I set out that morning with modest ambitions — just a quick stroll, maybe a coffee, definitely no existential revelations. But Prague had other plans. The moment I stepped onto Charles Bridge, the city hit me with its full medieval charm offensive — towers, statues, spires, and that smug little Vltava River reflecting it all like a show-off.

From above, the red rooftops rolled out like a sea of paprika, stitched together by narrow cobbled veins full of tourists pretending not to be lost. I climbed a tower (because apparently I hate my legs) and stared at a skyline so beautiful it felt photoshopped by history itself. Petřín Hill brooded in the distance, the TV tower poked the clouds, and I stood there thinking, “Yeah, okay, Prague, you win.”

By the time I came down, the streets glowed in that golden hour haze, and I found myself in a café, drinking something that tasted suspiciously like happiness. Prague doesn’t just show you sights — it traps you in a daydream made of rooftops, riverlight, and the quiet conviction that you’ll definitely be back.