Fevers and Bottled Water: Late Afternoon Alone in Praha

(Photo cred: Will Van Beckum)

I look back at the Charles Bridge in astonishment. I can’t believe I made it in my condition.

You can’t gently perambulate the Charles Bridge; it’s impossible. A sea of people who don’t care about you, or the 75 statues adoring the bridge will push you and step on your feet, just to get to one of the many souvenir stands overpopulating the bridge. You want to turn back, bury yourself in a hole and never see another person or caricature sketch stand again. But Mala Strana and the Prague Castle await you, so you forge ahead.


The heavy breath of fever billows down my neck, under my shirt, and fogs my wristwatch.

Water. Water. Water.

Across the street from a cozy park, a tiny, run-of-the-mill souvenir/general store boasts of its wide array of beverage brands.

The 8 –by-8 foot store is crammed past its capacity with assorted junk. Not a single space on any of the walls are left bare.

I blindly grab an Evian and take three cumbersome steps to the cashier and begin fishing out change from my purse, in preparation to pay.

“55 Crowns,” He announces, stroking the stubble on his prominent jaw.

I stare at the pile of assorted coins in my sweaty palm, internally asking them if they’d add up to enough. I soon find out that they don’t. I plunge my hand back into the depths of my bag, but before I can finish this fruitless endeavor, the stubbly jaw opens, “There’s a cheaper brand. Only 35 Crowns.” He points to the glass refrigerator.
I manage to let out a cowardly, embarrassed smile and a, “Oh. Thanks.”

I can’t tell if he’s being churlish or not. There’s no one else in the store, so it’s not like I’m really wasting his time.

I open the refrigerator door and point, “This one?” He shakes his head.

“This one?” I pick another bottle up and hold it in the air for his inspection.

“Bonaqua,” He says as he practically escorts me to the right bottle.

I exit the store and find solace in a plain park, a triangle of green, littered with fallen leaves who forgot their place, overlooking cobble stone streets.
The park is an isosceles triangle amid aging white walls with billboards of Alfons Mucha exhibit to the right and a slew of unmemorable souvenir shops like Pivince Certovka, where I got my bottle of Bonaqua to the left. Behind me, at the base of the triangle is a sleazy hotel.



There’s nothing particularly “Prague” about this park. This is neither the garden to a Gothic church, nor the courtyard of an Art Nouveau hotel, nor the backyard of a Neo-Classical restaurant.




The only romantic thing about this park is that one ash tree is extending its arm, letting its leaves dangle and obscure my view, like it secretly wanted to be born a willow tree.

A coiled, iron dragon carefully holds up the flanks of wood, which serve as my seat. From this bench I have the perfect view of a leaf adhered to a garbage can by only a thread of a spider’s web, dancing in the wind.

I felt decent in park, almost felt completely healthy, but when I stood up, my body was completely enervated.

I guess 15 minutes in nature can’t cure you (if you can even call that park nature).
Not ready to brave the Charles Bridge again, just yet, I pick a direction to wander in.

Past some burgher houses and a slew of terraced cafes I now see that there are far better parks than the one I just came from – parks with man made ponds and slinky walkways for lovers to get lost in. If you catch a glimpse from the right park, it looks like the whimsical skyline of Praha is floating above the Čertovka.




A “coffee museum” catches my eye. I try to find the gift shop so I can buy my mom a decorative mug, but no avail. All I find is a fountain of two mechanized men peeing.