride in the world: hid under a light veil of fog at first, timidly introducing her persona next, and shining like a glamorous chandelier of  luxury at the very end.

The city roars at the beat of chattering and violins at night. Tables are full and wine glasses are empty. At Old Town Square, the Astronomical Clock dances across the wall and loudly gossips about hours passed, while silently gossiping about the eighteen hours I spent in the city witnessing its transformation.

I walk back to the train station and I am told my train ticket is not correctly endorsed. Through a small window, the ticket lady refuses to speak English and points to a number written in a piece of paper. I hand her my debit card and with a beep, I am issued a ticket in a compartment of eight seats.

When the Venice Simplon departs for London, my Soviet-era train departs for the countryside. In my cabin, a family of seven give me dirty stares and whisper in Czech before biting on bagels. I doze at the flickering of old neon lights at times and wake up whenever the train stops. Four tall chimneys emerge in the distance and vomit nuclear clouds, the family finally vacating their seats at Ostrava. 

I extend my legs over the blue synthetic leather and sleep until its bright outside the steel window blind. The conductor salutes and check my ticket with a shy smile as we leave Czechia behind and Poland lies ahead.