Up to Speed.

Auf Wiedersehen, München.

Munich, Germany – I'm not sure what's worse: the running or the standing.

The taking stairs two at a time and sprinting through an airport only to arrive at a beautiful glassed-in gate. And finding it empty, your plane taxiing just out of reach.

Or not moving at all in the service desk line until we're told it's closing and that we should find another. Then spending five hours there – to serve 15 people.

Au revoir, Paris.

Movement would not have been discernible in a stop-motion film.

But I make new friends from North Bay and we rustle up some beers from duty free, laughing at the absurdity. Apparently, drinking in the airport isn't frowned upon in Germany.

A trolley with Snickers bars, nuts and other snacks is wheeled out for us. We'll be put up for the night and given dinner at the hotel, before flying home through Paris tomorrow. Things are looking up – I have nowhere I need to be.

So much of travel: hurry up and wait.

And making the most of experiences.

Knuckling Down.

Going to church.

Prague, Czechia – A bus driver pulls over for a smoke.

And a beer.

I double-take and almost miss my turn. Approaching an old stone archway leading to a church, I think I may still be lost.

But the sign outside U Pinkasů whispers to me that I'm in the right place and provides some history. The Gothic courtyard, now striped by rows of Pilsner Urquell-branded benches, is located in an unfinished wing of the Church of Our Lady of the Snows, whose vaults are the tallest in Prague.

Set under a far more impressive version of the golden arches, it's an incredible venue for lunch.

I wanted to try the pork knuckle – one of the country's specialty dishes – before I left and had read that the version here is well-regarded. Despite its storied history, U Pinkasů is a relative newcomer in Prague.

It has only been open since 1843.

Shanked.

A mug of unfiltered beer straight from the tank soon arrives at my table. It's followed by a metal pan containing a painter's palette of pickles, peppers, mustard and a massive bone-in pork shank that has been marinated in dark beer.

With a satisfying crunch of crispy skin, tender meat slouches across the dish. It's the most, and likely best, I've eaten in weeks.

It's a near-religious experience.

In-Spired.

Tired of the stairs, he turned to stone.

Prague, Czechia – The Castle Stairs absorb your breath and your sweat, but reward you with incredible views of the city. 

There are 220 of them, and they're steep – especially when it's a sunny 32 degrees.

I take them two-by-two and arrive at the base of Prague Castle in a few minutes.

A blanket of orange clay roofs unfolds below, pierced only by the city's countless belfries and church spires. Prague's historic centre remains a city of preserved low-rise buildings uninterrupted by the towering shards of glass found elsewhere.

I've arrived at the world's largest ancient castle in time for the ceremonial changing of the guard. The pomp and circumstance skips a beat as a soldier trips on the cobblestones before catching himself on a colleague's shoulder.

I worry about the bayonets.

St. Vitus.

Construction of the castle began in the year 870 and the oldest remaining building is the Basilica of St. George, built a mere 50 years later. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is a history book of curved streets, churches and towers pulled from generations of architects' drafting tables.

I get lost in the cultural monument and marvel at the Gothic architecture of St. Vitus Cathedral, which looms over the city with blackened tips, like saplings caught in a fire. It, too, was founded before calendar years hit four digits.

Dancing in and out of shadows.

Retracing memories from university classes, I look for the window that unsuspectingly became a central actor in the 1618 Defenestration of Prague. As my favourite word in the English language, it seems appropriate. Without WiFi or a good map, I have likely unknowingly walked past it several times. 

At least I didn't get thrown out.

People often say places of worship are built at a city's highest point so they can have a daunting prominence. Or so parishioners can be closer to god.

Having hiked all this steep cobblestone, I'm thinking it may also be a form of penance to remind us of our own mortality.

I can feel each step in a very human way.

The Spot.

Clocking in.

Prague, Czechia – A tuba sighs mournfully across the courtyard.

It's accompanied by the drawn-out notes of an accordion, which slip between light drops of rain. Flimsy trees sway in rhythm, offering light percussion.

