Prague - Day 5

I woke up craving a proper English brekkie and headed to a place called Cafe 25, which offered English style breakfast. Bracing myself, I ordered the Full English. My skepticism was confirmed when I received a blank stare from the waitress when asking what kind of sausages came with the breakfast.

The skinny Frankfurters on my plate were certainly not Cumberlands. The eggs were too runny, the bread wasn’t toast, and when I asked for it toasted, the waitress gave me that look again before mumbling off. She returned with a basket, pointed at my bread, and I obediently placed it inside. She then whisked it away like a nurse with a donor kidney—only to return it barely warmed.

Defeated, I ordered the apple pie and had another cuppa using a second Yorkshire teabag to salvage the morning.

Halfway to the Astronomical Clock, I realized I’d drastically overestimated my cold resistance. The locals looked Arctic ready, while I, in my eternal English optimism, had chosen shorts and a light sweater. My Reeboks squeaked their protest as I marched past Irish pubs filled with stag parties, street markets offering baskets of fresh fruit, hand-painted Astronomical Clock replicas, Prague tote bags, Prague chocolates, giant sausages, viral ice cream vendors, and restaurants with outdoor seats draped in sheepskin blankets.

I felt a buzz of energy on the approach to the Old Town Square and glimpsed the Gothic spires of Our Lady before Týn. A moment later the chime of the Astronomical Clock rang out sending hordes of tourists charging past, selfie sticks extended like lances in battle.

The intricate movements of the figurines, especially the Twelve Apostles, were amazing to watch, and the details on the clock itself are meticulous and beautiful. I overheard a tour guide relate: "Legend has it, the councilors who commissioned the clock were so paranoid about the clockmaker building a better one elsewhere, they blinded him. Enraged, he took his own life by diving into the gears, breaking the clock and supposedly cursing it so that any future repairmen would go mad.

As the last chime echoed, the crowd thinned, replaced by a wedding party that took center stage. Bemused tour groups paused to appreciate the dress and I snapped a few pics before the aroma of grilled meat distracted me. My nose led me to 3 massive ham hocks spit roasting over an open flame. It had only been an hour since breakfast, but how could I refuse flame-roasted ham on rye with mustard, washed down by Czech pilsner?

I perched on a wall, waiting for my order, envious of the blissful exaltations from my neighbors—three tall, silver-haired German men devouring hunks of hot ham between gulps of beer. When my plate arrived—roast ham, tangy mustard, and a mug of lager—I joined them in silent appreciation, chewing along as the smoky aroma from the embers swirled around me. The honey-sweet, caramelized crust gave way to tender, porky flesh, and when dipped in mustard, wrapped in a slab of bread, and washed down with crisp beer, it made for the perfect bite—especially after my disappointing brekkie.

Cockles warmed, I set off for Charles Bridge and Prague Castle.

From the bridge’s arch, I frowned at the hordes of eager tourists. Maybe I’d been in New York too long but I had no idea Prague would be this inundated. Tripods, selfie sticks, and flag-bearing tour guides jostled for space. Undeterred—frozen and full of ham—I pressed on, smiling at sweethearts posing for strangers, unapologetic selfie addicts, and groups of Japanese families arguing over photo composition.

At the statue of Saint John of Nepomuk, I lingered watching as patient, impatient, and downright rude visitors jostled for their turn to place a hand on its base—a tradition said to guarantee a return to Prague

Numb-bummed from the cold concrete, I began my ascent to the castle. The steep cobblestone path wound through narrow, ancient streets to the base of 287 steps. Hot chocolate beckoned from countless stands, but I resisted—too long a line, too crowded, too touristy, too quiet—convinced I’d stumble upon the perfect, mystical hot chocolate stand run by Willy Wonka… until, I didn’t want it anymore!

At the summit, my fellow climbers and I shared a euphoric sense of accomplishment. The view—though blurred by frozen, watery eyes—was a vast sweep of grey, yet still spectacular. Above us, the presidential castle loomed. I felt an odd kinship with the freezing guards who remained stoic and unphased as I snapped their portraits—even after I told them they were very very handsome.

It was lunchtime! Well, almost an hour since I’d last eaten but past noon, and the frigid weather had me craving something warm and cozy but after last night’s beige plate I was reluctant. I also didn’t want to spoil my appetite because I had plans to meet Irma, a 6’6” basketball player and friend of my London pals, for dinner.

