When we arrived to Prague in the early hours of the morning, the city was blanketed in a fog. I immediately loved the ancient buildings, cobblestone streets, broken walls and colorful facades. Angelika and I ate klobasy and left trails of sauerkraut on the sidewalk and watched Irish street performers dislocate their shoulders in order to break out of straight jackets. We met photographers and groups of brits on bachelor parties and old men playing accordions; painters and sausage-sellers; groups of italian teenagers on field trips; a woman with dreadlocks, making gigantic bubbles in a park; an australian with a didgeridoo, playing on a fur rug in the center of the square; a blind opera singer rocking a guatemalan jacket. We drank cappuccinos in museum-cafes with animal skulls on the wall and we got lost in a torrential downpour late one evening (when we finally saw the river ahead of us, I was certain we had arrived at the ocean). I became obsessed with watching tourists: the way they walked in packs, they way they dressed in garbage bags when it rained, they way they all pointed their lenses in the same direction, the way they were led around by leaders with red umbrellas, the way they pulled out their ipads in churches, their iphones in museums. So while they were taking pictures of cathedral steeples and statues and tower clocks, I was taking pictures of them taking pictures of things. We exited Prague in a mad rush and almost missed our train to Vienna and it wasn’t until later that I realized all the things I had left behind; some of the things were returned and some I will never get back. I think a few pieces of my heart are still wandering around the streets of Praha, looking for a perfect view of the river and a large palacinky filled with nutella.