Passing Through Prague
A painfully detailed account of an introvert’s first hostel experience.
I watched as the landscape changed its form with every turn. Looming green hills slowly gave way to vast, beautiful pastures as far as the eye could see.
A faint moment of recollection brought my best friend’s laughter to the empty seat beside me. We were on this road together, five long years ago, and I had just made a joke about how it looks just like the Northeast region of our country. It felt strangely familiar back then and it brought up the same thought the second time around.
Except this time, there is no laughter. It’s only me and my thoughts trying to break through the music.
I hate to admit how incredible it feels.
I can do this, I quietly whisper to myself with a smile.
Can you really?
There it is. Doubt. For the first time since I’d pressed “submit” on my hostel reservation and purchased my bus tickets, doubt came creeping in.
Going places by myself is not new to me. I spent five weeks in Italy by myself and went on an excursion to European Union institutions despite not knowing anybody. But that was before the global pandemic knocked me and my social anxiety straight back to square one.
Ever since I had spent nearly a year with no human interaction, my anxiety has been through the roof. I slowly managed to get around to talking to people again. Working as a barista helped immensely, but all of that was done within the safe limits of my comfort zone — a city I had grown to love despite its many flaws. It became my space.
And in my space, I don’t have a problem going to lunch by myself, taking a walk in silence, or reading on the most randomly placed bench. I might take a moment before going to a cool-looking jam-packed cafe, but I still walk in the second time around. Sometimes it’s even easier to do things by myself there, get accustomed to it without the pressure of embarrassing myself in front of someone I care about, and then do those things with other people once I’ve gotten used to it on my own.
Those are the thoughts I dwell on for eight hours, enjoying my silence and some peace after a hectic couple of months.
It feels incredible to be by myself.
But it also feels wrong.
Could I really be a solo traveler?
The easy answer is no. It’s simple — I enjoy traveling with someone else, sharing the experience, filling in the gaps in perspective, and making incredible memories that keep those people in my heart forever.
The not-so-easy answer lies in those hectic couple of weeks. I crave to be alone. I need to be alone.
And yet, I booked a hostel. Like an idiot.
After eight hours of complete silence and peace, I found myself in a bustling city. I got lost twice on my way to the hostel. I was an hour late for my estimated check-in. I walked into my room and it suddenly hit me.
I will be sharing a room with seven strangers for a week.
In my self-labeled introvert world, the rash decision to book a hostel was the absolute dumbest thing I have ever done.
Staring at random people’s luggage dispersed throughout the room made me want to crawl into bed, pull the curtain, and never come back.
I gave in to that feeling. I excused it as being tired from traveling all day and the hostel was half empty anyhow because everyone had gone on a pub crawl that started a couple of minutes before my arrival. I told myself I deserve a quiet night in to mentally prepare myself for what was to come.
Sleep would not come to me that night. Unfamiliar sounds and voices rustling about outside the door and on the street kept me up for most of the night. I was terrified of what people might think of me, a random girl crashing into their room. I kept my things in a backpack to take up as little space as possible. I didn’t want to be in anyone’s way.
I snuck out of the hostel at 6 am the following morning.
I strolled through the sleeping city, taking in the crisp, cool air. Red and brown rooftops were burning in the morning sun as the music in my ears guided me through narrow streets and across vast squares; squares usually too crowded with tourists for a person to be able to fully appreciate them.
I walked across the Charles Bridge and tried to see beyond the misty surface of Vltava. A couple of dissatisfied wedding photographers and their newlywed models tapped their feet anxiously as they waited for me to pass. I sped up. Photobombing was not on my to-do list.
The city enchanted me once again.
Two hours had passed before my body gently reminded me that I have yet to feed it its daily dose of caffeine.
A pre-saved list of specialty coffee shops across town proved to be a lifesaver. I nearly missed the fact that I had just passed one of the first stops on my mini coffee tour. It was the most adorable place, barely bigger than a closet, with two tiny tables outside and a collection of beautifully colored mugs on display. I told myself I will be back to get one (which, naturally, never happened).
The barista smiled as I gave her my order and asked which type of coffee they serve. “You work with coffee?” she asked immediately. “How did you know?” I inquired. “We all seem to have the same order,” she smiled.
I immediately felt at home.
As I sat on a tiny stool outside the shop with my cup of coffee, a dessert, and a large glass of lemonade, it hit me.
No matter where I go, no matter how alone I feel, cute specialty coffee shops will always have a way of making me feel at home.
The next two hours went by in a flash. I wrote a short story. I ordered another coffee. I finished a book. I helped a stranger find her way as if I were a local.