In operation since 1499, Pivovar U Flecků is purported to be one of the city's oldest breweries and the only beer hall in Central Europe to brew and sell its beer for the past 500 years. With seating for 1,200, it's also apparently the country's largest.

The sparse courtyard with communal tables belies the history held inside: curved archways that lead into darkened rooms with similar arrangements of long tables and chairs adorned by crests. Paintings on the ceiling have been dated to 1360.

History, empty today.

But with the heat, the walls inside are silent today.

Light sputters through yellow stained glass, making the empty rooms almost the colour of beer. It feels more historically accurate than U Krále Brabantského, which I enjoyed yesterday.

I'm seated with a businessman from Switzerland and another from Scotland, who now lives in Australia. Places like this bring the world together.

Servers slip brusquely by with trays that teeter with unfiltered light and dark beers. With a strike, they mark slips set by our elbows as we point a single finger in the air.

Another tries relentlessly to convince us to try the mead. It's a ritual repeated thousands of times a week, not to mention over the centuries. I feel like I'm breathing in conversations past.

Thankfully, I'm told the Moravian Sparrow I've ordered is, in fact, pork.

No Words.

 

Tough to Articulate.

"Man Hanging out," David Černý.

Prague, Czechia – Franz Kafka's head spins gently, in silvery tranches.

Modern buildings are distorted in its mirrors.

A man and a woman hang from umbrellas over the street; Einstein, from a beam. A Russian tank, currently painted the colours of the Ukrainian flag, is half buried in a lawn.

Nearby, ghost-like men emerge from the trees, haunted and crippled. The memorial to victims of communism still bears scars of an explosion.

Re-reading my notes from the past couple days, I can see how the heat and my exhaustion haven't served me well in the crowds. I'm not here for the parties, and the crassness of it all likely tainted my initial impressions.

So far, Sunday morning seems quieter.

I'm still grateful for the opportunity to experience such a historic and global city – there's so much beauty to see, but many of the unfortunate parts of capitalism are on full display.

But I have absolutely loved all the public art.

Medieval Times.

Remains of the last guy who didn't pay.

Prague, Czechia – With a grunt, the server stabs a knife into the wooden table.

It stands like an exclamation mark, piercing my bill from lunch.

Beside it sits a replica skull, into which I am to fold my bills and coins.

Open since 1375, and having only closed for a few days when one of the innkeepers murdered a patron who hadn't paid his tab, U Krále Brabantského is said to be the oldest continuously operating tavern in Prague. Word is Mozart and various Czech kings have tipped pints here.

And many, many rogues.

I'm assigned a seat beside a pair of young Franco-Australians who appreciate my initiating a conversation in French. A marinated Camembert dressed with pickled peppers and onions soon appears.

A pint of history.

The pub, located in the shadows of Prague Castle, on the Royal Way, certainly leans into its Medieval origins.

More skulls line the arched doorway.

Candles flicker over low, vaulted ceilings darkly painted with swirls of fairies and ghouls. Ethereal lute music fills the small, cavern-like rooms. Servers are intentionally gruff to hearken back to the age and they provide the percussion as they slam suds onto the simple wooden tables with rhythmic thuds.

Foam bubbles over the glass and seeps into history.

In all, it's a little hokey.

And charming enough I thoroughly enjoy it.

Tagged.

Definitely not to be confused with Lenin.

Prague, Czechia – A pair of granny glasses peers atop a spaghetti bowl of crayon scribbles and a collage of stickers from around the world.

They're instantly recognizable.

The top half of a face is the only remaining reference to John Lennon on the Lennon Wall, which now bears enough coats to weather a thousand winters. Painted and repainted with messages of activism and peace since the 1960s, the wall has undergone a constant metamorphosis and included tributes to Lennon since his murder in 1980.

Now, it largely resembles any tunnel leading into a train station.

Culture continues to evolve, and tomorrow's wall is a box yet unopened.

