It's Not Your Fault

Oh Prague, it snowed upon my arrival. I walked under the astronomical clock wondering why didn't I go to the beach like everyone else for Spring Break. But I didn't. I walked and walked, got overcharged by the mystery man at the lunch place, under-impressed a stranger, found the cozier bar for reading but then reunited with two men from my plane which lead to too much Becherovka, and for my last night, a party in my hostel as I slept.

All that, and the greyness aside, the skies cleared one afternoon. It was warm enough to explore and I discovered side streets and public art. A giant heart made of candle wax that looks like a wall you can enter from the side. I sat in cafes and drew pretty chandeliers and ate cake. I found the park that seemed to follow the sun, and ate dinner at the same wonderful vegetarian place two nights in a row.

If only my trip wasn't bookended with grey. But grey days are a good excuse to stay inside a museum, like the Museum of Communism, which, among other things featured a 30 minute video about the student protests from 1969-89, during the invasion of the Soviet Union and later, the fall of communism. My hostel was on the same square where the tanks rolled in, where a student burned himself in protest, where the police beat the crap out of peaceful protestors, where night after night thousands of people gathered calling for the resignation of their government. But that didn't stop the party where I stayed.

Che bella luce!

My third day in Milan I slept in a little. It stopped snowing and the sun was out. I stopped in the park near my apartment to check on its post-snow progress. It was covered and quiet and lovely.



I had planned on running errands for school, getting permits and passes and such but I forgot my passport at home. After navigating the Italian university cafeteria (wine as a fountain drink!) and a necessary post-meal coffee, I accepted the sun and relatively warm weather as a gift, busted out the map and walked to the duomo.



Maybe I don’t mind the snow because it is not as cold as it could be. There is no ice and the sun was out. By the time I got the duomo, it was mid-afternoon and the light was lovely. The snow stuck to the many outcroppings on the building, on outstretched arms of saints, and to tree branches.



I walked around the Galleria, window shopping, bought a book in English and Italian, felt so smart for navigating it all in Italian. The sun was going down, the moon was coming out. I passed the public gardens, the moon was coming out. I walked until it was almost dark, stopping at a sleek bar for a drink and snacks. By then, the long walk and lovely light had its toll. I am not sure what I was saying to the waiter, but immediately an English-speaking waitress helped, gave me the “house special” and I sat myself, embarrassed. But the best thing about embarrassing yourself in front of strangers is, well, they are strangers. And I may never see them again. So I sat at a table near the window, watched the last of the day’s light disappear between the buildings, and took the subway home.