There are many things I'll remember about Prague; the graceful Charles Bridge and the Old Town Square. The Astronomical Clock with its parade of characters, and the stout men in bars pulling pints of Pilsner. But none of these will remind me so much of the city as that blind accordion player.

Neatly dressed in slightly threadbare black pants and an anonymous white shirt, his dead eyes staring dead ahead as his hands flew across keys his eyes could not see. Arms straining at the weight of his gleaming accordion, the mother-of-pearl inlay glinting in the lights from the bar. His eyes blind, but ears finely tuned to the chords soaring across the room as he and four other Steinbeck-esque Gypsy musicians played their Romani hearts out in a broom-cupboard of a restaurant in a far-flung suburb of the city.

"Come to my friend's restaurant," said my guide Milos. That's how it all started, as we wandered down Wenceslas Square, where Soviet bullet holes still pockmark the Museum. "He's being kicked out by his landlord and they're having a closing down party. Nobody else will speak English, but you will have fun."

With a new-found Aussie friend in tow I headed off; by foot, train and tram to meet Milos somewhere in the district of Nové Butovice. A dozen tables were crammed into two small rooms, the guttural sounds of the Czech language bouncing off the walls. Hardly a soul looked up as our lone English voices jarred against the Slavic.

But the blind accordionist wasn't the only surprise of the evening. Along with home-made sausage and potent cherry vodka there was his partner in rhyme; the violinist. A slight man with a smile in his eyes who played the bow by night, yet drove a rubbish truck by day.

"He has to get up to drive the truck in just four hours!" exclaimed Milos, not for the first, or last, time that night.

And there we sat for over two hours; spellbound, as five gypsy men from the fringes of society used music to transport themselves from the rattling trams and selective unemployment of the booming Czech capital.

The staccato notes of the ivories swam with the strings of the violin, dancing with the insistent strumming of the guitar. The barman beamed as he dropped another round of beer on the table with a grin.

"Na Zdrowie!" called out Milos. Cheers! 

Prague is like that, I found. Friendly as can be, and a surprise around every corner; if you're willing to look for it.

Perhaps too friendly, it would seem. After years in the tourist wilderness and a (thankfully) brief spell as the stag-party capital of the old Eastern bloc, the city has claimed its rightful place amongst the tourist hotspots of Europe.

It's a poisoned chalice though, for with tourism comes… tourists; thousands of them, all loyally following a well-worn path through the city.  And, to be fair, with good reason I suppose.

The layer cake of European architecture in the Old Town Square (Staromĕstské Námestí if you want to practise your Slavic) is astounding and perhaps the only place in Europe where you can skim through architectural time as you circumnavigate the square.

The Astronomical Clock is a feat of engineering so wondrous it's said that the craftsman who built it was blinded after completing the clock, so that he could never build a replica.

A macabre story, but one that fits well with the brooding Gothic architecture of a city that's survived Nazi occupation, Soviet invasion and a painful birth into Western democracy.

Last stop on the "can't miss" tourist trail is the cobbled Castle District (Hradèany) west of the River Vltava. This district stretches across the hill overlooking the city and is home to some of the best churches and museums in Prague.

The castle complex is home to the presidential office and numerous government departments, but the snaking line of tourists are all here to soak up the views of the ornate St. Vitus Cathedral. Built in the French Gothic style, the ornate church is the largest in the Czech Republic and also contains the tomb of St. Wenceslas, the ‘Good King’ of the Christmas carol.

The other highlight of the Castle District is the views back across Prague. The Vltava snakes languidly through the twisted streets as church spires scratch the belly of the low clouds shrouding the city. It may be known as the 'City of 100 Towers', but if you take the time to count them you'll need in the region of 600 fingers.

The cobbled road down the hill leads you straight onto the Charles Bridge. Ornate, historic, awe-inspiring… it is all these things, but visit in the middle of summer and you won't see the wood for the trees. Of tourists that is. Stalls selling trinkets block your path, the Germans are out en masse and the scaffolding (the Bridge is undergoing major restoration) block out many of the statues. No, in mid-summer it's best to stay off the Bridge.

Rather admire it from afar by taking a stroll on the river banks. You'll have space to hear the river wash against the ice defences, ponder the yellow plastic penguins outside the modern art museum and gaze up at the Cathedral spires. And you'll get to hear your stomach rumbling.

All that walking is bound to make you hungry, but avoid the expensive cafes on the Old Town Square and head into the New Town to eat with the locals.

U Medvídků, a traditional beer-hall in the heart of Nové Město dates back to 1466. Over the years the wood-panelled room has been a brewery, beer-hall and even the first cabaret in Prague! Today though, it is simply an authentic Bohemian restaurant and beer-hall that draws crowds of locals and tourists each day for its pints of Czech Budweiser and well-priced local dishes.

If you’re looking for something more upmarket come night-time, the nearby Klub Architektu on the fringes of the Old Town won't disappoint. And don't let the 'Klub' fool you. Sure, you can kick back with a cold Pilsner here, but it's the generous portions of traditional dishes at reasonable prices that keep people coming back to the subterranean restaurant/bar.

Emerging out into the twinkling lights of Staré Město on a warm summer evening, you'll likely find yourself swept along in the river of tourists again.

Touts wave flyers for cut-price classical concerts, mimes vie silently for your attention and crowds gather at the Astronomical Clock, waiting for Death with his hourglass to bull the bell-rope. Should you join the throng and wait for the show, or head back to the hotel?

Tough choice, until you hear the sound of an accordion singing in the distance.

Originally published in The Weekender; 24 May 2009.

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