Roses for Kafka in Prague

*The Astronomical Clock and Old Town Square in the distance*

Prague has always been the kind of city that stirs something primal in the soul. The spires cutting sharply into a smoky twilight sky, the cobblestones that feel older than time itself, and the layers of history hidden beneath every archway and alley make it less a city and more a dream you’re constantly trying to interpret. When I stepped off the airplane last week with my daughter in tow, it wasn’t just to attend Prague Art Week or the premiere of Franz, the much-anticipated Kafka biopic—it was to fulfill a promise.

Last June in Basel, I vowed that if the trip brought a wonderful breakthrough—and it did, with the surreal news of a suddenly resolved 19-year battle for Veterans Benefits—I’d bring roses to Kafka’s grave as a token of gratitude. While it may sound morbid, this isn’t an uncommon practice in Chamorro culture to make devotions to those who’ve already departed.

However, before the trip, I learned that it is not customary to place flowers on Jewish cemeteries; instead, visitors leave small stones, a timeless gesture symbolizing respect and remembrance. This intrigued me, and I began to wonder how I might honor this tradition with a personal, artistic touch. I then resolved to paint roses onto twelve smooth stones, a fusion of tradition and symbolism, to leave at Franz Kafka's grave; a quiet homage to the man and the enduring shadows his words have cast over my life.

Kafka has always been more than just a literary shadow. His restless intellect, his themes of alienation and absurdity, and yes, even his frustrations with bureaucracy mirror chapters of my own story. To pay homage in his home city and bring my daughter along for this layered pilgrimage? That feels like enough reason to hop on a quick flight from Milan to Prague.

Checking Into Kafka’s Past

*Hotel Century Old Town Prague | The former Workers Accident Institute of the Kingdom of Bohemia (Kafka’s workplace for 14 years)*

We stayed at the Hotel Century Old Town, a beautiful irony in itself. What is now a luxurious retreat for weary travelers had once been the Workers Accident Insurance Institute for the Kingdom of Bohemia, where Kafka spent nearly 14 years clocking in, scribbling on company stationery, and wrestling with existential malaise. I could almost picture him there, absentmindedly drafting what would become The Trial while writing reports on industrial injuries.

As a writer, a veteran, and a walking paradox myself, I wandered the halls where Kafka once dreaded his time. Waking up where Kafka worked felt oddly poetic—sinking into a well-worn armchair with coffee in hand, reflecting on bureaucracy, duty, and the absurdity of human existence. His old office, now room 214, has been transformed into a larger suite in the hotel, but its history lingered in the air. Unfortunately, the room was already booked throughout our stay, yet this took nothing away from how special it felt.

Later, the hotel introduced us to a few kindred "spirits," as if the echoes of Kafka’s world still resonated, weaving the past and present into something hauntingly familiar.

Charles University, Zdenku, and Cougardom

My connection to Prague isn’t purely literary revisionism. Back in 2006-2007, I walked the Charles University halls en route to Czech and political science classes, Kafka's alma mater a century before me. He graduated in 1906 with a law degree, the supposed “practical” path dictated by filial obligation. A century later, I was there clinging to the idealism of studying abroad while trying to carve out some semblance of self amidst the city’s brooding beauty. That year abroad had its Kafkaesque moments that were tinged with a quiet loneliness I think Kafka would have appreciated.

*Czech class in the morning (September 2006, Charles University, Prague)*

Bringing my daughter to this city, to retrace some of those steps while continuing to introduce her to Kafka’s world, feels both deeply personal and entirely new. She has become familiar with Kafka mostly through my art and writing, including a trip we took here back in early 2022, but there’s a curious wisdom in her that I think would resonate with his darker, more questioning sensibilities. Walking over Charles Bridge, under the hungry gaze of those centuries-old statues, I wonder what she’ll make of it all on our way to meet my beloved friend, Zdeněk.

I first met Zdeněk—Zdenku as I call him now as I’m now Míša to him—boarding a bus from Munich to Prague, and from the moment we started talking, it was as if the distance between us and the city melted away. As a recently returned war Veteran, the reactions I received from my younger fellow compatriots seemed to fall into two extremes: “Boo! You’ve killed people in Iraq!” or “Yay! You’ve killed people in Iraq!” Strangely, not a single American student asked me what I actually did—they simply assumed and judged me based on their own fears, desires, and prejudices. As a minority woman and a Veteran, you never truly get used to this kind of casual, uninformed judgment. Ever.