But I can't help but feel Lennon's obscured eyes, roughly tattooed by people's names, offer a quick peek into modern culture where, for many, the collective struggle has been replaced by relative individual comfort.

And by selfies.

Stumbling Blocks.

Prague, Czechia – Taking an evening stroll, I trace tic-tac-toe boards of grey and white cobblestones.

Squares give way to crosses, then to diamonds and stars.

Three brass squares shimmer like gold teeth in the day's shrugging light. 

Inscribed with names of the building's former inhabitants, they're among 400 stumbling stones in the city – and 75,000 across Europe – commemorating individuals removed by the Nazis, never to return.

The stones are part of a decentralized Holocaust memorial that's not without controversy. But tonight, nobody else seems to take the time to look up or down.

There's another bar to visit.

Time's Up.

Clocking in at more than 600 years old...

Prague, Czechia – In a hazy heat, history seems to melt off the stone walls of the city's 12th-century old town square.

It's 35 degrees and packed.

Golden rings shimmer on the old town hall as a grinning skeleton strikes 11 o'clock. Bells chime with a thin tinkle.

In unison, the crowd casts eyes upward for the hourly show at The Orloj, which has no doubt been a sight to behold since it was first installed in 1410, making it the world's oldest operational astronomical clock. 

Small doors open above the clock face, beginning the parade of apostles.

The city has a great palette.

Colourful buildings framing the square are no short of stunning. From Gothic to Art Nouveau, it's like flipping a glossy magazine's pages of architectural styles throughout the ages. 

Admiring details on the facades, I trace a delicate 18th-century mural of St. Wenceslas down to the doorway. A red-lit message ticks along a simple LED sign hanging above.

"Thai massages," it whispers garishly.

Prague's sophisticated cultural history seems to have been usurped.

Bare-chested bros two-fist tallboys of lager, their shoulders charging at abstract angles past a Starbucks nestled between marijuana and trinket shops. Stag parties sport matching t-shirts, except the grooms, who stagger along in tutus and rabbit ears. Nearby, young women tug on vape pens with shrugs of Botox-lipped indifference, as though they're nibbling on Twizzlers.

History is being melted away by more than the heat.

On Track.

Do widzenia, Kraków; I enjoyed you.

Kraków, Poland – Steel shutters suddenly fall from the ceiling, causing travellers to scatter like ants in the rain.

They slide under the gates as police officers wave them along.

Confused, I stand watching the departures board at Kraków Główny, the city's main rail station. The screen only holds slots for a dozen trains, so it'll be a while before the EuroNight Chopin to Prague appears.

I lunge for an elevator to platform three, where I've been told my train will be. There are 10 tracks per platform and I still don't know which will be mine.

As I reach the top, the glass elevator doors don't open, even as a woman tries frantically to get in from the other side. We're locked down.

I'm 20 minutes to departure.

Well-trained.

Heading back downstairs, I ask a police officer if he speaks English and tell him I'm trying to get to platform three. "Then go," he says with a dismissive wave in the direction of the ticket desk.

It finally occurs to me we're not under attack, and that the station closes unneeded areas at night. I make it to platform three, but can only access the first two tracks. Both are full.

But not with my train.

The display blinks and Chopin finally shows platform three, track one; but the trains aren't moving. It updates again to two. The track is still full.

I suddenly remember reading that Polish train stations sometimes use the words for track ("tor") and platform "peron") interchangeably. It must now be platform two, not track. Or is it?

Down to four minutes.

Again, I run at full sprint through crowds equally panicked about their trains. Someone tells me the train to Prague doesn't leave from platform two, as they hurry to Budapest. But I have to try.

Sure enough, on platform two: Chopin, idling lazily.

Having done my research, I know I'm in the second car and make the last dash.

Naturally, I'm at the wrong end of the train.

Settling into my sleeper cabin, I exhale. We begin rolling through the night and an illuminated Basilica of St. Anthony in Rybnik makes a punctuation mark on the day.

