Once, I went to Praha

Lately I've been thinking a lot about my time in Europe. Mostly, I wish I could go back to London for an extended period of time, but also, I wish I could go back to Prague. Everything seemed sort of magical there. Every other block, it seemed, there would be a random statue. It was beautiful. All of it. Every building, every tree, every bridge, held some sort of mystery to me. Even the money seemed vaguely unreal, like I was in Wonderland, and no longer in Europe. We stayed in this hostel that made me feel like I was in a movie, and I read Girl with a Pearl Earring. Why I read it in Prague that weekend, and not the weekend I was in Amsterdam, is another mystery to me.

When I was in Prague, my hair was red. I remember, when my friends and I walked all the way up to the top of this steeple, I looked out at the beautiful, old city and told myself, Remember this. Remember. 

This is what I saw:  

My hair was blowing in my eyes, but it really didn't matter. Because I was there, in Praha, and the rooftops were red and so was my hair.