The following was written a few years ago, so no, unfortunately, I’m not in Prague right now, though the following sentence may suggest otherwise.
It’s my third day in Prague, and since my roommates are all at TEFL class from 9 to 5, I find myself forced to be my own tour guide. Staying in the flat for any substantial part of the day is wholly out of the question. There is no air conditioning, and I’ve decided that if I’m going to be stuck in 90-degree heat, I’m at least doing it outside under a tree rather than in my bedroom.
I’ve been guided in my exploring by a couple of rules that seem to have sprung up on their own. First, and most importantly, have no idea where you’re going. Get lost a number of times, and scoff dismissively at that voice in your head when it tells you to check a map. Columbus didn’t discover the New World by relying on a Lonely Planet guidebook (they came a year later). When you get lost, just keep walking in the same direction for a while. Rest assured– home is probably not too much farther.
Rule number two: walk everywhere. You don’t have a tram pass yet, and you don’t know how to get one either. Everything in Prague is within walking distance anyway, especially considering you have eight hours to walk.
Rule three: Don’t spend over five dollars. Bring food with you, and don’t forget lots of water, like you did yesterday. You’ll end up spending three dollars on a bottle of Fanta, an orange soda you don’t even really like.
In strict adherence to the aforementioned rules, today I find myself visiting Lunapark, an amusement park that simply reeks of desperation. Most of the rides look older than me, and despite it being a large place, and the weather outside being lovely, I don’t see a single paying customer in the whole place. A man sits in a plastic white chair just inside Lunapark’s gates, waiting in vain for anyone to purchase a ticket. Eventually, a child approaches, flanked by his parents. They stand still for a moment, absorbing the vast chasm between their expectations and reality. Their faces turn sour, and they put their hands on the gates of the park, like a prisoner grabs the bars of his cell. They look at each other for a moment; the father says something in German, and they walk away.
It occurs to me that few things are quite so depressing as a deserted amusement park.The thunderous carnival music betrays its eagerness to please. “Come inside, children! It’s fun, really!” the park seems to say (though in Czech). “Lunapark, you have much to learn,” I tell it. “Though your intentions are pure, no one wants to ride a rusty roller coaster.”