I'm loving this.

Whispers.

Ramp from main guard tower, Birkenau.

Oświeçim, Poland – A whisper. A comment.

(Withheld.)

I've long read the stories, seen the movies and imagined the terror in my mind. For once, the movies haven't exaggerated.

The pages of history books I studied in university unfold before me in full colour and in three dimensions. But here, the pages are so massive, so physically real. Five hundred acres real and scarred by seemingly endless brick foundations, left hollow.

Like I'm feeling.

Over five years, more than 1.3 million people were sent to Auschwitz-Birkenau, 85 per cent of whom were murdered with incomprehensible brutality. Our tour lasts longer than most victims spent here. The hollows remain as a physical black mark on history, whispering to us to remember.

Inside, a display case holds two tonnes of human hair. Two tonnes.

Pathway to the crematoria, Birkenau.

The whispers grow louder with each crunch of gravel as we move past the unloading ramp, still stitched together by miles of railroad track and barbed wire. An eerie peace is found in groves of mature trees swaying around a small pond.

It's shattered when we're told this is where ash from Crematoria IV was unceremoniously dumped – graves, rather than groves. More whispers.

We fall even further into silence as a man rocks on his heels, breaking into a heartbreaking song of prayer in Yiddish over the haunting, shattered rubble of the former Crematoria II. Blown up in 1945 by the fleeing Nazis, it's a contorted mound of jagged steel and concrete: destruction, destroyed.
Otherwise, it's the silence that whispers of the horrors that took place here.

Right under our feet.

Interlude.

Auschwitz-Birkenau.

visitation stones  – oświeçim, poland

I step onto the same white stones
into which you’ve tucked
small notes of reminder:
despair in 21 languages.

Even with time, I’m cautious
to not turn right,
although, for many,
memory has already calcified.

I want to chip away at each
so recollection doesn’t become
just another stone
kicked down the road.

But there are too many
for one to pick up. 

A Front Seat to History.

Kraków, Poland – The city's history reaches back much farther than the past 80 years.

And much has happened since.

Yet, its prominent role in the Second World War remains front and centre for many, and I find myself visiting the Oskar Schindler Enamel Factory museum and wandering through Ghetto Heroes Square, where 70 iron and bronze chairs stand as stark monuments to those who never came home from the Holocaust.

The chairs convey the lack of humanity and conjure images of people being separated from their worldly possessions and sent to their deaths, which took place in this square.

Gate 3 in background (March 1943).

To this day, Podgórze, the district on the bank of the Vistula River that became the Kraków Ghetto, is noticeably different than much of the rest of the city: blackened by soot and by history.

Some buildings, long abandoned, still lean into the darkness.

Two sections of the original ghetto wall remain, rounded at the top and intended to remind inhabitants of being in a cemetery. Some sections had been constructed of actual pillaged headstones.

In an additional act of cruelty, the wall wasn't built when the ghetto was established, but on Pesach, the Jewish holiday of freedom.

Location of former Gate 3 (July 2023).

Podgórze is a remarkable, living time capsule. Most of the 320 buildings that comprised the former ghetto still stand and, apart from some cosmetic upgrades, look the very same as they do in history books.

Recognizing the anachronism, I hold up historical photographs on my phone to match my surroundings. Rounded balconies? Check. V-shaped building at a split intersection? Check.

As the backdrops have not changed, I'm easily able to identify key landmarks and the locations of the four former gates. A choppy black-and-white reel plays in my mind.

And ghosts whisper a chill into my veins.

All Squared Up.

Don't let the pigeon drive the bus.

Kraków, Poland – I'm greeted by a thunder clap of pigeon wings as I step for the first time into Rynek Główny. 

A young girl giggles with glee as she chases the twitchy birds.

This evening — as with most — the continent's largest medieval square dances with activity. I'm immediately reminded I'm in Europe in a way more visceral than the obvious.

