Sometimes you stumble upon places that shouldn’t exist. Not because they’re particularly strange, but because they’re just too normal—like they’re slipping through the cracks of reality. Prague, Kampa Island is one of those places. A little island in the heart of the city where time doesn’t seem to flow the way it should. Three times we scooted over Charles Bridge, three times we circled Kampa.
Prague Kampa
A quiet island in the middle of Prague. Tourists rush up and down the Royal Route and Malá Strana, cameras clicking away. But here, the sounds are different—the rustling of trees, the gentle gurgle of the Čertovka stream, the distant footsteps of a lone jogger. The morning fog slowly lifts over the river, the frozen mill wheel creaks, and Charles Bridge reflects in the calm Vltava waters. Just as I think I hear a melody, I realize it’s only the wind slipping through the branches.
Kampa has places that seem to have mastered the art of invisibility. Wandering down its narrow side streets, I momentarily forget I’m in a capital city. The John Lennon Wall, tiny cottages, old street lamps, cobblestones that would tell thousands of stories if they could talk. Above one doorway, a small plaque reads: “Franz Kafka lived here.” I don’t know if he really did or if someone just made it up, but somehow, it fits. Kampa is the kind of place where Kafka could have been, even if he never was.
A man sits on a bench, reading a newspaper. He doesn’t turn the pages, just watches us. Hard to blame him—Zuzka is climbing onto one of the weird baby sculptures we found in the park, scooter in tow. Maybe he’s just waiting for her to slip and fall. Maybe he’s wondering if scooters belong on Kampa. But if there’s room for Švejk, octopus statues, and the Zeman Museum, why not us?
Footbiking through Prague Kampa
You’d think riding a footbike through Kampa means finally having space to speed up, wind in your hair, gliding effortlessly. Wrong. The stone pavement (eerily similar to the one in historic Meissen) shakes every ounce of optimism out of us. The bigger the wheels, the better.
Prague off-season is stunning. We pass the occasional group of tourists, a mother pushing a stroller, an old man feeding pigeons by the water. Figures that belong here, even if nobody knows their names.
Riding across Kampa isn’t exactly a challenge. But as we roll back into the city’s noise, we leave something behind. Maybe just an ordinary afternoon. Maybe a piece of ourselves. Kampa, though, remains the same—waiting for the next batch of wanderers looking for a quiet that belongs only to her. We continue along the Vltava towards Čech Bridge. Above us, on Letná Hill, the remnants of Stalin’s eternal flames and the National Technical Museum, where yesterday we admired a Spitfire and “President,” the first car ever made in Czech lands.
Vítkov
At 3 PM, we have a meeting at DOX, Prague’s center for contemporary art. We’ve got some time to kill. Someone has a bright idea: “Let’s climb up Vítkov, it’s almost on the way.” Everyone agrees. Then we waste an hour navigating through Florenc and Masaryk Square.
Prague has many places that feel stuck in the past. Vítkov is one of them—but those stairs, those endless stairs. Step by step, scooter on my shoulder, all under the silent gaze of the massive bronze Žižka, who managed to survive even the communist era.
We make it to the top. I’m wheezing like a steam engine. My fitness is officially dead. Leaning against the cold wall, I take in the panoramic view—Prague’s rooftops stretching like a river, church spires, industrial chimneys, Žižkov’s TV tower piercing the sky. Even the Vltava seems smaller, like it belongs in a city model rather than the real world.
The monument itself feels like it exists outside of time. Massive, slightly absurd—like a sci-fi movie set for a film that was never made. Originally built as a memorial for Czechoslovak independence and the final resting place of Czechoslovak legionnaires, it once held Masaryk’s marble sarcophagus. But after the death of Klement Gottwald, the communist rulers had other plans. They stripped away the legionnaire tributes, replacing them with socialist realism. Masaryk’s tomb was destroyed and used as building material. Thus, Vítkov became a grotesque mausoleum for a man whose cap kept falling off during embalming and an archive of the cult of personality.
And now?
Now, it’s just an empty space that absorbs whatever people bring to it—reminiscent optimism, nostalgy, forgotten ideals, fleeting glances from tourists who aren’t quite sure what to make of it.
A headstand on Vítkov
Bronze Žižka sits on his horse in eternal silence. Never speaks. Never moves. Just exists. Someone once described him as “a man who knew where he was going.” Yet, 30 years after the Velvet Revolution, we’re still not sure where we’re headed.
Zuzka begs for another photo. She strikes a pose.
“No bent knee this time,” I say.
“What do you want me to do?” she asks, annoyed.
“Do a headstand.”
We find a path with no stairs that takes us down to Žižkov Tunnel. We speed through Karlín, across Štvanice, and over Holešovice Bridge. Finally, we stop at the old slaughterhouse.
Holešovice Slaughterhouse
Places change. Buildings that once had one purpose transform into something entirely different. What was once filled with noise and blood now hosts quiet conversations and creative chaos. Holešovice Slaughterhouse (like Ostrava’s Plato) is one of those places—old walls that remember everything but only speak to those who know how to listen.
I step through the gate flanked by two stone cows and feel like I’ve crossed an invisible border between worlds. Where animals once roamed, now there are market stalls, artists, people who don’t quite fit into the city’s structured rhythms. The air carries the scent of coffee, fresh pastries, and something intangible—perhaps just echoes of a past that refuses to fade.
Holešovice market
The old hall, once home to slaughter ramps, now hosts booths selling handmade crafts, books, and records you won’t find in mainstream stores. People walk slowly, as if time here moves differently. There’s no rush. Every detail matters—the coffee cup in the hands of a barista, the reflection of light on an empty table, the soft strumming of a jazz guitar somewhere in the background.
Maybe it’s this contrast—brutality of the past and gentleness of the present—that creates a strange harmony.
Prague’s SOHO
Holešovice—a district both old and new, poor and rich, gritty and creative. A place where you can sit for hours, and no one will ask why you’re still there. Maybe because the slaughterhouse itself was once a place of decisions—do you stay, or do you go? Now, many people in Slovakia are asking themselves this same question, though in a different context. Have you already visit DOX centre of contemporary art?
As we leave Holešovice at dusk, I wonder—can a place truly reshape its past? Or does it just change its form and its people? The slaughterhouse hasn’t forgotten what it was. It has simply chosen to speak a new language.
One thing’s for sure: Prague Kampa, Vítkov, and Holešovice share something in common. Time moves differently here.
Three days in Czech, Prague on Kostka fotbikes opened our eyes. We discovered places most tourists never reach and, more importantly, saw Prague differently—more intimately, more deservedly. Footbikes, thanks to their easy handling and frequent stops, are far more practical for city exploration than bikes. With the city’s growing network of cycle paths, there are endless possibilities. Even cobbled streets aren’t a problem. Plus, it’s great for fitness.
By evening, Zuzka is glued to her phone, browsing Kostka’s website, searching for the best footbike for her. Remember: “Kostka+kolobezky+cz” 🙂