It took everything I had to convince myself to get up and leave. I had so much more to discover, so much more to experience. I promised myself a quick trip to the library to see the seemingly endless tower of books and that was enough motivation to leave the comfort of a coffee shop.
Had I not been caught up in the beauty of a sleeping city, I would have visited the library first. Instead, I had my first ever proper tourist experience — standing in line for nearly half an hour to take a quick look and record a short video.
I have never felt more like a tourist. Middle school kids were screaming around me, pushing each other out of the way to see something none of them cared about, their teachers hanging around the back, happy to have a moment to check their phones.
My bubble had burst.
I wanted to go home.
Instead, I tried to get my momentum back. I headed towards Petrin Hill, determined to regain the feeling of calmness that had been accompanying me all morning.
The first drop fell from the sky as I stared at a big billboard, trying to figure out which way would lead me to the top.
Not today, something told me.
It was Google Maps. A quick glance at it was enough to realize I was an hour away from the hostel.
Stubborn enough to walk everywhere, I turned away from the billboard and headed back.
It felt like the longest walk of my life. I had been walking for nearly eight hours total that day, not including my long coffee break. I hadn’t eaten anything and I wasn’t sure I was going to make it.
The worst part, however, was knowing the hostel would probably be full of travelers hiding from the rain.
Anxiety was building up in the pit of my stomach, breaking through my favorite playlist and into my brain. I cursed the weather, I cursed myself for not taking an umbrella, and I cursed the universe for ruining my well-deserved getaway.
All I wanted was a bit of peace.
The clouds ripped apart the moment I set foot onto the hostel terrace. Much to my delight, my room was empty when I walked in. The entire place was like a ghost town, with not a single soul in sight.
I couldn’t help but smile as I headed to the empty common room couches, plugged in my laptop, and made myself a cup of (painfully disappointing) instant coffee.
Within minutes, I caught a figure waving at me out of the corner of my eye. I didn’t see him come in. I took out my headphones and put on my polite customer service smile.
I can do this, I gave myself a little pep talk as I fought the urge to excuse myself and hide in my room.
The rest is still a bit of a blur. I don’t remember much of what he was talking about; something about fitness, yoga, restoring your energy flow, and how much he had to drink last night.
Without saying much, I found myself in an hour-long conversation about absolutely nothing. It was refreshing, talking to somebody who didn’t (and didn’t want to) know anything about me other than where I’m from and where I’m going.
Just as I was about to leave to recharge my social battery in the comfort of my bed, the Americans showed up like a breath of fresh air. Something about them made me stay.
Curiosity, perhaps, as I’ve never encountered an actual American, much less two of them. We talked about coffee, beer, and literature — all the makings of a beautiful friendship. As they said goodbye, I secretly wished I had enough courage to ask if I could tag along with them. They visited a bookstore/café and I sat on the terrace, listening to a bunch of guys talking about what psychedelics feel like.
My mind was weighing heavy on me. I had not seen a single girl come in or out of the hostel. It wasn’t scary, per se, more uncomfortable to think that I might have been the only solo traveling female in the entire establishment.
Hearing my everyone’s reactions to my proclamation that I was to go on a trip by myself was burning fresh in my memory. You’re going by yourself? Are you sure? Aren’t you scared? What if something happens to you?
Funnily enough, the notion of being kidnapped did not scare me as much as the realization that I would have to talk to strangers.
That night, after I had successfully recharged my social battery by reading in my bed for two hours, I headed back out onto the terrace.
I sat down across to the Dutch guy as he was the only person I knew and the French dude next to him pulled a couple of beers from his kitten-shaped backpack. I graciously accepted as I did not bring any cash with me and you could only buy beer at the hostel with cash. Besides, I felt like I could use something to take the edge off.
Before I knew it, conversation was flowing (and so was beer), about everything and nothing; about travel, friendships, freedom, work, disappointments, love lives, and family dynamics.
I met an Israeli guy who got his life back on track, and came to Prague to reconnect with his ex and daughter only to be scammed out of 1,500 € when trying to find an apartment for his family. We met his ex and her dog as well. She agreed to let him spend the holidays with his daughter. He left us his Palo Santo stick to cleanse our energies and send good things our way.
An older German gentleman spent the evening with us before departing for Greece in search of sunshine and work after living in his van for four years, chasing summer across Europe. He sent me a couple of Workaway links afterward because he heard me mention I’m looking to spend my summer working abroad. He told me I had a beautiful soul and a determined spirit (in a surprisingly non-creepy way!) and that he has no doubt everything will work out for me in the end.
