Streetlights illuminate with a gentle glow that pierces through still darkness, blanketing the midnight air. Eighteen pairs of aching feet encased in soiled shoes move leisurely down the stretch of cobblestone lined neatly in an inconsistent pattern, that is marked with the remains of thousands of feet that had walked before them. Looming overhead, concrete men stand tall; broad shoulders and intricately formed features peer down over the passersby.

The city ahead is alive with the quiet commotion of natives and the impolite, boisterous chatter of American tourists wandering naively through the crowds. Untold stories and misplaced dreams are engraved into each ancient building along the winding streets, yearning for rediscovery. A humble stage is set to display amateur musicians bearing instruments uniquely crafted beyond imitation. Notes blend seamlessly with the savory aroma of fresh dumplings and hearty soup that drifts from quaint restaurants positioned on every corner.

Getting lost does not evoke the emotions they expect to feel as they wander, unsure of how to reach their destination to enjoy the sweet dessert they were promised. Panic does not exist; fear has not arrived. Joy is their companion; adventure is their guide. Silently soaking in each still moment, they gaze in awe at the structures laid before them. A girl steps forward, her battered TOMS have taken on a new identity with character woven into the stained canvas fabric. No longer clean and well kept, they bear the marks of long mountain hikes and the remnants of rainy day ultimate frisbee competitions, the legacy of time invested in a place so foreign yet so close to home. Hearing the understated and mellow Czech accents rise from two slender women with black heels and simple, chic dresses conversing a short distance away, a sting of self-consciousness pierces through her core as she realizes her abrasive Minnesotan accent will never exude the elegance and dignity that theirs do.

Rounding a dimly lit corner, they happen upon their destination, recognizing the worn, wooden sign hanging above the home of thirty flavors of decadent gelato. Freshly made waffles cones overflow with the smooth, frozen substance that gradually melts down the sides. The drops cling to sticky fingers before dripping down to the cobblestone ground, falling like raindrops that would soon be trampled on by inconsiderate toes. The frigid sensation of the gelato overwhelms their taste buds with a symphony of flavors playing a perfectly rehearsed melody, the perfect finale for a divine day.