AT 9:30 PM I was still outside, with street names I couldn’t read properly, at roughly 4-10 degree temperatures, until I found an inscription that read “Mustak,” a train station. My feet hurt. From Charles Bridge, I wanted to hit Old Town but got lost. My guide, whom I’d meet a day later, would tell me the Czechs don’t know how to define squares. (I suppose the Austrians are the same—the platzes aren’t exactly isometric and four-sided). Central European men, most likely drivers, were smoking outside, their taxis parked on an alley I hadn’t been to before. Or maybe I’d been there already, only that it was already dark. Groups of tall college students were shouting in the middle of the street—they seemed very happy, as I was—and were probably drunk, and I wasn't.