Flagging Hunger.

I found E.T.

Bratislava, Slovakia – It’s my last full day.

Naturally, I've decided to tack on even more international travel. 

Bratislava is only an hour away and, unlike earlier in the journey, the train clearly indicates where you are and where you’re going – in German and in English. Even better, a roundtrip ticket includes municipal transport upon my arrival.

Remnants of the communist era are immediately evident. Bland concrete boxes and stone statues with rugged chins are contrasted by narrow Medieval alleys etched into the old town and by a wide, leafy promenade along the Danube. The city is beautiful, interesting and different.

In addition to wandering through the old town, I’ve visited the Art Nouveau Blue Church, Bratislava Castle, UFO Bridge and Slovak Radio, an inverted pyramid often named one of the world’s ugliest buildings. The city is a patchwork of styles.

End of the line.

Having worked up a hunger, I've escaped the wind and rain by stepping into Bratislava Flagship, a former monastery built in 1672. It would eventually become a cinema and is now one of Europe's largest restaurants. From tiny doors to religious iconography, though, the building’s past is never far from sight.

Aromas of roasting meat waft through the air as house remixes of Cher and Elton John thump over endless wood and marble. An ornately carved fireplace sits incongruously against the wall, but no more so than the clay Bethlehem that fills the stage – it's reputed to be the country's largest.

Bratislava Flagship is a feast for the eyes and for the stomach.

A din rises from below as crowds finally pull up to the long tables. The restaurant, which holds 500, has just begun filling up. Sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with "Bar Tislava," my server delivers a dark, house-made monastic beer and a plate of slow-roasted pork, dumplings and sauerkraut. I'm told it's traditional.

And it's delicious.

What a cool experience – I’m really glad I’ve made the trip.

No Words.

A Central Experience.

A rarity: Café Central with no line.

Vienna, Austria – Café Central’s not the sort of place I typically visit.

Too many tourists gawking at overpriced pastries and vaulted ceilings, wanting to be part of an approximated history that’s been written here. Or nearly here.

But the traditional Viennese café is such an important part of the city’s mystique that I’ve been the tourist I am and come for breakfast and a Melange. In a nod to traditional etiquette, a spoon is placed upside down atop the glass of water set alongside my coffee.

While the café is in a different part of the building than when it opened in 1876, it maintains a sense of charm and gravitas. Gone is the thinker’s salon known for epic battles of chess and heated discussions of the day’s politics.

Instead, social media influencers pose in front of glass cases filled with ornately decorated patisseries.

At one time, you’d have found the psychologist Freud, the artist Klimt, the architect Loos and countless writers spread across the café, poring over newspapers and writing their next oeuvres.

You may have also shared a table with Trotsky, Lenin, Stalin or Hitler.

They’re obviously name-dropped less.

History is fluid. A cultural touchstone like Café Central still sets the scene, allowing you to connect to a different time and to imagine the electricity of thought that filled the hall.

The reality that it was originally located a few feet away changes little.

Habs(burgs) and Hab Nots.

Life's a ball in Kugelmugel.

Vienna, Austria – Scale.

It’s the first word that comes to mind to describe Vienna.

Not necessarily the size of the city itself – although my legs may argue after another 30-kilometre day – but everything feels massive. The Hofburg Imperial Palace, St. Stephen's Cathedral and Vienna State Opera may not be the world's largest on their own, but taken collectively, they lend the city a certain weight.

It pays to have a dynasty – and a sense of self-importance. 

There remains a symbolic and very real presence of the Habsburg monarchy, even today. Marble. Spires. Fountains. Sculptures. Blocks of perfectly shaped buildings in neutral tones, like delicately piped cakes.

As important to Viennese culture as opera.

Horse-drawn carriages clop through Michaelerplatz, the centre of city life since 1 AD. There’s so much history sculpted into these buildings and fountains, each of which burbles with its own stories.

