Prague: The Fast Food Bohemia
Part I: A Slightly Staggering Return to Prague
It was on a Friday afternoon, somewhere between a dangerously caffeinated gas station in Bavaria and the outer suburbs of Prague, that I began to question whether this trip was truly about travel—or merely an extended automotive experiment in bladder control. Seven hours on the German autobahn can either reaffirm your faith in human engineering or make you deeply suspicious of anyone who enjoys an extended road trip in anything less than a rather luxurious and rediculously expensive GT car. Mine, a rather sullen but obedient Eastern European SUV, has the personality of a washed-out geography teacher and the acceleration of a startled snail. Still, it got me from Wetzlar to Prague in one piece, and these days, that’s more than you can say for most low-cost airlines.
By the time I reached the Orea Pinnacle Hotel in the leafy Malá Strana district, I was in that woozy, existentially disjointed state that only comes from high-speed travel and a prolonged relationship with German 80’s radio. I like ‘99 Luft Balloons’ as much as anyone, but come on… Reception was manned by a young man so crisply Eastern European that he might have stepped out of a Cold War suspense thriller, yet he greeted me with such enthusiastic professionalism that I half expected him to salute. He welcomed me to Prague with the practiced warmth of someone who has told 17 consecutive people that yes, breakfast is included and no, the minibar is not free. For those who may be mildly interested, the Orea is a once eastern block memorial to what Czechs used to think vaguely resembled low-priced hotels on the Vegas Strip. Think Excalibre with a buffet dedicated only to dumplings and saurkraut.
I rode the elevator up to my room, which boasted soft furnishings, tasteful art, and a bed that looked like it had been designed by angels on a gap year. But the bathroom, bless it, had clearly missed the post-Communist memo. There was a bathtub so small that even Hervé Villechaize would’ve struggled to lie down without folding in half like a deck chair. The shower required the poise of a ballerina and the footwork of a Soviet gymnast. Still, the water was hot, the towels were thick, and I hadn’t died on the autobahn—so, onward.
I packed my camera, laced up my shoes (a modest size 13, which in the Czech tub equated to full floor coverage), and headed out to reacquaint myself with Prague. It had been nearly a decade since I last wandered these cobbled lanes, and I was prepared for change—but not this kind of change. Prague, you see, has undergone the sort of cultural renovation that suggests someone, somewhere, took a look at the majestic Baroque architecture, the ancient castles, the dreamy spires of St. Vitus Cathedral—and thought: You know what would really complete this scene? A McDonald’s. Not one McDonald’s, mind you. Not even two. But a veritable brigade of them, marching in formation with their red-and-yellow flags held high, flanked by Starbucks battalions and KFC commandos.
Once upon a time, Prague was a heady cocktail of Gothic intrigue, Kafkaesque alleys, and massive, bland lumps of food large enough to sink a canoe. Now, it’s a place where you can gaze upon a 14th-century astronomical clock while sipping a venti soy caramel latte with extra foam. I stood in Old Town Square watching as tourists took selfies in front of a medieval sculpture, then wandered off to queue for chicken nuggets. It was like watching someone propose marriage in a hardware store. Still, it’s not all bad. After all, even Venice has a variety of sushi restaurants now, and I suspect if Machu Picchu had decent plumbing, you’d find a Starbucks halfway up the trail. In some ways, Prague has managed to keep its soul—tarnished perhaps, but not yet entirely sold to the corporate devils in branded aprons.
Later that evening, I met friends—fellow pilgrims in search of authenticity—in the heart of the Old Town. We strolled past the inevitable hen parties (who, as any British reader will tell you, consider Prague something of a spiritual homeland) and found ourselves at a beer hall that first opened its doors sometime in the 15th century, presumably to quench the thirst of someone who had just invented plague medicine. Now, you might be inclined to think this beer hall is one of those tired tourist clichés, and you’d be right. The decor looks like a medieval torture chamber, the menus are laminated, and the waiters have perfected the fine art of impatient grunting. But the beer is cold (even the non-alcoholic versions), the pigs’ knuckles are fall-off-the-bone tender, and the sense of continuity—of—history served with a side of cabbage, mustard, and horseradish is comforting in a world otherwise overtaken by jalapeño poppers and mozzarella sticks. And news flash, if you love the tuba and accordion as much as I do, you have moseyed into the right saloon partner.