My initial impression of how my academic year in Prague would be wasn’t shaping up to be a positive one. But the mood shifted when an older Czech gentleman with wire-rimmed glasses and a white beard, Zdeněk, approached me as we boarded the bus to Prague. With a curious and earnest expression, he asked, “Were you the one in the war?”

*Aperitivi with our beloved Zdenku at Lávka*

He was one of the Czech staff members accompanying our group and had the opportunity to read all of our bios, and his calm, thoughtful demeanor immediately set him apart. We talked about everything—history, language, life—and by the time we arrived in Prague, I knew I had found a kindred spirit. Zdeněk offered to tutor me in Czech, a gesture that was both generous and, as I would later learn, deeply characteristic of his nature. He had a way of making you feel seen, of drawing out the best parts of you, even when you didn’t know they were there.

Over time, our bond deepened into something rare and enduring. Zdeněk became a gatekeeper to reality for me, a steady presence in a world that often felt chaotic. He guided me through Prague’s streets, its history, and its soul, sharing stories that made the city come alive in ways I could never have imagined. Visiting him in Prague is always special, not just because of the city’s undeniable charm, but because of the warmth and wisdom he brought to every encounter. Whether it was a quiet coffee at Café Louvre or a heartfelt goodbye at the tram stop, Zdeněk’s words stayed with me: “Don’t let the world make you close yourself off and be cold. When you find your příroda, go to it quickly, and be happy again.” He was more than a friend; he was a reminder of the kind of person I wanted to be.

When I first arrived in Prague in 2006, the city felt like a Kafkaesque trial I wasn’t prepared to face. The Metro stations became a labyrinth of suspicion, where I was constantly stopped, my papers scrutinized with an intensity that felt as cold and unrelenting as the winter air. The stares, the rudeness, the casual racism—it all pressed down on me, like the weight of an invisible bureaucracy determined to remind me I didn’t belong. On one of the worst days, I found myself crying at El Centro, a Spanish and Latin American restaurant that still exists today in Malá Strana, overwhelmed by the absurdity and isolation of it all. I couldn't make it home fast enough to cry in private, and ended up wiping away tears in a corner over an espresso. Prague, with its Gothic spires and cobblestone streets, felt like a city that had stepped out of Kafka’s pages—a place that mirrored the unease and alienation I felt within myself.

*Old Town and the TV tower in the distance*

Fast forward to 2025, and the Prague I returned to felt like a different city—or perhaps I had finally escaped the shadow of Kafka’s Castle. The edges seemed softer, the people more welcoming, or maybe I had learned how to navigate its rhythms without feeling like a stranger in a strange land. The same streets that once felt unyielding now felt like old friends, their twists and turns inviting rather than intimidating. Conversations were engaging, the city’s charm more accessible, and I found myself at ease in a way I never had before. Prague hadn’t just become more welcoming; I had become more comfortable in my own skin, ready to embrace the city for all it was and all it had to offer—no longer trapped in an endless maze, but free to write my own story.

It’s funny how life works sometimes. Back in 2006, when I was 25 and in the best shape of my life, I didn’t exactly have anyone falling over themselves to pay me compliments. On the contrary, I'd get an occasional obscene comment from a passer-by, but nothing remotely resembling healthy flirtatious behavior. Yet here I am in 2025, 44 years old, and I’ve somehow been calling in a lot more attention—especially in Prague, of all places.

A young lioness on the left (2006) and a perilous cougar on the right (2025)

What the hell is happening here? I caught myself thinking this multiple times in the span of a week as men who couldn’t have been more than thirty had no problem showering me with compliments, engaging in prolonged soft gazes, or carrying on in flirtatious banter that lasted longer than it should have. It’s flattering, no doubt, but also mildly baffling. Maybe it’s cougar confidence, maybe it’s the city’s newfound charm, or maybe Prague just has a soft spot for middle-aged women now—whatever it is, I’ll take it.

A Hauntingly Beautiful Homecoming

Prague isn’t just beautiful—it’s haunting. The kind of place that makes you question the thin line between history and folklore. Its evenings descend with a surprising quiet, church bells fighting to break through the mist, while shadows curl around the bases of gothic towers. The Old Town Square has that eerie ability to make you feel both transported back to Kafka’s era and entirely alone, as if history never really ended—it just keeps echoing.

