Žižkov Television Tower

Stand at the foot of the tower and tilt your head back. Three grey columns rise straight up from the ground, smooth and cool, into the Prague sky. The air here smells of cut grass from the park around you, mixed with traffic from the streets of Žižkov. And somewhere above your head, a row of giant babies is crawling up the concrete. Yes... babies. We will come to them. First, let us take in the shape of the thing itself.

This is the Žižkov Television Tower, the tallest structure in Prague at roughly 216 metres. Construction began in the mid-1980s, while Czechoslovakia was still under communist rule. The tower was finished in the early 1990s, after the Velvet Revolution of 1989 had already changed the country. So this structure was planned by one political system and completed under another. It is a monument that changed its meaning while it was still being built.

The design came from the architect Václav Aulický, working with the structural engineer Jiří Kozák. Look at how it is put together. There is one main column and two smaller ones, all tubular, made of steel and concrete. Between them hang several boxy pods, like capsules on a rocket. That comparison is not accidental. The tower comes from an era fascinated by space travel, and many people see a launch pad in its silhouette.

Now look at the city around you. Prague is a city of spires, red roofs, and baroque domes. Into that skyline, this tower arrived like a visitor from another planet. Many locals disliked it from the start. Over the years it has appeared on international lists of the world's ugliest buildings. And yet, for a growing number of people, that is exactly its charm. It is honest about its age, and it does not pretend to be old.

Here is something most visitors miss. The ground beneath and beside the tower was once part of a Jewish cemetery. This cemetery served the Jewish community of Prague from the late seventeenth century into the nineteenth century. When the tower was built, part of the cemetery was cleared. The remaining section still survives next to the park, behind a wall. Old tombstones, many carved in Hebrew, lean among the trees. It is a quiet and serious place, and it deserves a respectful visit.

There is also a story that every Prague resident seems to know. Locals say the tower was really built to jam Western radio broadcasts, such as Radio Free Europe, which reached listeners behind the Iron Curtain. It is a popular tale, and it fits the mood of the time. But it is folklore rather than proven history. By the time the tower began working, the communist government had fallen, and the reason for jamming had disappeared.

And now — the babies. Look up along the columns. You will see large, dark figures of infants crawling up and down the concrete. They are the work of David Černý, a Czech artist known for provocative public sculptures around the city. The babies first appeared on the tower around the year 2000. They were meant as a temporary installation. But people grew fond of them, and they stayed.

Look closely at their faces. Instead of eyes, noses, and smiles, each baby has a flat panel with slots, a little like a barcode. The effect is strange and slightly unsettling. Are they cute? Are they mechanical? Are they a comment on technology, or on growing up surrounded by screens? Černý rarely explains his work in simple terms. Most visitors decide for themselves, and that conversation is part of the fun.

If you go inside, a fast lift carries you up through the main column. The observation level sits close to a hundred metres above the ground. From there, the whole city opens up beneath you. On a clear day, you can trace the river, the castle on its hill, and the green ridges beyond the suburbs. You are looking at old Prague from a building that once seemed to threaten it. That contrast is worth a moment of thought.

Below the observation deck, one of the pods holds a restaurant and bar. Another holds something unusual — a hotel room, suspended inside the tower. Guests spend the night far above the rooftops, with the city lights below their windows. Even if you do not stay, it is worth knowing that the tower is not only a mast for antennas. People eat here, drink here, and even sleep here.

Back on the ground, spend a little time in the neighbourhood. Žižkov has long had a reputation as a working-class district, with many pubs and an independent spirit. The streets around the tower are lined with nineteenth-century apartment blocks. Their façades are painted in cream, ochre, and pale green. Corner bars spill onto the pavements in warm weather. This is a part of Prague where many residents live their ordinary lives, away from the busiest tourist routes.

The park at the base of the tower is a good place to slow down. Families walk through with prams. Dogs chase balls across the grass. Office workers sit on benches with coffee. From here, you can watch how the tower changes with the light. In the morning it looks pale and flat. In the evening, as the sun drops, its surfaces turn warmer, and the pods cast long shadows down the columns.

Before you leave, take one more look up. Notice the babies frozen mid-crawl, the pods hanging in the air, the antennas at the very top. Then look down at the old cemetery wall, and at the ordinary streets around you. Communism, revolution, art, memory, and everyday life all meet on this one small hill. As you walk away, turn around once or twice. From almost anywhere in Prague, the tower will still be there — watching the city it once surprised.