I've spent the day wandering through and around the old town, gawking at the views, each of which seemed to surpass the last.

(And sipped Viennese coffee on Stephanplatz, as people have for centuries.)

Across the city: the opposite end of the spectrum. An orange sphere is tucked behind an eight-foot-tall barbed wire fence in the Prater amusement park. It appears to make an surprised face. Welcome to the Republic of Kugelmugel, a self-described 'micronation' built in the 1970s as a piece of protest art.

It's a far cry from the types of pageantry you'd see at balls elsewhere in Vienna.

The Golden Hour.

A golden kiss.

Vienna, Austria – Centuries-old gardens are finely trimmed into pointy finials.

A robot mows the lawn in zig-zags.

The anachronism momentarily breaks my reverie about how generations of royalty lived at Belvedere Palace. I’ve sat here an hour, absorbing the sun, the largesse, the detail.

Nearly a kilometre long, the Baroque gardens slope toward the old town, connecting Upper and Lower Belvedere. Spray from tiers of fountains sparkles like diamonds, falling into the outstretched hands of ornately carved marble cherubs.

It’s refreshing in the heat.

Historically, people cooled off in the towering, reddish-brown – and aptly named – Marble Hall, found inside Upper Belvedere. Topped by a massive fresco painted in 1721, it's also where the Austrian State Treaty was signed in 1955, re-establishing the country's sovereignty.

The remaining rooms are filled with priceless masterworks – it has been a day of art. Rodin. van Gogh. Munch. Schiele. And the world’s largest collection of Klimt.

As I make my way through the crowd, newlyweds and lovers cluster, arm-in-arm, in front of his most famous.

The Kiss.

A Mini Adventure.

Tribute to Jewish war hero, Hanna Szenes.

Budapest, Hungary – My train leaves in three hours.

As ever, I’m ready painfully early.

There's no point pacing around a hotel room, so I've set out to find some of the more than 30 mini statues artist Mykhailo Kolodko has scattered across the city.

For the most part, they're unsanctioned guerrilla art, but when you find one, you want to find others. Like Pokémon: gotta catch 'em all. 

Some teach history; others make a political point – sometimes pointedly. Seeing one of a Russian hat protesting the country's influence in Hungary, a far-right politician destroyed it with an axe.

Kodolko replaced it with a mini statue of an axe.

Today, someone has tied a pink knit scarf around the neck of a bronze aviatrix soaring from a rock in a park. A small plant has been tucked into a diver's hand outside New York Café. 

The other holds a symbolic key to the landmark institution.

Farther along, a roadster rounds a planter. An orange Garfield has replaced a dog on an old chipped fence. Winnie the Pooh hangs from a honey pot. Noah's Ark is set with different colours of glass, shedding rainbows. It pays to look up. And to look down.

I partly wish I had known about these statues sooner.

But surprises like these are a part of the fun and whimsy of travel.

Agog.

Out from the darkness.

Budapest, Hungary – I'm welcomed by Jewish wedding music. 

Joyous. Upbeat.

It's soon replaced by marching boots.

A single heartbeat.

Hallways alternate between light and shadow as old reels unfurl with stories that fall softly from downcast eyes. By numbers, one in 10 Holocaust victims was Hungarian.

Silence.

Faintly, another wedding. You leave with a whisper of hope.

Budapest's Holocaust Memorial Center does a fantastic job of storytelling through sound.

And it opens into the most beautiful synagogue I've seen.

Bathed in Glory.

We can be heroes.

Budapest, Hungary – Having covered nearly 60 kilometres on foot the past two days, I figured I’d take it easy. Maybe soak in one of the city’s popular thermal baths?

No. You will walk.

I hadn’t yet seen Heroes’ Square, 3.5 kilometres away. It’s big. It’s daunting. It’s colonnades and bronze statues: men and horses turned bluish-green with age. It's impressive.

In short, it’s Europe.

Behind it, a castle that hadn’t made my itinerary. After all, there are so many.

