Ahoj! Mluvite anglicky?

It’s strange. Some of Prague could be the setting from my favourite fairy tale, then I turn the corner, duck under the bridge – even though there’s no need to duck as I’m not six feet tall, the looming concrete causes my chin to tuck to my neck every time – and I leave fairyland behind. My hostel is in the poorer district of the Bohemian capital but there’s no need to feel sorry for me. Despite the worn, depressed state of the architecture, or perhaps because of it, the fare on this side of town is kind to a backpacker’s budget. A block of chocolate is 50 cents cheaper. An hour’s massage will cost you $26 Australian. Other items, less important in my scheme of things, are at reduced prices.

And it’s only a ten minute stroll to the genteel part of the city, where I’ve spent the last week in constant exploration. It is the Art Nouveau buildings that draw me, though there are many other architectural gems around, and my hand is forever reaching for my camera to snap just another memory. Thank god for computers as my brain has limited capacity.

I’ve been sick this past week - for those of you who haven’t heard my complaining from all the way over here - so I was moving in slow motion those first few days. I’ve been living in an 11-bed room, which could have been horrid but was saved from being so by the people I shared the space with (even if some of them didn’t believe in showering). Most of the people I’ve met are solo travellers and there seems to be this innate bond, as if we’re all sharing the same experiences, so when I come home after a day’s sight-seeing there’s always someone to chat to or share a meal with or complain about how darn sore my feet are.

On my second night I thought I was attending a contemporary ballet performance – the girl selling tickets at the National Theatre Box Office assured me it was an excellent show, incorporating dance and film so just imagine my excitement and expectations as I trotted off to the theatre. Can you picture me? Now then, imagine my feelings of utter betrayal after watching an hour’s performance by an amateur theatre group of which three members could passably dance, but really shouldn't have bothered.

Determined to see the real thing I tried again, this time booking tickets for the Tsar’s Last Daughter: Sleeping Beauty at the Opera House. It was a magical evening and if someone could only have explained the presence of the shiny blue couple, who appeared on several occasions to dance and bow, I would have been utterly content.

I played tourist most of the week, following all the routes my guide book laid out: the Museum of Contemporary and Modern Art was excellent, five floors of paintings, sculpture and decorative arts, as was the little coffee shop across the road where I was served better-than-Enid-Blyton-descriptions homemade cake for 8 Koruna.

I loved the Mucha Museum, though it was tiny and parting with that much money caused some sharp pains to shoot up my arm. Prague Castle is staggering on the skyline and walking around the grounds took an afternoon, even though the gardens were closed for winter. But my favourite place, the spot I’ll forever remember and yearn to return to, is, as seems natural with me, a food palace: Klub Architektu. Within skipping distance from Old Town Square, this cosy haven is tucked beneath a church and design shop, and each day offers a lunch special from 12 to 4. I liked it so much I think I must have eaten there five times. Chicken, lentil, potato soups, special bread dumplings, dumplings with strawberries and sweet cheese, potato dumplings with smoked meat and sauerkraut, steamed broccoli with cheddar cheese were just some of the meals I absorbed.

I also went on a FREE tour, which was rather good. Tipping was optional so I did a runner, which left me feeling both guilty and happy, and had me pondering my moral compass. I am ever skeptical of tours but it did provide me with some valuable information, like, did you know that contact lenses were invented in the Czech Republic as were plastic explosives?

The oddest thing just happened - I'm sitting on the train to Warsaw and I'm sharing my compartment with five other people, all of whom are playing with their phones, and I thought back to a time when I was attached to my phone and on trying to draw its image from my memory came up blank. Isn't that bizarre? Two and a half months is all it takes to wipe something from my memory. Isn't that scary? I have less than a two and a half month memory recall!

Speaking of trains, now I've completely deviated from my blogging task, I suffer travel anxiety, obviously inherited from my mother. (Also note the jump in time - I write this a few hours later as my battery died.) After having my ticket checked on boarding this morning, the attendant told me that I would have to move to the front of the train by 2pm as these carriages would be separating. So I had at least 4 hours to relocate myself and belongings up front, and I honestly tried to wait it out. I was very comfortable; I even had a little table all to myself. But after 15 minutes I was practically running to get to the right carriage. And it didn't let up: what if I missed my train stop, what if I got on the wrong bus, what if I didn't get off where I was supposed to - this constant litany of nervousness bothered me until I arrived at Tamka Hostel, Warsaw, where I have my very own room, my very own bathroom ALL to myself, which is a delight. I can't wait to explore tomorrow as the nighttime glimpses I caught of the city were promising.

Before I go, I read a terrific book on the train this morning. Eva Rice's The Lost Art of Keeping Secrets. Rather an odd reading experience as I'd previously listened to this as an audio book while travelling to Melbourne with Rach, so I had the narrator's voices in my head - which might sound awful but it wasn't as the reader was as a good as the book.

Good night, must go collect my laundry - I didn't have to pay to do my washing! Luxury.

I hope you are all well - or at the very least are eating good food.

Love Mad xxx