Once, long ago, we traveled by bus to Paris with a stop in Prague. It was not a regular route, but some kind of excursion trip.
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I traveled with my then best friend, I was young and everything seemed very fun. Except maybe that the bus traveled at night (how good it is that those terrible times when we spent nights on buses are over). On the other hand, I was younger, more tolerant of discomfort, and the fact that we were traveling so far with friends for the first time gave me energy.
Then, I remember, in the morning when we arrived in Prague, our bus parked near some shabby stadium in an equally shabby district and its passengers, despite the sleepless night, scattered at lightning speed to explore the city.
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Why lightning speed? Because don’t you remember how Lithuanians looked at Prague in earlier times? For a post-Soviet compatriot who had only seen the shabby ugliness of the Soviet Union, it was a city of amazing beauty. And it didn’t matter that Prague itself was communist, to our parents it seemed like a dream. And not even completely unreachable, in rare cases the Soviets allowed their citizens to travel to satellite states.
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