Unlike most, however, Vajdahunyad Castle is a hodgepodge of buildings from across the country and across architectural styles: chess pieces from various sets clustered at the centre of a board. Set on a still pond, it's beautiful in its confusion.

An oxidized statue of Anonymous sits hooded in the garden, his pen rubbed back to its original bronze. Overhead, birds chirp like old tin toys. It's a fun find in the middle of City Park as the sun finally breaks through.

Only later do I realize I've been standing beside the famed Széchenyi thermal baths all along.

A Hard Cell.

A building with its own headline.

Budapest, Hungary – For decades, 60 Andrássy Avenue was the last place you’d want to find yourself.

Now, it’s a popular tourist attraction.

The House of Terror Museum is set in the former headquarters of both the pro-Nazi Arrow Cross and the communist secret police. It’s a symbolic address in the minds of generations of Hungarians.

The museum, though, is almost cinematic.

A Russian tank crouches in the lobby, metaphorically leaking oil as abrasive rock riffs fill the courtyard. The soundscape whisks you through a series of sets and period pieces. An eerie standup bass gives way to light strings.

Then, a black car appears, suddenly lit behind a curtain – as you imagine it would have in the middle of the night.

As a monument to those punished by two of the country’s recent totalitarian regimes, I find it almost too glossy, too much of a modern art piece. That feeling only ends, temporarily, after I slowly descend into the basement.

It’s where political opponents would vanish into cold stone cells, knuckled under fists of fury. There, in the shallow air, my imagination can finally sketch out their horrors.

If you ended up in there, you may have ended there.

Rebirth in Ruins.

Wonderland.

Budapest, Hungary – Last night is painted onto people’s faces.

The Jewish Quarter has become party central.

As they stumble along, I wonder how many revellers think of what happened on these streets 80 years ago. They’ll have passed various memorials and the Dohány Street Synagogue, which is the largest outside Israel. More than 2,000 victims of the Arrow Cross are buried in the courtyard.

It’s sobering.

And yet, I’ve come to visit Szimpla Kert, a former stove factory now brimming with greenery. It’s the last of the original ‘ruin bars’ and a distinctly Budapestian experience. Twenty-five years ago, people began reclaiming buildings abandoned since the war, giving them – and the community around them – new life. 

They were filled with mismatched furniture and cheap beer. And, as importantly, with people. 

Bathed in disco light.

Today, a flea market fills the entrance and sun streams through colour-blocked sheets flapping gently over the courtyard. Pink flamingos and gnomes wink behind plants sprouting from disco balls. It's wild.

In one room, a cracked tub serves as a bench, set beside haphazardly strewn stools, mottled with spray paint.

Each space is its own tattooed warren covered in scribbles that tell the stories of years of wild nights. Of loves longed-for. And of anarchy, which seems to align with the feeling of the place. 

But lighter.

Ruin bars have breathed new life into forgotten spaces, making the area one of the trendiest in Budapest. The sands of time are stacked on top of each other.

Still, as I leave, I step across one of 32 bronze strips embedded into the pavement – and back into history. 

They mark the locations of the old ghetto walls.

Poor Marketing.

Stop and stair.

Budapest, Hungary – Although it’s Saturday morning, the Central Market Hall is hushed. It opens at six.

Two hours later, most stalls remain shuttered.

The emptiness is filled with aromas of spice and baked breads. Sausages hang like the church bells echoing through the mostly empty hall. 

Cases of meat are laid out in symmetries, gradients of red. Bouquets of paprika clutch to steel gates. Fruits, nuts, wines and lavender soaps await the day’s rush.

In the meantime, I admire the silence and the sun streaming in at sharp angles.

But I would have loved to have found some breakfast.

Looking Down.

Buda Castle, from Pest.

Budapest, Hungary – If you can look down, you’re in Buda. 

Pest is flat.