The Americans came back, the Australians finally woke up (they slept through the day after what sounded like a very exciting night), and a bunch of people I’ve briefly interacted with but never learned their names came to join us on the terrace.
In total, I have spoken to fourteen strangers that night. I have gotten to know them and they got to know me. We talked, laughed, cried, and drank, and in a couple of hours, we became friends for a night.
About halfway through the night, it hit me. I felt at peace.
No anxiety, no jitters that usually take over when I’m surrounded by a large group of people or whenever there’s alcohol involved and I don’t feel in control.
Nothing but peace and happiness.
A strange feeling for an introvert in the company of strangers.
For a night, I didn’t have to worry. I felt like the truest, most honest version of myself.
The next morning I sat on the terrace and drank my coffee in peace.
The Dutch guy joined me in comfortable silence. We were the only people awake. Sunrays bursting through the clouds were bringing forth the promise of a good day. A day that quickly turned bitter-sweet.
“There’s something about this place,” he said. “I have met a lot of people when I’ve traveled, but none like you guys. Every once and again we get really lucky.”
I nodded. I didn’t have anything to add. I have never done this before. Less than twenty-four hours ago I was battling crippling anxiety and had an intense craving for solitude. Now the thought of people leaving and the realization I will never see them again made me a bit sad.
I never thought of myself as someone who gets easily attached. It might take a while but when it happens, it hits like a truck and it doesn’t go away.
I am still wondering whether it was the thrill of a new experience or the fact that we bonded over having arrived there with the same purpose. Maybe we simply got lucky to find ourselves in such a place at such a time.
The Dutch guy left that morning. The German girl I connected with the night before was still asleep. The Americans seemed to have vanished into the air.
I grabbed breakfast with a random Belgian who was banned from his flight for having too much luggage and was forced to come back to the hostel after spending the night at the airport. Something felt off; maybe the way he spoke so quietly I could barely hear him, maybe the fact that we didn’t seem to have much in common.
My plan for the day collapsed as he decided to join me in visiting The Illusion Museum. I didn’t know how to say no. I felt bad, having already had breakfast with him and knowing he had had a rough night. We went back to the hostel to grab our things and ran into the French guy and Australian girl I met last night.
It turned out their bus didn’t leave until 11 pm and they had nothing to do all day.
Contrary to what I believed to be my nature, I invited them to tag along with us.
He was an artsy music producer. She was a gorgeous student of international relations. They seemed too cool to hang out with me. I didn’t expect them to say yes.
Half an hour later, the four of us were on our way. My gallery was soon filled with silly pictures, a breathtaking art video of a light painter making a private painting of a whale just for us, and delicious (vegan!) food from a restaurant with the most beautiful purpose.
We ate at a place that only employs formerly incarcerated or homeless people, giving them a chance to reclaim their place in society. They even had a system in place where the guests could pay for an extra meal a person in need could come in and take any time they need it.
Despite the weather playing tricks on us, we shared a piece of cake on a boat and roamed around a festival in the park celebrating International Dance Day.
It was lovely.
One by one, everyone eventually left.
Every departure was met with sorrow, hugs, and empty promises to keep in touch. We all knew the most interaction we will ever have in the future will be liking each other’s Instagram stories depicting our next destination.
Mornings became bitter-sweet. Another fully packed backpack leaning against the wall. Another half-empty cup of coffee is left on the table. Another series of “Maybe we’ll bump into each other again somewhere!”.
I spent my last two days by myself, walking around the city, observing strangers running about their day. It was painfully easy to differentiate the tourists from the locals. It was easy to imagine where they were off to, where they came from, and what stories were running around in their head. I took photographs of your couples enjoying their first spring in Prague, an elderly couple sharing a pastry by the river, a musician intentionally hidden in a narrow alley, away from the bustling crowds.
“Do you feel like you are less than because you’re an introvert?”
Lio’s words wouldn’t leave my head.
“Just because being by yourself gives you energy, it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to experience exciting things, book a hostel, chat with strangers, and go recharge whenever you feel like it. Being an introvert doesn’t make you dull. It makes people appreciate it that much more when you choose to spend your energy on them.”
A special thank you goes out to Dimitri and Daniel, Arthur and Courtney, Evan and Lio, Emma and Jack, Charlie and Alice and Henny, and everyone else whose names never came up because our stories are more important than our names.
And to the city of Prague.
Thank you for making me feel at home. Thank you for being so open-minded and generous with your gifts. Thank you for having specialty coffee shops. Thank you for helping me heal in ways you will never understand.
