Older women, dressed in flowered skirts and sensible shoes, being helped across streets or offered seats on metros without a moment’s hesitation by the youth of the nation.

The spires of the church on Namesti Miru, wickedly gothic, the dual clocks telling time 5 minutes apart.

A young couple kissing on the corner, a blur of color as the tram rushes past.

A restaurant menu printed in English ´Daily Menu. I smile, because I know that the menu printed in Czech will have prices that are at least half as much.

Rain. Tears of the gods, sudden, heavy, washing away the smog-filled air and the dust of the afternoon with deep rumblings and brilliant flashes of lightning.

Evening strolls, ice cream treats, orange-red sunsets, the heady scent of lime trees.

Four-piece brass bands on street corners, Sunday afternoon jazz, yet German punk and Eminem from car windows of little red Hondas.

Wicker baskets filled with cherries and baby pears carried home from the groves on Petrin Hill.

Heated conversations over draft beers in smoke-filled communal pubs, involving eccentric hand gestures and no doubt the words ´Vaclav´ and ´Communism.´

A sun-dappled, picturesque view of the castle across the Vltava that a photograph could never capture, and the fear that my besieged memory will also fail me…