I’m sitting at a community desk in Národni galerie - Veletržní palác, sewing together the first poem I’ve written in over a year. Prague is the perfect host for this today, slightly grey and introverted. I find I’m measuring my words very carefully, which is something I don’t remember doing before, at least not in the first drafts. It’s nearly the end of my two-week residency and all I’ve written so far are diary entries about love and being in a new relationship, and how surprised I was to find myself panicking in a foreign city again. Ultimately that made me feel whiny, so I’ve spent most of my days walking instead.

Up and down the steep streets of Žižkov to Karlin, where I waited in a cathedral for the rain to pass. Soaking up a warm day in Letná park and then back to the old city, to push through hordes of tourists. Stopping on the riverbank to watch the water. Bouncing from one pinned location to another, following in the footsteps of friends who’ve been here before and their favourite pastimes. I wasn’t very hungry Tuesday afternoon, but I still waited in line at Naše maso and ate the burger Kata told me not to miss. In the evenings I’ll get dinner and beer, go to a reading, have mentally stimulating conversations and listen to Czech. Walking. Wearing layers. Not writing poetry but always thinking about it.

Yesterday, on one of my outings, I went to Kino Aero to see a documentary with English subtitles. I didn’t do much research on the film, except for the running time. But in those 90 minutes, I met photographer Libuše Jarcovjáková and saw 1970s Prague. I thought about persistance and taking your work seriously, against all odds. Documenting, because you must. I didn’t bring my notebook with me and there were so many notes to take. They always come unannounced. The film is called Jeste nejsem, kým chci být and leaving the theatre, it felt like I was entering Prague for the first time. The streets were somehow stripped of all the new and flashy, and I could finally see the people, the way they move their bodies. I found the door. So naturally, I wanted more of that feeling. And that’s what brought me here, to the museum.

A quick Google search reveals that an exhibition of Jarcovjáková’s work is on view here and I’m on the first tram over. I press my face as close as I can to the cars and immigrants in black-and-white. Sit on a bench opposite a gigantic, blown-up photograph of a man wearing a snake around his neck inside of a nightclub. Jarcovjáková in a tub, with a lover, in a hospital bed. In the 70s, 80s, a few years ago. People drinking and kissing, ageing. Mundane tasks like watering the plants and waiting in line, things we forget about quickly and participate in daily. Life, documented.

In the staircase going up to the community floor, I can feel a poem coming to a gentle simmer. There’s a long desk that no one’s sitting at and the weather outside is the right amount of subtle. Finally, the sense of urgency and no distractions. And my notebook, which I did not forget to bring.