In 2015, for some reason, I got into a craze about Prague and ended up spending a good part of a week painting its portrait for a school assignment. I had never been to Prague, but for some reason I was convinced it would be a tremendously beautiful city with its castle, red roofs and cobblestones.

Finally, eight years later, I got the chance to visit Prague. By now, the craze has faded and I no longer romanticize it. There was only one place that I really, really wanted to see.

I followed the water to the bridge where the photo was taken. Gradually, I started to recognize the houses on the other shore. They were in a different angle, but the colours were right. More and more familiarities appeared as I kept walking: the balcony with the flowers, the skylights, the roofs and sunshades. Finally, I was by the bridge and it all fell into place. It sort of clicked. The sky was grey and heavy, the colours were duller but I recognized it and I felt like I knew it so well, having spent all the hours touching every little windowsill and curtain with my smallest brush, carefully mixing every shade in every shadow. The houses, parasols, roofs and the castle: I knew them all, having seen and touched every single part. Seeing it live was very cool.

It is amusing to me how this became some sort of meta-travel; a place I know and recognize because the hours I once spent painting from a photograph. Prague itself was beautiful but no more special than any other European city I’ve passed through this year. Instead, I am left with a thought that maybe I should start spending more time painting again, in this way seeing every crack and wave and flower patiently, possibly better than I can when just walking by.

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(This story told in pictures.)