The many different doors of Prague are beautiful and bizarre. Like their city. Prague itself is a door.
The citizens of Prague, far from being enigmatic riddlers and children of golem, were unfailingly friendly, except for the unhappy man surrounded by cigarettes in his tiny kiosk. Clenching his teeth, he answered the same tourist questions about tram tickets over and over and over like a character trapped in a crossed-out passage of The Castle.
Nearly everyone spoke beautifully angular slavic-accented English. Thank St. Wenceslas for that because the Czech language, with it's algebraic diacritical marks, is harder to figure out than the dialects of Lower Slobbovia. During our four days in Prague, I learned how to pronounce only one word: Becherovka.
We'd heard the food in Prague would be pretty bad. Not so. Besides superb curries at Indian Jewel, a salmon salad at Mistral Café, and a Greek salad with crisp fresh peppers and fine herbed feta at a Kampa Island café, we did our duty and sampled traditional Czech fare which leans toward, to paraphrase Monty Python, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork, pork. And sometimes rabbit. Usually with Czech dumplings, which look and act like thick white sponges perfect for soaking up all that gravy in which the afore-mentioned swine is swimming.
cathedral, museums, hotels, restaurants, boutiques and anonymous street corners decorated with swirling tendrils.