Crosswalks exist for pedestrian safety. They are clear and universal indications painted on roads to imbue trustworthiness and certainty. “Walk here,” the zebra stripes beckon, “here, you may traverse the perilous road, exempt from its many perils.” And for the most part, they do keep their promise.
Yet when inclement weather strikes Prague, the white stripes of many crosswalks become treacherous. I do not know what it is in that paint that makes it so extraordinarily slippery when wet, or why it is allowed on a surface expressly intended to be trodden, or how the responsible road authority determined its suitability for use, but here we are.
Crossing a street on a rainy day, I am lured to the white stripes as a beacon of safe passage. But the moment my foot makes contact, the teeth of the anglerfish snap – and I am devoured.
I vow never to fall into this trap again, now knowing that the stripes are rather aposematic coloration. But Prague is a city full of anglerfish, and I, a humble pedestrian, must nevertheless strive for safe passage in the dark.