The bustling centre dates back to the 13th century and houses a church that predates it by 200 years. It's stunning in a way words don't do justice.

Today, a flash mob of students begins singing by the Adam Mickiewicz Monument. A hum rises from patrons ringing the square, tipping litres of beer as horse carriages clop past. St. Mary's Trumpet Call rings out across stone walls, sounding more than a little like taps.

In awe, I exhale, absorbing a thousand years of history.

No matter the culture, give me dumplings.

My feet glide along smooth cobblestones as I dart down alleys lined by countless restaurants and shops filled with paschke, souvenirs and other tourist trappings.

I may have just been in Reykjavik, but this feels more like 'old' Europe, with stone that has withstood centuries: squares where people have congregated, celebrated and protested since time prior to memory.

After a long day of travel, I'm here to make new memories tonight.

Visiting Kluska Na Placu, I dive in to sour mushroom soup and a beef stew with dumplings that is accompanied by a full plate of sliced dill pickles.

A cold, crisp beer closes the deal. 

Again, I exhale.

I can't help but think this is what I've been missing.

Pole Position.

A journey cobbled together.

Kraków, Poland – Advancing with mild hesitation, the flickering bar on the ticket machine says "Processing."

Same, machine; same.

I've been up for 30 straight hours and attempted various origami folds to tuck myself into the tight airplane seats found on discount airlines. It turns out I'm not as pliable as I may have once been.

It doesn't help the seats on Eurowings are as thin as cafeteria trays.

For being the primary mode of transport into the city centre, the train is less well advertised than other options. A sign is tucked into the corner, almost an afterthought. When I ask for help, the woman at the information desk looks up from her phone just long enough to offer a dismissive wave in its direction.

The platform is a stew of languages, all seemingly asking the same questions. All seemingly in the same sort of haze.

The machine may be slow, but it’s relatively intuitive.

For 17 Zloty ($5.60 CAD), we have a comfortable 20-minute, five-stop run into the old town and, unlike most transport tickets in the city, this one doesn't need to be validated.

This time, I have plenty of room to stretch out.

Shaken and Stirred.

Gratuitous photo of Hallgrímskirkja.

Kevlavik, Iceland – For a moment, the window frames appear to warp as though they've been sculpted by Salvador Dalí.

The airport rattles a few seconds with a clamour akin to buckets of nails being shaken.

And, as quickly, it's silent.

We look around, more than a little disconcerted. The woman managing the coffee shop shrugs. 

"It's normal."

I only felt my first earthquake last night during a great visit to RVK Brewing Company (the Pylsuendinn was an excellent splurge), but it wasn't even enough to make the server look up from his phone. 

Perhaps he was busy coming up with names for their next milkshake IPA.

(Postscript: the earthquake was determined to be a 5.2 on the Richter scale, and the Litli-Hrútur volcano erupted the next day.)

Dogged.

Bet you can't ketchup to these servers.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The line trips over itself as it curves around the corner.

At its tip, an unassuming red hot dog stand that has been in operation since 1937. In recent years, the historic Bæjarins Beztu Pylsur, whose name means “best hot dogs in town,” has become a foodie destination for locals and tourists alike.

That’s a sentence I’d never have imagined writing. Hot dogs? 

Really?

And yet, the line, awash in assorted languages, has looked the same each time I've passed. It moves quickly as buns are filled by several whips of the wrist. First, a scattering of fresh and crunchy onions. Then, an apple-based ketchup provides a soft landing spot for the lamb, beef and pork-based hotdog, which is tugged in a rapid arc from the boiling water.

Parallel lines of mustard and remoulade sauce complete the piece of culinary street art.

Each bite provides a satisfying snap from the casing, a crunch of onion and a tinge of sweetness from the ketchup. It's a surprising harmony.

The stand, which is so small it can hold only two people at a time, slings a thousand dogs a day.

It’s a good thing the servers are quick with their hands.

They get paid by the hotdog.

In my Jaws.

Somehow, managed to fin-ish.