Now one city, Budapest is divided by the Danube, which once marked the edge of the Roman Empire. I’ve crossed Széchenyi Chain Bridge to Fisherman’s Bastion and Buda Castle, which stand proudly over the river.

These are no doubt two of the city’s most magnificent and popular attractions.

Fisherman’s Bastion twists and curves like a stone sandcastle, offering stunning views for miles. Tourists jostle for the best photos.

The only moment without people.

Behind it stands Matthias Church, where the final two Hungarian kings were coronated. A gold crown is set into the base of a cross atop the colourfully tiled roof. Perched nearby, a black stone raven represents the 'Raven King,' Matthias Corvinus, considered the country's greatest monarch.

Approximately 80 per cent of the Castle District was destroyed during the Second World War. The subsequent Communist regime simplified many structures during its rebuild.

Damage from the Russian siege is still visible today. As I round a corner, pockmarks scar the face of the national archives, providing a very tangible reminder of some of the area's less regal history. 

The sound of guns has been replaced by jackhammers. 

Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the complex is being rebuilt to its original designs. Ornate facings are held up by steel beams as historic landmarks, including the Royal Palace, are brought back to their previous splendour.

Today has felt like every destination is 2.5 kilometres away, which I now need to reverse if I want to check in to my hotel. 

I pass an oxidized bronze statue of Baron Eotvos Jozsef, which stands imposingly outside a brown, early 1980s-era Intercontinental Hotel. It's a bit of an anachronism.

As in so many cities, parts of Budapest have begun being glassed over.

But for now at least, its history hasn't been glossed over.

And the walk back is flat.

Soles, Departed.

Budapest, Hungary – Sixty pairs of iron shoes of all sizes line a stretch of the Danube.

Several are filled with red flowers.

Others bear ribbons or have the remains of burnt-out candles interspersed between them. Stickers about the ongoing crisis in Gaza have been affixed to a low wall. 

It’s a sombre memorial commemorating thousands of Jews killed by the fascist Arrow Cross during the final years of the Second World War. 

Their shoes held value, so they were told to take them off before being shot, falling into the river.

Naturally, tourists crouch, posing for beauty shots amidst the footwear. Anything for the ‘gram.’ 

I’m starting to wonder if social media is ruining travel. Or, maybe, just respect in general.

No Words.

Tram along the Danube.

Back on Track.

The world passes like in a film cell.

Braşov, Romania – A young student from Boston comes up to me and asks: "Is this for Budapest?"

"I hope so," is my cautious reply.

There are no signs on the platform, but the small board in the station had said the quiet track was ours. There aren't many others and the amount of luggage tells me people aren't just commuting.

I take that as my sign. 

Still, I wonder. Sure, I've confirmed the platform number. And the time. And the train. And my ticket.

Twelve times.

But there are no signs on the platform.

Given the confusion in Kraków a couple years ago, I might be forgiven my neuroses. 

As the loudspeaker chimes for the nineteenth time, I begin to recognize the train number. And still nothing that follows.

On the edge of earshot, someone says there had been a 20-minute delay. Then, another chime.

People rustle. It's a longer train with a sign scribbled with 'Budapest-K' pasted onto the window. I can finally breathe.

Settling in makes me giddy – I love night trains.

It’s a good thing: I have 12 hours ahead of me in this cabin.

Fang You Very Much.

For some, the décor a-Peeles.

Braşov, Romania – Our guide Dan plays DJ as he weaves through the mountains.

Occasionally, he looks up at the road.

In multiple languages, he sings along to jazz, the Rolling Stones, the blues and Pink Floyd, which he breaks up with helpful history of the region. He's lived in Brașov his whole life.

Our first stop is at Peles Castle, a Neo-Renaissance palace constructed for King Carol I, the first king of Romania. Its interiors seem to be carved from dark wood and gold. Ornate Murano glass chandeliers cascade from the ceiling with colourful, falling leaves.