Dinner officially finished after the obligatory apple strudel. We began our late-night wander through the streets, only to realize we were now deep in the stag-party gauntlet. If you’ve never seen hundreds of drunken Germans dressed as Smurfs chasing a man in a banana costume through a UNESCO World Heritage site, you haven’t truly lived. Prague, for reasons that defy geography, is now Europe’s answer to Las Vegas—except with fewer Elvis impersonators and more cobblestones to trip over if you have inevitably gone too hard on the Pilsners.
We made a hasty retreat across one of the city’s iconic bridges. On the other side, mercifully, things calmed down. The air was cooler, the crowds thinner, and the vibe suddenly changed from chaos to contemplative. It was like crossing a portal. One moment you’re dodging inflatable unmentionables and glow-in-the-dark drinks; the next, you’re walking beside still water, flanked by Gothic towers that whisper history into your ear. There’s something magical about Prague after dark—if you can sidestep the humanity. The gas lamps cast a soft glow across the Charles Bridge, and the river glints like a thread of polished obsidian. It’s the sort of place where you half expect a cloaked figure to pass by, quoting Rilke or proposing a duel.
I parted company with my friends and climbed back uphill toward the hotel. Prague is a city that rewards the mildly masochistic. Everything is up. Even things that should, by rights, be flat—like bridges—somehow manage to angle upward, as if the whole city were clambering to get a better view of itself. By the time I reached the Orea again, my step counter had achieved a level of smugness usually reserved for personal trainers. Having crested what felt like Mount Prague in footwear that was now more shoe-shaped regret than actual support—I had only just enough energy to acknowledge my feet's protest, throw something vaguely clean onto a chair in the corner, and contemplate what I might wear the following day before near unconsciousness snuck up and hit me like a Czech tram. I kicked off my shoes, drank two bottles of overpriced minibar water, and flopped back into the generous, cloud-like bedding. Below, the city of Kafka and castles quietly hummed their electric lullaby.
Part II: Orange Juice and Penguins in the Shade of History
I don’t remember falling asleep. One moment I was thinking, “Do I have more clean socks?” and the next I was waking up to the sound of my phone yelling at me that my friend was already downstairs in the lobby. I’d slept like a rock. Not a poetic, dreamy kind of sleep, either—no ethereal visions or gentle awakenings—just the dense, immovable sort of sleep you might expect from sedimentary stone or a collapsed Victorian bookshelf. Dragging myself out of bed, I muttered a few things at the bathroom mirror, none of which can be printed here, and pulled myself together for another full day of aimless but purposeful wandering—the kind of urban exploration that somehow makes your feet hurt and your soul feel better.
Saturday was to be spent primarily on the north side of the city, where the medieval atmosphere isn’t just preserved—it’s flung at you with unapologetic flamboyance. There’s an almost theatrical quality to that part of Prague, like it’s being constantly staged for a very elaborate period drama that accidentally let in several thousand tourists and an unfortunate number of shitty miniature chopper tours that encourage the riders to wear WWII German soldier helmets for some strange reason. Breakfast was mercifully calm. We found a quiet café in the shadow of some incomprehensibly old cathedral—Prague has approximately 714 of these, most of which appear to be competing to see which can look the most like the setting of a Dan Brown chase sequence. I opted for a bowl of Greek yogurt, granola, and locally sourced fruit, which felt very responsible and continental. Then, in what can only be described as an act of culinary curiosity (or possibly a caffeine-related mental breakdown), I ordered something called an iced coffee mixed with fresh-squeezed orange juice.
Now, I admit that sounds horrifying. It sounds like something you’d be served by a well-meaning but deeply confused relative at a family brunch, right before the ambulance is called. But—and I say this as someone who has accidentally eaten everything that shouldn’t be eaten raw and awful in Iceland—it was amazing. The citrus somehow lightened the bitterness of the coffee and added a kind of sparkling, sunshiney brightness that made me question everything I thought I knew about breakfast beverages. I may never go back to ordinary caffeine again without asking the barista or waiter if it comes with a citrus chaser.