And oh, how it fits the premiere of Franz. A biopic screening in the city that sometimes seems to struggling in claiming Kafka entirely as its own. There’s something inherently sublime about seeing this work here, amidst the red rooftops and surreal whispers of a city that has always felt unnervingly alive. Watching Franz in this context might feel less like viewing a film and more like stepping into a time capsule. Every frame, every moment, held against the backdrop of Kafka’s world.

The excitement, of course, is layered with a bit of bittersweet irony. Kafka could probably never have imagined a biopic celebrating his legacy, yet here we are, posthumously adoring the man who once scribbled, “Life’s splendor forever lies in wait about each one of us in its fullness.”

I wax poetic about the film in this link, and for good reason. I didn’t quite know what to expect at first—approaching it cautiously, unsure of how Kafka’s intricate world would translate to the screen. But after watching countless trailers and behind-the-scenes footage on YouTube and Instagram, my anticipation grew steadily. When I finally watched Franz, it exceeded every expectation, delivering a mesmerizing and masterfully crafted experience.

Perhaps the most striking feature of Franz is its meticulous attention to the quiet, unsettling details that define Kafka’s world. Agnieszka Holland’s masterful direction treads delicately between the surreal and the mundane, evoking the same tension that lingers in Kafka’s prose. Cobblestone alleys vanish into swirling fog, and dimly lit rooms seem to echo with the weight of unsaid words. It’s not just the visual language that captures these dualities; the film’s pacing feels intentionally arrhythmic, as though time itself bends and distorts to Kafka’s strange rhythm, leaving the audience suspended somewhere between fascination and dread.

The cast, too, breathes with subdued brilliance. The actor embodying Franz, Idan Weiss, with a haunted gaze and perpetually unsettled posture, steps into Kafka’s shoes with a disquieting ease. Dialogue is sparse, but his expressions and silences speak volumes, hinting at the writer’s inner turmoil and unspoken longings. What emerges is not merely a biography but an immersive exploration of Kafka’s soul—a fragile, transient snapshot of a man balancing on the tremulous line between genius and despair. It’s a cinematic experience that, like Kafka’s writings, resists simplification and rewards careful, unhurried attention.

We came back from the film amid a light drizzle, the kind of weather that makes cobblestone streets glisten under the faint glow of streetlights. The old Workers Accident Institute, now converted into a hotel, loomed ahead, its austere architecture steeped in history and whispers of its past purpose. It felt like stepping into another layer of the story we had just witnessed on screen—Kafka’s presence seemed to linger in the air, as though the walls themselves had absorbed the weight of his existential thoughts.

As we approached the elevator, we noticed an elderly couple stepping in ahead of us. Their movements were quiet, almost solemn, as though they too were caught in the strange liminality of the night. I turned to Iselda and said, "Let's wait for them to go up first." Moments passed, but the elevator door never closed. Curious, we peeked inside, only to find it completely empty. A chill ran down my spine, and Iselda’s expression mirrored the unease that settled over us. The air in the elevator seemed heavier than it should have been, an invisible weight pressing down, and we felt an inexplicable urge to retreat. Without a word, we both chose the stairs instead, climbing in silence with the hair on our necks still standing on end.

The encounter felt like something Kafka himself might have penned—a fleeting moment of absurdity and dread, where reality falters and leaves us stranded in its cracks. It brought to mind The Trial, where Josef K. navigates a world filled with strange, disembodied authority and uncanny events that evade logic. That night, the boundaries between the tangible and the unknown blurred, leaving us to wonder if the hotel’s shadowed halls held secrets better left undisturbed.

Dining with Kafka

After meeting up with Zdenek again and strolling through the cobblestone streets of Prague, delightfully listening to him sing about Prague's history, we found ourselves at an arcade called "Levels." It was like stepping into a chic, European reinterpretation of Dave & Busters—sleek, modern, and brimming with games that kept us entertained for hours. The laughter, flashing lights, and hum of digital sounds set the perfect contrast to the historic cityscape we had just wandered through. Later that evening, we decided to return to the hotel and dine at its restaurant, aptly named Kafka.