Portraits painted by Gustav Klimt hang in the entranceway. There's a lot of detail to take in.

I find it interesting that there’s a Moorish salon, a Turkish Parlor and a Florentine Room, in addition to spaces styled after the British and French. Dan tells us Carol I respected different cultures, even if he was at war with them.

Maybe the rooms just gave him a place to put his trophies.

All-Bran.

Our guide produces strong coffee from a thermos before we proceed to Râșnov Fortress, which is closed for renovations. It has stood since the 1200s and was likely due for a freshen-up, even though it no longer needs to worry about cannon fire from the Ottomans.

Our last stop is Bran Castle, often referred to as ‘Dracula’s Castle.’

It's not really. 

A couple Americans thought it would help sell tickets if they tied the Transylvanian castle to Bram Stoker's literary vampire. And it has. 

Gold star, marketing team.

Vlad the Impaler, often considered to be the inspiration for Dracula (also erroneously), was not, in fact, from Braşov, but from rival neighbour, Wallachia. Still, signs around the property show a fork missing its middle tines to look like fangs. Another, a pointy crown, dipped in blood.

(I grudgingly find them clever.)

Built in 1377, it's pretty inside, and less ornate than Peles Castle. I creak over floorbards and duck under low doorways. Beloved Queen Marie – the last queen of Romania – modernized the castle in the early 20th century and painted flowers on many of the beams and doors.

In a full-circle twist of fate, it's now owned by a Habsburg.

I love history. But it has been a lot for the day.

Put on the Flow.

The mici cut the mustard.

Braşov, Romania – I look up with a smile, saying I don’t need help with the menu.

My young server, Dimitrie, raises an eyebrow. The Beer Corner offers a wide variety of traditional Romanian dishes and he's genuinely surprised.

I may have been wrong.

He looks at me quizzically as I try to order mici without bread or mustard, and explains that “bread is a necessity.”

“It’s how we eat them,” he adds with a grin.

The garlicky, uncased sausages are one of the main things on my culinary checklist for this trip. Mici, meaning “little ones,” are nearly ubiquitous in Romania, as the country consumes 440 million of them a year.

Dimitrie says he’ll “put me on the flow,” making me hip to eat them like a local. As they arrive with a sizzle that tickles my nostrils, I can’t help but say he was right. Again.

Dinner also includes Tochiturà de porc, a meaty plate of braised pork, sausage, pickle salad and polenta topped with a fried egg and telemea cheese. It’s tasty and filling, but the sheer saltiness draws any remaining moisture from my body.

Reflexes of an aging cat.

Seeing the need for refreshment, Dimitrie tips my glass and fills it with beer. He winks, saying “Perfect pour, right?”

As I get up to leave, he asks if I’d like to play a drinking game, pointing to a digital clock I hadn’t seen behind me. Stop it at exactly 00:10:00 and you win 20 per cent off your meal.

I miss by a hundredth of a second.

Dimitrie has been so great I give him the 20 per cent as a tip instead. 

There's not much of a tipping culture here and the machine isn't programmed to take that much. My turn to put him on the flow.

Square Dancing.

Lining up for more.

Braşov, Romania – The old town kisses you with gelato-coloured buildings. Misty hills rise behind them. 

Braşov is beyond-words beautiful. 

Lines of white cobblestone, set out in squares, draw me immediately to the Council House, built in 1420. Now a museum, it was once home to city hall, markets and witch trials.

Several groups of school children move through the square like chess pieces. Adults tuck into restaurants lining the perimeter. All the while, chatter is caught in raindrops.

I love squares like this: six hundred years later, it's still a hub of activity.

The Black Church looms over one corner, incongruous with other structures. It's the largest Gothic church in Southeastern Europe and lighter bricks used in its restoration make it appear pixelated.

Squares within a square.

Nearby, I squeeze myself through Strada Sforii, believed to be one of Europe’s narrowest streets. Its length is scribbled with names and testaments of love.

