Wander the town at nighttime, bridges lit like picture postcards.  We trek up to the castle sharing stories; we all converge.  Tall skinny Alesandro from Columbia climbs the stone wall leading to the Castle.  Come down, Alesandro, come down.  He stands arms outstretched, happy grin, wide open to anything, ecstatic with joy at the toy-land, make-believe view, lights aglow.  On one side–nothing, a fall, gone forever.  On the other, the stone pathway.  He does a little jig with his feet. How does it feel to be standing on a precipice?  We’re in awe; stupid Alesandro, come down, come down.  I imagine the alternative: falling, falling, surprised to the other side.  There.

Later he and Caitlin are gone, disappearing to another place, carry-on or backpack ready to roll.  J’lyne at the hostel washes all the clothes for 100 Czech koruna.  Every place a different money–colored paper, stuffed in belts.  The goodbyes are awkward, clumsy hugs, reminding my of Aunt Betty at family picnics, where we dance around each other. To pull a stranger close or no; these people who have seen you in whatever serves for your pajamas, brushing your teeth at the tiny sink in the hallway, hearing you in the side-by-side w.c., separated by a thin wall.

Today the goodbye will be mine.  Already new people to say goodbye to.  Sherry and Christy who look Asian from Melbourne; at the kitchen table they talk of bungee jumping from someplace in Macao, jumping out of planes landing where worlds converge.  Most around the table are young, my daughter’s age; I am more comfortable now, less strange.  In Berlin, hiding in the prison-box of a room, painted orange, listening to the chatter down below.  In Prague, a classy hotel although booked as a hostel.  Over the breakfast spread, I scoured maps trying to locate something.  At night shirtless boys hung out of windows drinking beer.  Walking streets that were impossible to follow, names disappearing or reappearing without warning, the city a maze where it takes me an hour and a half for a 20-minute stroll.  I join a tour, six solo travelers, a mix: a gay businessman; the 37-year-old national guardswoman who looks ready to fight, hair a buzz, tight pink tank and sneakers; the Indian man who orders salad at the typical Czech restaurant while others dip bread in a gravy a color I have never seen; me.

I rise early, meander my way around town, circuitous as always, trying not to panic and just let go: who cares where I am, where I end up.  I’ll make my way back in time to catch the bus which will take me from here to there.