Jitka had mentioned a local place called Stridacka that had offerings of things like grilled deer back and chestnut dumplings. It was on the way home so I ignored the calling for hot chocolate and set off down the steps.

After 40 minutes of brisk walking, dodging and weaving through the crowds, I reached Stridacka, another dark-wooded restaurant in the heart of the Old Town. French onion soup caught my eye and within minutes the tantalizing aroma from the kitchen had me chomping at the bit. It was worth the wait—a rich bone broth brimming with velvety sweet onions, crowned with thick sourdough topped with blistering Gruyère.

I let out an involuntary "Aww!" after the first mouthful. The waitress side-eyed me. I smiled.

“It’s been a bloody cold day. I wore me shorts, you see! And a thin jumper. This soup is probably the best thing I could’ve ordered out of a million dishes.”

She walked over.

“You would like a beer?”
“No, no, I was just saying the soup is very nice. Thanks!”
“Oh, good.” She smiled and returned to her post.

I wished I was able to reprogram myself at every border to use my fluency in seventeen languages like Jason Bourne. Then everyone would understand why Englishmen wear shorts in the most inappropriate weather.

After a short nap, I woke to the chill of night and wrapped up before wandering through the Old Town to meet Irma. With 20 minutes to kill before dinner, I ducked into a sprawling cocktail bar called Hoffa. The bartender served my Old Fashioned in a chilled glass, garnished with a cherry, orange rind, and the perfect balance of rye, simple syrup, and bitters.

Minutes later, I arrived outside Fuze, a brewery-restaurant. A woman in a bright red coat rose, and kept rising from the bench outside, then smiled.

“Hello, Roger.”
“Hi, you look about 6’6” so you must be Irma!”

Irma and I clicked right away and joined her pals, a Frenchman, a Spanish man and a local Czech girl who all worked in IT, and were great geeky fun. We ate steak which was tough as old boots, drank luscious red wine and Na zdravi’d’d with the local liquor.

Later, over a smoke, Philippe mused about Prague’s resemblance to Paris—though, of course, French cuisine was far superior. Back at the table, our Spanish friend extolled the virtues of Spanish ham in comparison to the inferior Slavic charcuterie. I felt for the Czech girls. To balance things up, I declared that English pies were the best in the world—and that I wanted one right then to erase the memory of my terrible steak.

After a terrific social whirl, Irma and I wandered back to Hoffa for a nightcap. As she seemed to grow taller, and I smaller, we swapped stories about her years in London and how she met my pals—lifelong ravers who, even in their 60s, still strip off their shirts to dance in rainbow-colored fields after indulging in all manner of horse tranquilizers.

Irma had lived in London for four years—long enough to pick up on my best friends’ quirks and most maddening peccadilloes. As we talked, I became acutely aware of my 25 years away from the place where my family and closest friends still remain. I visit at least once a year, but striking the perfect balance—if that even exists—is tricky. Our conversation took a reflective turn—life moves fast, six degrees of separation, family, and funerals.

On the walk home, several drunk men did double takes at Irma, clearly mesmerized by her height. We parted ways, and—unsurprisingly—hunger struck as I neared my Airbnb. A glitzy kebab shop beckoned, and for four bucks, I devoured a shawarma—a million times more satisfying than my forty-dollar steak.

I lay in bed feeling nourished, sentimental and reflective. My thoughts went to Jason Bourne and Dr. Richard Kimble because I guess I was feeling some kind of kinship.

I may not have been on the run like Bourne, but I was on a relentless mission—mainly in search of a decent meal and, almost as importantly, I needed to find my true identity. I did meet an Eastern European woman, but she didn’t join me in a Mini Cooper fleeing the Politzei. Instead, she towered over me as we drank luscious red wine and ate tough steak.

In The Fugitive, Dr. Richard Kimble cuts off his beard and steals an old man’s food because he needs sustenance on the run. I ate breakfast, apple pie and sampled Czech ham and beer because I needed fuel to climb to Prague Castle.

You can see the similarities.

I considered watching The Bourne Identity when I arrived in Budapest to get into character. If that happened I thought I might also be inspired to run across one of the Danube’s bridges in a puffy jacket.

Prague

Berlin to Prague

Prague to Budapest