Our waiter, a young man with a haircut that could’ve landed a plane, overheard us chatting about Vancouver and immediately latched on like a hockey-obsessed barnacle. It turns out he was a diehard NHL fan and, upon learning we were from British Columbia, offered condolences so heartfelt you’d think we’d lost a close family member rather than just being lifelong Canucks fans. He launched into a monologue about the NHL draft with the kind of intensity normally reserved for hostage negotiators (I know), or new parents discussing their child’s sleep schedule. His empathy toward my friend’s ongoing Canucks-related trauma was touching, if not mildly triggering for Dale.
Post-breakfast, we ventured toward the castle district, which—like most European castles—was designed to be approached by horse, not by tourists in Skechers gasping like fish on a dock. The only direction in Prague, as far as I can tell, is up. If you’re ever unsure which way to go, just look for a spire, assume it’s important, and climb toward it while muttering about your knees. As we wandered, we passed embassy after embassy, their flags fluttering proudly in front of Renaissance and Baroque buildings so richly adorned they looked like architectural wedding cakes. There’s something endearingly incongruous about a building that’s been standing since the Habsburgs ruled the land, now hosting mid-level diplomatic staff trying to work out how to submit online visa forms.
The skyline of this part of Prague is, frankly, ludicrous. You’ve got castle ruins, church spires, round towers, and the kind of pastel colours usually reserved for gelato parlours or Venetian laundry lines. It’s as if the city was designed by a romantic painter on a sugar high. Buildings are pink, turquoise, apricot, lemon, lavender—an architectural Easter basket with a Ph.D. in European history. The sun, unfortunately, was of the North African persuasion that day, and with no cloud cover to offer mercy, we began seeking shade like lowland trolls. At one point, we found a suitably majestic bridge and took up residence beneath it in full bridge-dweller mode, the only thing missing being a cauldron and a riddle. Or if you live in Victoria, a syringe and a shopping cart. It was, as it turns out, a spectacularly underrated place to sit and recover—cool, breezy, and surprisingly atmospheric. We could hear the soft babble of the river and the muffled clatter of tourist feet passing overhead, like a gentle reminder that life, unlike us, keeps moving.
Later, we migrated down to the riverbank, where we discovered a peculiar and delightful installation: over twenty bright yellow penguins lined up along the Vltava River. There’s no context for this. No plaque. No brochure. Just... penguins. Yellow ones. Standing there like they’re on break from a rubber factory union meeting. They’re an art piece, apparently, by the Cracking Art Group (which sounds like either an avant-garde design collective or an experimental cheese club). We joined them—figuratively, not literally—and spent the better part of the afternoon there. The breeze off the river was a gift from the gods, and with a light lunch, some relaxed conversation, and no urgent need to be anywhere, it became one of those rare moments in travel where time seems to sigh and loosen its tie. We reminisced, we laughed, and for a while, the entire globe—complete with its wars, debts, inboxes, and cholesterol—felt very far away indeed.
It struck me, not for the first time, how absurdly fortunate we are when things like this fall into our laps. I had no grand plan to visit Prague. I hadn’t scheduled a walking tour or downloaded an app or even Googled “Top Ten Hidden Gems That Locals Don’t Want You To Know About (But Totally Do).” I was only there because a dear friend invited me, and I said yes despite having no particular reason to go. And yet, as so often happens when you abandon intention in favour of invitation, I ended up having exactly the kind of experience we all secretly hope for when we travel: unscripted, slightly uncomfortable, unexpectedly lovely.
Prague surprised me. Ten years ago, I’d passed through with the vague impression that it was pretty but trying too hard. Just like a junior college student wearing a moth eaten t-shirt (on purpose) and quoting their erroneously employed social justice warrior “Professor” who had no real world job experience.
Now, perhaps because I am older, and easily tired, or more interested in yogurt, I saw the city for what it was beneath the glitz and burgers: a brilliantly human place. A little chaotic, occasionally overwhelming, but full of moments worth chasing and corners worth turning. Sometimes, a few wrong turns, a ridiculous yet perfect breakfast drink, and the company of friends—plus, of course, a strategic bridge to hide under and a line of yellow pegiuns to sit with —are all you’ll ever need.
I hope you enjoy the images accompanying this post. Please drop me a line in the comment box below the last image if you have a moment. I enjoy hearing from you.
Live well!
M.
P.S. All the images in this post were captured with the Leica SL3-S along with the 24-90mm and 90-280mm lenses