*Even as you drink your “Metamorphosis” cocktail, make no mistake about it. Krteček is always watching…*

I remember wearing my black pinstriped jumpsuit, feeling a touch out of place but also strangely at ease as we entered the nearly empty dining room. To our surprise, we had the space entirely to ourselves within the first ten minutes. The quiet amplified the room's ambiance, and Iselda, always attuned to the otherworldly, commented that perhaps if we opened the door at the end of the hall, we might find ourselves swept into another era. Her musing made me laugh, though I couldn’t help but think of my manuscript, Koffee With Kafka, where a seemingly unassuming basement door in a hotel reveals flickers of past trauma and timelines entangling like threads. The parallels made the moment feel uncanny, as if fiction had begun bleeding into reality.

The food that evening was exquisite—a feast of flavors that seemed to transcend expectations. Yet, as course after course arrived, the emptiness of the restaurant lingered as a quiet mystery. Were we the only guests, or had time folded in on itself, leaving us dining in a pocket of suspended existence? Whether it was a portal or simply another unusual night, the evening left an impression, one that lingers every time I revisit the strokes of magic and mystery that Prague so readily offers.

After dinner, we decided to take our cameras out to capture the charm of the hotel’s halls, focusing especially on the second floor where the Kafka Suite, room 214, was located—his old office for 14 years. The architecture and ambiance of the space felt timeless, almost like stepping into another era. On our way up from the ground floor to the first floor and toward our room, Iselda suddenly paused as I turned the corner. Her voice, a mix of excitement and unease, called out to me. She said there was someone in the hallway, dressed as Kafka. Intrigued, I turned back immediately and walked with her to see for myself. When we rounded the corner, the hallway was empty. The mysterious figure had vanished.

*No worries, it’s just me…anticipating Bohemian rizz*

Curious, I asked Iselda what the person looked like. She described him in detail, a dark suit and bowler hat, saying he resembled Kafka as depicted in the images she’d seen throughout the city and the premiere and he had an expression of surprise. With a chuckle, I quipped, “Come on over here, Franz! Don’t be shy!” It felt like a silly way to lighten the strange moment, and we eventually laughed it off as we returned to our room.

Later that night, somewhere between 2 and 3 a.m., I woke abruptly with an unsettling feeling. It was as if someone was silently watching me. Though my eyes found no one in the room, the lingering sensation of being observed refused to fade. I tried to dismiss it, lying back down in the hope of returning to sleep. Yet, when sleep came, it brought a series of vivid, almost animated dreams—dreams of wandering through the labyrinthine halls of the hotel, as though it were alive with its own stories. It felt all too real, as if the night was revealing the enigmatic spirit of the place, unable to keep its secrets hidden.

The peculiar atmosphere of the hotel and the haunting experiences I had there lingered in my mind, refusing to be forgotten. It wasn’t long before they began to bleed into my writing. The lengthy, tall halls, the sense of being watched, and the inexplicable vividness of the dreams became the foundation of a pivotal setting in my writing. The hotel transformed into a character of its own within my story, its walls whispering secrets and its corridors holding mysteries yet to be unraveled. Those strange nights became the spark for a narrative I hadn’t anticipated, weaving my unsettling memories into a tale that seemed to come alive on the page. While I felt Koffee With Kafka as a manuscript was complete, this hotel stay whispered in my ear that it was only the beginning of a much larger story waiting to be told.

The Journey to the Grave

The heart of the trip arrived on the last day—the pilgrimage to Kafka’s grave in the New Jewish Cemetery. It wasn’t a rushed affair. No, this is a moment that demands stillness, ritual, and reflection. The walk to the cemetery is laden with its own significance, each step a physical manifestation of the mental and emotional road I’ve traveled since Basel, since the past 19 years, since I first picked up The Metamorphosis at 16 and how it has opened a creative path within that has only started to manifest in 2018.

This is a 6-minute walk through Nový židovský hřbitov in Žižkov to see Franz Kafka's grave in 2022.

The walk this time differed from the last time in 2022.

We were walking alone down the path, the golden sunshine cascading through the branches, illuminating the brilliant autumn foliage in hues of various shades of green before giving way to amber and crimson in the coming weeks. The air was crisp, yet inviting, a stark contrast to the biting chill of January 2022, when snow flurries had swept the path in a quiet, relentless swirl. Then, the world felt monochrome, the muted tones of winter matching the solemn gravity of that prior visit. Now, with every step forward, the interplay of light and shadow on the ground seemed to dance, creating a natural kaleidoscope of color and warmth.

