Prague Castle at Night, Czech Republic

I am being sociable in the hostel garden.

There's a long trestle table and lined along the benches are assorted pairs and groups of travellers who have landed here for whatever reason; a pair of young British dudes who are motorcycling across Europe, a Kiwi who's been backpacking for a year as part of the Tribe, and my new friend Alyssa who is travelling for the first time. These amongst some other faces that fade in and out, someone breaks out the inevitable playing cards and we agree on rummy. It's a game for which everyone at least vaguely knows the rules, and as long as you keep adding decks of cards an infinite number of players can join the game. You'll nearly always find a group of people who just met playing cards somewhere in a hostel.

We're taking turns telling our version of getting lost trying to find the hostel, which is up an unmarked street that looks like a highway on-ramp when you follow the directions from the train station. Each of us saw it, decided it couldn't possibly be the correct road and if we went that way we would end up in Bratislava, and wandered on and around the Zizkov district. Many of us arrived late at night, and so we are bonding already over the disorientation and exhaustion of tramping in circles in a foreign city past slightly menacing parks in the dark, trying desperately to find a place to shrug off the pack, take a shower, and fall down on a soft place.

The British guys are now trying to enlist as many cohorts as possible into their grand plan for the evening, the mega-club. They've heard it has four levels and is filled with drunk tourist chicks, which is exactly what they want; the Kiwi chick tries to dissuade them but they are having none of it. "You must go, you must come," they insist, and assure them that on the contrary, there is no burning need for me to attend a megaclub night at all, I'm a little too old for that I think and I'm perfectly comfortable with a quiet evening in the hostel garden, playing cards and drinking Czech beer.

"Wait, how old are you?" And now the awkardness ensues, a moment of silence as one eventually hazards a guess, "Twenty....two?" and then flinches back, there is a universal fear of guessing a woman's age too high. I laugh, and tell him he's going to have to go a little higher than that, and then he turns the tables and asks me to guess how old he is. I'm bad at this game, I guess too high and as it turns out he is a freshly minted 19 and I am on the edge of 30. This engenders great shock and disbelief on his part. When I mention something about Kurt Cobain's death when I was in high school, he could not believe that I can actually remember things that happened in 1994. Inconceivable! For me it's a revelation that I've been having a conversation with an adult who is unable to remember, say, Yugoslavia. The word means nothing to him, it's a country that ceased to exist before he was born, as did the Berlin Wall. Small wonder we see this place so differently.

Another traveller has joined the table, someone here met him earlier and there are introductions but his name immediately escapes me, never to return. I will be calling him "you" and "hey" for the rest of the night. We deal him into rummy and play a couple more hands, having The Conversation--where from, what do, why here, where else been, et cetera. These are the salient details, more so that something so trifling as a name. Turns out he has the advantage on all of us, his family is Czech and he has been here many times over the years, he knows this city beyond a guidebook and a map sketch. As our conversation unfolds, the game ends and he turns his hand over, he'd palmed a card earlier in case he needed it--who on earth cheats at rummy in a youth hostel??

The British kids at last cease their good-natured peer pressure assault, defeated by my determination to be square. They roar off on their motorcycle, headed for the megaclub. After they leave, the Czech guy whose name I don't know suggests that we take a walk, him, me and Alyssa. "Where to?" I ask warily, I don't want to venture too far I'm tired, it's been a long day. "Just in the neighborhood," sure, why not, I'll just grab my smokes and we'll wander a bit, it will be nice to get out in the night for a little while.

I don't take my water bottle, my guidebook, or my map, we are not going far and anyway our companion knows this city, I won't need them. No camera either, no phone, and I feel naked as a newborn, defenseless. We stroll down the hill to where the road starts to look like an on-ramp, not sure where we're going, and our Czech friend asks Alyssa and I if we have seen the castle at night. No, we haven't, we arrived late last night and just this morning respectively, we haven't seen the castle at all much less at night. He suggests a walk to the castle and I counter with a metro suggestion, I walked most of the way through the city already today and have no desire to retrace my steps all the way there.

We hop a bus for a couple of stops to the metro station, we don't have the right change to buy bus tickets so we have technically gone rogue already. Off at the metro station and our friend isn't entirely sure which way to go after all, so I take charge; for whatever reason despite being directionally challenged I am really good at deciphering mass transit. He doesn't have faith in me, keeps falling behind to do map checks and ask directions as I swerve through the station but we end up in the same place, I am more than a little smug about my success so far.

