Five Nights in Prague: The Day It Rained

Written by Marco Townson
Part of the “Five Nights in Prague” Series
Read Day 3 – The Day We Chose Quiet Observation

It rained on Day 4.

The kind of fine misty rain that soaks your shoulders quietly. That softens the edges of a city. That slows your pace and invites you to look—really look—at where you are. We’d had a few fast-paced days, but something about the grey skies above Prague forced a gentler rhythm on us. And we didn’t resist it.

We left the hotel around midday and made our way slowly up through the orchards of Petřín Gardens. They were peaceful, even in the drizzle—perhaps especially so. The view of the city was cloudy but romantic, like a watercolour in motion. Birds flitted between trees, and even the occasional army patrol, with rifles slung neatly across their chests, didn’t disturb the hush.

We wandered uphill, winding our way towards Petřín Tower. Now, don’t let the Eiffel-esque aesthetic fool you—this tower’s climb is no small feat. But the base itself is a lovely stop, surrounded by fairytale-esque buildings, aged trees, and that unmistakable scent of wet stone and old timber. We didn’t go up the tower this time—sometimes it's enough to simply be near something iconic, without needing the view from the top.

From there, we let our boots take us downhill again, following paths that twisted past quiet churches, steep cobbled streets, and the occasional curious dog. Eventually, the lure of warmth (and snacks) pulled us toward Anděl, an area we'd not explored yet.

It was in Anděl that we experienced something that’s stayed with us. We nipped into a McDonald’s—nothing fancy, just a quick bite. And the vibe changed. Stares. Glares. A coldness we’d not felt in Prague until now. It’s hard to describe the way a room can shift when you walk in as a visibly queer couple—but if you know, you know. We ate quietly, avoiding eye contact, and left as soon as we could.

Retail therapy took the edge off. We spent time in the Nový Smíchov Shopping Centre, popped into Zara, wandered through an electronics shop (because we’re geeks, obviously), and picked up a few essentials in Rossmann. We laughed. We let it go.

Later that evening, we headed to Malá Strana again and found a restaurant called Melichar Trost’s Café Bar. It looked beautiful from outside, warm and golden-lit against the damp night. We ordered at the bar and settled under the outdoor heating, watching the trams, the rain, the town just being.

But inside was a group of local lads who… well, made us feel very unwelcome. Stares again. Silence when we walked in. By the time we went in to pay, they were laughing and making hand gestures—mocking ones. I clocked one of them asking the waiter if we’d tipped, and the waiter responded sharply:
“Of course!”
Loyalty, in that moment, from a stranger. It meant more than I let on.

We walked home quietly, feet tired, spirits mixed. It had been a good day—genuinely—but it also came with the kind of reality check you can only get when travelling as yourself, openly and honestly.

Still, we’ll remember the towers and the mist, the dripping trees and the quiet paths. The soft clink of coffee cups on wet tables. The way the city let us in, even if not everyone did.