It’s November 24th, and Prague looks just like you would imagine. The sky is light grey, almost purple. A slight drizzle floats down from the sky, soft as a child’s foot steps. There is a faint coat of fog that whispers from the cobblestones. A castle rests high above the city, almost as an afterthought. Charles Bridge looks the same as it always has except for one thing – there are hats perched atop all the weathered bronze statues that are rising from the bridge like sea-monsters. A French artist has placed the hats here, realising a vision he had six years before. A group of protestors has gathered on the bridge to speak out against the exhibit. They are okay with all of the statues except one – the statue of Jesus on the cross now features a dunce cap pointing toward heaven.

A local painter slouches in his chair, sheltered from the cold by a tattered goose-down jacket. He has been painting on the bridge since he was fifteen. With a gloved hand, he paints the scene that unfolds before him. His palette is smeared with shades of greys, of black. With delicate brush strokes he captures details that hurried tourists fail to see. The angle of a bird as it flies into the southern wind, the way a slender woman’s black hat contrasts with her white pea coat, meshing with her greying hair. A collection of his work surrounds him, exact reproductions of his days spent on the bridge.

A couple pauses at his stand to look at the paintings. The wife uses words like classic and refined to describe his work. The couple is on their honeymoon, and after this they will go to Budapest. The man is too busy worrying about pickpockets and staying on schedule to appreciate the beauty before him. She tries to kiss him softly on his cheek, but his eyes never stop watching what is going on around him. He is always in a hurry, she thinks, even on vacation. He eyes every man that nears them with suspicion. She points out a painting she thinks would look good over their bed. He says she should buy it without ever looking at it, not noticing as a small child slips her slender fingers into his back pocket removing his wallet.

A small boy holds his mother’s hand as he skips along the cracks of the stones that line the bridge. She asks him if he likes the hats on the statues. He answers, ‘No, they scare me.’ The boy notices a man selling candy and asks his mom for a sweet. The man with the candy cart has sold candy on the bridge for almost ten years. He is unshaven and hates kids. He hates his job, he thinks it’s dirty and uncivilised. It always rains here, he thinks, but they still come. I wish the Vltava would rise from its banks and they’d all flow away. ‘A bag of roasted chestnuts,’ the mother says. ‘Dekuji‘, says the man.

There is a group of nine German tourists on a walking tour of the city. Their tour guide scurries before them, carrying a large yellow umbrella. Walking past the protesters, the Germans wonder what they are angry about. One of them, a portly man in an Adidas tracksuit understands they are unhappy with the hat Jesus is wearing. The protesters don’t do much apart from sitting in front of the statue with signs that no one understands. No one thinks of removing Jesus’ hat. The Germans hear the sound of music ahead and hurry to see where it is coming from.

Along the edge of the bridge a puppeteer makes his clown faced marionette strum the guitar to a flamenco track rising forth from a hidden boom box. Small children, with cheeks glazed in red from the cold, smile as the marionette bounces through the air, defying gravity. Their cheers are drowned by the dull hiss of the water swimming beneath their feet. The man with the puppet likes his job, he likes watching how the children and adults smile. People drop their spare change in an empty guitar case and pay him compliments. But he only speaks Czech and doesn’t understand what they are saying.

An elderly Scottish couple sees the Germans and thinks it is much too cold to be out in just tracksuits. They see a man walking a small terrier with a leather leash. What an ugly dog, they think. They wonder, Why do people love such ugly things? The couple nears a crowd of people speaking seven different languages. Every one in the crowd is touching a statue of a female who is now, thanks to the French artist, wearing a cowboy hat. Years of hands touching the same spot have left the bronze statue with its original luster. Why would every one want to touch a statue, they wonder? The Scottish couple notices a man in a dark brown coat carrying an umbrella approach an attractive woman. He is much too ugly to speak with her, they think.

The Scottish couple edges past two American college students waiting in line to touch the statue. Last night while out drinking absinthe, the students were told by two attractive Czech girls that if you touch the polished bronze section and make a wish it will come true within the day. They are both still hung over and not sure if they believe the legend. The dark haired student wonders if it is just a legend made up by the Czechs so they can laugh at the stupid tourists who flock to the statue, and parrot-like, touch the shining foolish golden shine. They both take a picture by the statue anyway. As they walk away the shorter student pulls out his notebook and writes a quick note about how the lights of the castle look like miniature orbs of fire. Later he will go to his hostel and write a poem with that metaphor.

The man in the dark brown coat nears the attractive woman and fumbles out, ‘Mluvíte anglicky?’ I’m American, she answers. Her hair looks like harvested wheat and she has fair skin the colour of pastry dough. He asks if she knows the best way to walk to the astrological clock. ‘I am not sure really,’ she says, ‘but I was going to try and find it myself.’ She is taller than he is. He asks if she would like to try and find it with him. She wonders if it is safe to go with a man she doesn’t know. Then she decides she doesn’t want to be alone anymore, and says, ‘I’d like that’.

As they walk down the bridge they pass a local artist slouching on his chair, sheltered from the cold by a tattered goose-down jacket. With a gloved hand he paints the scene that unfolds before him. The sky is light grey, almost purple. A faint coat of fog whispers from the cobblestones. With delicate brush strokes he captures details that hurried tourists fail to see. A couple on their honeymoon pauses to look at his work while an elderly Scottish couple watches an attractive woman walk away with a man much shorter than she. Charles Bridge looks the same as it always has except for one thing. The statue of Jesus on the cross now features a dunce cap pointing toward heaven.

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