One stop and then a transfer, both of them are following me now I've proven myself, although when we reach the platform Czech guy still stops and asks someone to make sure we're headed the right way. We are, we are, and here is the train, a few moments later we disembark on the other side of the river. The castle is shining above us, glowing golden stone artfully washed in landscape lighting, crenellated towers tearing at the scattered clouds in the night sky. How do we get up there, exactly?

We begin by heading up the hill, it's a reasonable assumption as the castle is in fact at the top of said hill. Wandering through cobblestone alleyways headed always upwards, and our supposed guide doesn't actually know where we're going. He stops to ask directions and I don't protest this time, it's good to have someone along who speaks the local language. He's not fluent, but does well enough to get directions, we backtrack and then take a right then a left and this is the correct alley winding upwards to the stairs.

Yes, despite all this uphill we've been engaging in there are still stairs. Lots of them. I look accusingly at the Czech guy, I am dehydrated and sans water bottle, I always have my water bottle but we weren't going far, now stairs? But we've come this far, so I power up the stairs. All of them. 199 of them, as I aggrievedly inform my companions at the top, I remembered this little detail from my guidebook.

The stairs are behind us now, all 199 of them that we've heaved up, and now we're in an open courtyard before the castle gates. We wander over to the balustrade and lean over, the whole city is spread out beneath us and sparkling gently, church towers and bell towers across the city also uplit but so much smaller than the massy structure at our backs. I have thus far been rather unimpressed with Prague, or maybe underwhelmed is better; I'm burned out on picturesque European cities, with their bridges and castles and churches and market squares and clock towers and cobblestone streets, they all look the same and I was hoping for more from Prague, the problem of high expectations I suppose. But from here it's starting to work on me, maybe too because I'm going home from here so I can stop planning the next leg forward and just enjoy it, and maybe because here I am out in the city at midnight without my guidebook or map or camera or even a water bottle.

We chat, quietly, about history, and this place's history, this city and this part of the world, and the children who have been born and grown to adulthood not knowing Yugoslavia or Communism. We talk about World War II, an inevitable conversation here, and particularly as I think we've all passed through Krakow at some point on our travels and visited Auschwitz. Our Czech friend, however, wants to focus not on the Holocaust but on the ethnic Ukrainians and Czechs who were persecuted, that's his heritage, his family. He says, "The only reason people pay so much attention to the Holocaust, instead of all the other atrocities, is because there are so many powerful Jews..." It's an awkward moment, Alyssa and I both remain silent, and then he asks, "You're not Jewish, are you?" "...No, but why would that matter?" "Oh, it doesn't, I was just curious," and then he lapses into silence. No, I'm not Jewish, but my boyfriend is; did he think my Aryan looks would make me sympathetic?

In stutters, another conversation starts, on a neutral topic shying away from anything that could lead to more anti-Semitic feelers. A tall man with long hair and a beard approaches us, he is clutching a map, and asks in accented English if we know where the cemetery is around here. We don't, we don't know of any cemetery other than the one in the Jewish Quarter across the river, but we duly inspect his map with him querying him for other details. He knows its near here, or he thinks it is, he's not actually looking for the cemetery but something near it, if he finds the cemetery he can find what he's looking for. I ask him what he's looking for exactly, we probably can't help him but the more information we have the likelier it is, and he shrugs his head sideways and down, "Oh, it is a long story," he's embarrassed, hems and haws but realizes he's already been so mysterious about it he might as well tell us.

"I was in the city last night, near this cemetery, and found a bar. I drank too much and could not pay my bill, had not enough money, so I say I will come back today with money to pay my bill, but now I cannot find it."

He is genuinely distraught, ashamed of himself for drinking too much and also horrified that he is one of Those People now, the tourists who stiff the locals and think they can get away with it, or that it's ok, because they're only passing through. He may be a classic stereotype of hippie backpacker but he's an honorable man, and I almost want to hug him. I don't, we wish him luck, and he wanders away, seeking an unnamed bar by an unnamed cemetery somewhere within the city limits of Prague so that he can redeem himself with a fistful of crowns.

We turn our backs to the city and retrace our steps down the stairs, the metro isn't running anymore so we'll have to walk back. As we tack through the old city, our Czech friend inquires if we have any interest in going to TGIFriday's? He knows where one is in the city. My response is immediate: "I could eat the shit out a hamburger!" Alyssa is in full agreement, as 'inauthentic' as it may be to go to an American chain restaurant in Prague we have both been in Europe for several weeks and for whatever reason they suck at hamburgers and I am sick of meat stew.