Reykjavik, Iceland – Anthony Bourdain called it "the single worst, most disgusting and terrible tasting thing" he had ever eaten.

The quick whiff of ammonia wafting over the table does little to counter that analysis.

Even without Bourdain's ringing endorsement, however, it doesn't take much to convince me to try Iceland's national dish: Hákarl, or fermented shark. That I'm getting to share the experience with my parents is an added bonus.

Sitting at Kaffi Loki, we're presented with a small bowl of nondescript white cubes, into which toothpicks have been stuck like porcupine quills – include one topped by the country's flag.

The flavour is anything but nondescript.

Somewhat grainy and spongy, like a fishy cheese, each cube is immediately reminiscent of how I'd imagine urine tasting. The accompanying shot of Bennevin, an aquavit flavoured with caraway, helps.

Somewhat.

Is Hákarl to my tastes? Not in the slightest. But food traditions always provide interesting insight into cultures, particularly when they have been shaped by the environments in which they were forced to take root. So I'm glad I tried it.

Still, the rye ice cream that follows is better.

Surprise!

The wait. The weight.

Reykjavik, Iceland – “Excuse me, sir; would you mind taking a photo?”

He stands in the doorway, fidgeting with his wallet. His camera hangs from his neck.

I tap him on the shoulder and repeat the question when I don't get an answer.

As he turns, I see a haze pass across his face. He squints. I watch seconds pass with each blink as he begins to register. Somewhat.

“What are you doing here?” comes the expected reply.

I’ve come all this way to surprise my parents, who have been travelling the past 10 weeks. My father shakes his head and laughs. He’s giddy to tell my mom, who’s not yet ashore.

So many things could have derailed this plan: bad weather, a change of itinerary, no desire to leave the ship, a mood. And yet, as they so often do, things worked out.

On the ferry to Viðey Island, he tells anyone who will listen that his son has surprised him. He shakes his head and beams a very special smile.

In a word: success.

What a great, great morning.

Veni Viðey Vici.

Posting from Viðey Island.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The rolling green hills of Viðey Island are scarred by jagged stone foundations: the broken bones of a village that died in 1943.

It's as though tic-tac-toe boards have been set into the undergrowth, which sways in the cooling breeze exhaled by the ocean. I've found an oasis just off the shore of Reykjavik.

Evidence of human life here dates back to the tenth century, but the island has been abandoned since a fishing company on the eastern coast closed in the 1940s. The long history speaks through a few rehabilitated buildings and mounds that only whisper the stories held beneath.

Now, birds do most of the talking.

Foundational.

Their squawks break the silence as I step too closely to a nest, leading to a barrage of arrows shot into the sky. It's a scene repeated with each step.

Plovers and gulls chide me for interrupting their time on the beach, blackened by lava. Eider ducks splash past with indifference.

A more modern history is told through contemporary art pieces placed around the island, including Yoko Ono's Imagine Peace Tower and Milestones, by American sculptor, Richard Serra.

After a long travel day, there's nothing like a hike through nature to clear the head.

Especially when it looks like this.

Ice Landing.

Un-wolf-like lupines.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The North Atlantic recedes into moonscape as we descend with a bump into Keflavik.

A church, nestled neatly into the shore, blends into an outcropping of rocks, its steeple the only pin in an apparent plan for stealth. Old tombstones are scattered around like pebbles.

The ground nearby is a wrinkled camouflage shirt of muted greens and browns spattered by purple tufts of lupines.

Riding the Flybus Airport Transfer into Reykjavik, which is 45 minutes away, appears to be the most cost-effective option, unless you’re already renting a car.

It’s a smooth ride past a tight green thread tucked into black, where golfers swing through a few holes. The volcanic rock no doubt offers many more.

Winding through a town, we pass brightly painted homes clad in steel, before tracing the olive green ribs of mountains illuminated by a sun that only sets for three hours these days.

It’s hazy, not unlike me this morning.

And I’ve had even less rest.