As the rain exhales, bright umbrellas flutter like insect wings.

Atop one of the hills, a sign spells out Braşov in white letters. Everything is so beautiful I can only assume I've found myself inside a Hollywood movie.

And tonight, I’m staying in the third-oldest building on the square.

It was built in 1477. 

This is amazing.

Run to the Hills.

Braşov's brutalist train station, opened in 1962.

Braşov, Romania – As we pull out of Bucharest, the sun shimmers over bright yellow fields.

Blocks of canola carry on for miles. It’s a crop mandated by the European Union, replacing what had traditionally been potato farms.

The train glides effortlessly past small villages with rusted roofs and passes under a bridge spray painted with a blue swastika. 

It's particularly unsettling as these rails, and this train company, actively contributed to the Holocaust.

In what seems like an instant, green hills shrug from the ground, producing two-tone forests stippled with evergreens and beech. Shortly thereafter, the train winces as we begin our climb into the Carpathian Mountains.

Dark, craggy peaks cut into the skyline. Thin cloud settles into crevices as though someone has exhaled a cigarette. Rains are coming.

Despite the country's reputation for rail delays, we pull into Braşov exactly on time. Bells announce our arrival with the chime of a few notes of the operetta, Crai Nou.

And the rains hold off just long enough for me to make the 45-minute walk to the old town.

Nacho Problem.

(Ground) Zero service.

Bucharest, Romania – I missed Cinco de Mayo by a day.

Naturally, it's in Bucharest that I find some of the best nachos I've ever had, in a craft beer bar just off University Square.

At Ground Zero Beer, they use four different cheeses, including bleu, roasted red peppers, pickled jalapeños and bacon. Funk and salt assault my taste buds.

But they’re really tasty.

It has been surprisingly challenging to find traditional Romanian cuisine here. Maybe it's the way the world's going, but the city seems largely to have moved on from its food history.

As I discovered the first day, there’s a grab-and-go culture of sandwiches, breads and pastries – shops along the street are often lined up. And there's a lot of pizza (insert joke about the Roman Empire): only the United States orders it more.

It makes me feel that I’m missing out on less as I work through my nachos. Service here is indifferent at best, but I soon realize the imperial stout I've ordered is 12 per cent.

And has been served in a pint glass.

A tasty afternoon, indeed.

Whispers Beneath My Feet.

A lawnmower might help with curb appeal.

Bucharest, Romania – Stone streets tell their histories on my feet.

Rounded at the corners from retelling, many are still hard.

Yet, whispers emerge from alleyways where people planned a utopian society, where others protested and where more disappeared. They seep from crooked window frames long since left naked.

And, at times, they leave a chill despite unpromised sunshine falling on me at a 28-degree angle.

Walking along Calea Victorei, the city’s most famous street, has helped me thumb through some of Bucharest's history.

A block in, the Union of Romanian Architects Building merges these histories, tacking a glass skyscraper on top of a heritage building that once housed the secret police. Bullet holes in its facing whisper, in braille, the story of the revolution in 1989.

Stone-faced politicians.

Today, the avenue is lined by cafés, patios and high-end shopping. Bright red poppies bob gently like crepe paper in the breeze as well-dressed men and women step past. There's a new history being written.

Despite being tucked behind a construction gate, the stunning Cantacuzino Palace looms with the presence of an opera singer. It’s an aria to opulence and culture at the turn of the 20th century. Two stone lions flanking the door don’t flinch as I reach through the fence for a photo.

A little farther, roses and unkempt grasses wrap around communist-era busts placed in a circle outside a former aristocratic house. The garden urges us to connect with ourselves over generations. 

It’s an unexpected find.

And why I tend to walk everywhere.

Pieced Together.

Bucharest, Beiged in Light.

Bucharest, Romania – A glass shatters over loose cobblestones, scattering like misplaced stars.

Mid-day, revellers are already filling the narrow arteries of the old town.