Our newfound mission before us, we cross over the Charles Bridge. I walked over the bridge earlier today and I bemoan again the webbing and scaffolding which ensconces half of this iconic landmark; the scenery in each city I've been to has been under construction. Wonderful though to stroll this broad boulevard at night, just a few other people around rather than shoving through crowds of fannypacked tourists clustered around polyglot guides, and the pop-up vendors who flock to them like lions to the watering hole to stalk their prey.

We're back near the Old Market Square, our Czech friend says the TGIF is near here. I recognize the back of the Black Church, "The Square is this way!" No, it's not , he disagrees and we veer off to the right, winding through the alleys. We pass the MegaClub, on all four floors we can see about one person per floor through the windows and are validated in our choice. I wonder if the British guys are having any luck, if they're two of the four people we can see inside. For their sakes I hope the other two are French tourists.

I am insisting that we are headed away from the Big Square, and the Czech guy is equally insistent that we are going in the right direction. I can't ask him name now, we've been talking for hours and it would just be rude at this point so he remains and will probably always remain the Czech guy. We arrive at the New Square, "See, I told you we were going in the right direction!" he is triumphant, but wait, I thought you said we were going to the Big Square, this is the Big Square, but what about that other Big Square, oh that's the Old Square.

Well we're here now.

This is another street I wandered down earlier in the day, I didn't see TGIF but I think it's on the cross street. Czech guy stops a couple walking by to ask directions, the man stops but the woman doesn't. He listens for a moment, distracted by the high heels clacking away from him, points and then rushes to catch up with his companion. She won't slow down, refuses to hold his hand, we watch them walk away rather amazed at the level of anger she's exhibiting, how she's punishing him for stopping to help strangers.

We follow the pointed finger, I think I know where I am, there's the H&M I went into earlier to buy underwear rather than do laundry, I guess this is my day for chain stores. But maybe not, we turn and turn again, quartering the streets, turned back on ourselves and there's the H&M again, but on the wrong side of the street? Alyssa has been trying to dissuade me on my landmarking, and gently suggests that there is more than one H&M. Lesson: add H&M to the list with Starbucks and McDonald's of 'things never to use as a landmark.'

Dispirited, we are about to give up, we will never find our horrible American chain restaurant, we will have to wait until we get home to sink our teeth into a juicy pile of medium rare ground beef. And then, victory! Czech guy has spotted the telltale red and white striped awning, I can't help but despise myself a little bit for how excited I am to walk into a restaurant that I routinely disdain when I'm at home but I'm not at home and I want a burger.

We nearly run up the street, we are trotting at the very least, and as we trot we see something alarming--a busboy is apparently taking out the night's trash. It's late after all, after midnight, and Czech guy confirms the bad news after a brief conversation: they're closed. Water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink; we may not technically be lost at sea but it feels like it.

We slump around, girding ourselves to take our tired feet homewards and hamburgerless to the hostel. Just a little lost, but Prague isn't that big and we're going in vaguely the right direction, we need to get to the train station, either one, and we'll be able to go from there. Down a little side street and there's a sign with a koala on it, a bar that seems to be open, and we agree to take a break and have a beer before pushing onwards.

We approach and see, wonder of wonders, a menu posted on the door, we may get some food after all even if not the burgers we lusted for so heartily. Yes, here in the middle of the night in the middle of Prague we have stumbled upon an Australian gastropub. I order the kangaroo steaks, how can I not order kangaroo steaks when they're on the menu? It is delicious, gamy and lean but still moist and rich with a cherry sauce. Alyssa pushes her pasta away untouched, and then abruptly ducks for the bathroom; something is not sitting right with her. She insists that she's fine, just not hungry, but no need for a cab really, just let's go home.

Yes, let's go home. We're not far, and we're not lost, but we are tired so we are slow. Trudging back, there's the train station, here is where we all got lost sometime in the last 24 hours trying to find the hostel, there is one of the many sketchy looks bars at which I asked for directions, but wait there are two guys out in front, what are they doing?

Heavily muscled, steroids nearly seeping out of their pores, two large dudes with shaved heads and wifebeater tank tops are beating the hell out of each other. It's stylized, almost sparring, except for when one kicks the other one in the face, but it still seems oddly friendly. Not anything we want to get near, mind, so we veer quietly out into the road to get past them. One goes down, the victor kicks the loser for good measure but as we peer discreetly behind us, fascinated by this late-night meaningless battle, the victor stops and squats over his opponent. He checks him to see if he's okay, and then gives him a rough hug, grabs his hand and pulls him up to his feet. The loser is still shaking his head a bit, disoriented, but then shakes it out and they shake hands, congenial. Then the loser throws the first punch on the next round.

Last few meters to the hostel entrance, up the stairs to the garden, and home at last in a place that's not home at all but is home for tonight.