Nonfiction | November 08, 2019

At least not in the Czech Republic. But it’s the first thing I need to see.

So I take the train from Prague to Pribram, fifty miles to the south. It’s a beat-up old train, shabby carriages passing through crumbling stations, nothing like the slick international service going through to Vienna or Berlin. Prague is filled with tourists, but there are none here. With the exception of me, the train is loaded with locals going about their weekday business, none of them heading for the gulag.

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