Only 20 years ago, this area was in pieces. So many of the city's resources had been redirected that buildings were left derelict, providing convenient shadows for crime.

Now, it’s a bustling stretch of open-air cafés and restaurants frequented by locals and tourists alike. The old town’s beauty has been repainted, its history renewed.

On cue, a line of river cruisers shuffles past, eyes somewhere between their phones and the orange flag they obey. As in so many European cities, the old town has become somewhat of a theme park.

Graffiti, an ages-old problem.

Falling in behind them, I stop at the popular Caru’cu Bere for lunch and enjoy a dish of confit pork, smoked sausage, sauerkraut and polenta. Waiters in white shirts and beige aprons hustle past with tankards of house-made beer.

Naturally, one stops at my table.

The 140-year-old restaurant turns over 2,500 patrons a day, only 40 per cent of whom are tourists. While known for the dark wood, arches and stained glass of its Gothic Revival interior, it’s the patio that’s packed under today's spring sun.

Across the road stands the ornately painted Stavropoleous Church, which has stood for more than 300 years and seen Bucharest through its many transformations. 

Around the city, jackhammers put the exclamation mark on its most recent. What will 20 more years do to scrub some of the more recent history from its walls?

It’s a great afternoon and a reminder that, sometimes, tourist areas are that way for good reason.

The Weight of History.

The world's second-largest administrative building.

Bucharest, Romania – Heat curls from my brow as I set out in search of the entrance to the Palace of Parliament.

Weighing more than nine billion pounds, it’s the heaviest building in the world. Unsurprisingly, it sinks six millimetres a year.

It's also a monument to former dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu's vanity and to his power to destroy more than seven square kilometres of the old city centre while uprooting 40,000 people and redirecting much-needed financial resources. 

Today, it’s more than 70 per cent empty. Built with a million cubic metres of marble, it’s the showy white wedding cake nobody needs.

The sun beats down as I make my way up Spirea’s Hill, along the south side of the building. Gold domes shimmer against the sky. Within the same complex, construction continues on the People’s Salvation Cathedral, which is expected to open later this year.

Naturally, it’s the largest Orthodox church in the world.

After more than an hour, I make it to the entrance, which was mere feet from where I had started.

But in the opposite direction.

I don’t even go in.

A Silent Smile.

Perfect strangers, abandoned.

Bucharest, Romania – The city smiles through chipped teeth.

A bygone splendour is tucked into the spiderwebs of cracked pink paint, rusted balconies, bleached façades and abandoned buildings. Beautiful Beaux-Arts awnings unfold like glass leaves.

They’re set against an adjacent symmetry of brutalist concrete cubes remaining from more than 40 years of communist rule. Lines upon lines upon lines.

In more ways than one.

Having to squint a little to see the remains of a city once described as ‘Little Paris of the East’ isn’t really much of a surprise. Covered in tattoo-like graffiti, Bucharest appears to wear much of its tumultuous history on its sleeve. Times have often been hard.

As a country, Romania has long been at the crossroads – and in the crosshairs – of various imperial powers and fascist regimes. Given these challenges, it’s easy to appreciate that smiles can at first seem harder to come by.

Like parachutes, falling from the sky.

I join one of the many fast-moving, but not insignificant, lines for a  Luca Traditional – ham and cheese baked into a pretzel – before settling onto the patio at Hop Hooligans. The air gets a jolt as friends come together over craft beers. It’s a great spot.

Heading back to the hotel, I walk through an alley with hundreds of umbrellas strung overhead. They paint a rainbow in the sky.

The city’s smile widens ever so slightly.

Nearby, a child-in-arms teases his mother with a giggle. Pouting teens tug on skinny cigarettes. An older woman presumably asks me for money. And others hustle along with groceries.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from travel is that languages may change, but regardless of our different and often-complicated histories, we are – at the core – very much the same.

Bună ziua, Bucharest.