Reaching the grave, the quiet energy of the moment deepened. The names etched into stone told their story, a history that existed both with and beyond Franz Kafka. Kneeling down, fingers grazing the cool earth, I felt it—a warm glow coursing through me, as if the sun itself had reached into the soil. A soothing hum reverberated in the still air, an energy that seemed to cradle the space in a transcendent calm. It was as if time had paused, granting permission to reflect, to anchor myself in this moment of connection and reverence.

With roses painted on stone in hand, I quietly thanked him. For his persistence, his wit, his ability to find the dark comedy in suffering. For teaching me that even in a world built to shatter you with its absurdities, there’s room to create—to write, to rebel, to question. Kafka knew the trap of bureaucracy, the weight of duty, and the corrosive beauty of alienation. Those lessons carried me through two decades of fighting for something as basic as acknowledgment of earned benefits. To place these stone roses at his grave feels like closing a chapter while simultaneously opening another.

As the last moment approached and shadows of distant figures grew closer, I bent down to place my manuscript at the foot of Kafka’s grave. It was a small, fragile offering compared to the monumental impact his words had on my life. Yet, in that intimate gesture, I felt a profound connection. I thanked him, not just for the inspiration that wove its way through my struggles and triumphs but for teaching me the power of surrender—of letting go of fear. Turning toward his work with open eyes had unlocked parts of myself I didn’t know existed, dissolving barriers I believed were insurmountable. It wasn’t simply a creative revival; it was a personal rebirth, a reminder that the struggle to interpret, to create, and to persist carries its own reward. Kafka’s influence reached far beyond the grave, guiding me toward doors I had once been too reluctant to approach, much less open.

As we placed all twelve stones gently on his grave, a quiet gesture of respect and gratitude, I clutched the manuscript close to my chest. It felt heavier now, not in weight but in meaning, as if it carried his spirit and the lessons I had drawn from his work. I offered another silent thank you—for being a muse with me through a year that had often felt insurmountable and for reminding me of the solace that art and writing could provide. Walking away, I felt lighter somehow, no longer burdened by the fear or doubt that had shadowed me. Instead, I carried a renewed sense of purpose, ready to face the unwritten chapters ahead with courage and creativity. Through him, I had rediscovered myself, and for that, I would always be grateful.

I found myself drawn to the intricate details of the stones, capturing photos of the names and messages etched into their surfaces. It wasn’t until later when we returned to the hotel preparing to check out, scrolling through the images, that I noticed one name in particular: Anton. Without hesitation, I sent the photo to my friend Zamir who tragically lost his son Anton years ago. I wrote, “Thinking of you today,” and shared a bit about my visit to Franz’s resting place. Zamir’s reply came quickly, and it stopped me in my tracks: Anton would have been 24 the very next day on the 29th. My heart broke for him all over again. Two days later after I returned to Milan and he was traipsing through Uzbekistan, we found ourselves on the phone, unraveling the strange series of events we had both been experiencing that week. It was a moment of shared insight and grief, connection, and the inexplicable ways the universe seems to weave our stories together.

Reflections Under Kafka’s Sky

This trip to Prague isn’t just a literary homage or a casual getaway—it’s a culmination. Of promises made on a train hurtling toward Basel. Of a decision to find meaning in the small connections we make with those who’ve left us their words, their stories, their mirrors of the human condition.

There’s something poetic about taking my daughter to Prague, to show her a piece of my past while building a new memory tethered to our shared present. She might not connect with Kafka quite yet, but maybe standing in the shadow of his grave, holding a pen or even just an open mind, she’ll understand what it means to grapple with the mess of being alive and the fragility of being human.

Prague will humble you, it will haunt you, and if you let it, it might just offer you the metamorphosis you seek. It’s Kafka’s city, after all. And like him, it holds up an eerily accurate reflection that forces you to consider who you are, what you’ve done, and how you’ll keep moving forward.

Ultimately, the stories of Prague are not just about the city itself but about the people who lose themselves within its winding streets and emerge with fragments of clarity they didn’t know they were seeking. It is a place of paradoxes—beauty and decay, light and shadow, chaos and quiet—etched into every corner. Here, the past lingers, demanding to be faced, while the present whispers elusive truths. And just when you think you’ve unraveled its mysteries, you realize you are entangled in them, forever changed.

As Kafka so vividly put it, “Prague never lets you go. This dear little mother has sharp claws.” Truly, Prague remains gripping my soul and refusing to release its hold long after I’ve left its cobblestone streets behind. For this, after a tumultuous and transformative journey together over the past two decades, I am eternally grateful.