Hide and Souk.

A DIY reflecting pool.

Casablanca, Morocco – Stepping off the bus, we’re immediately surrounded by touts.

And shouts. 

“Taxi? Taxi! Taxi!!!”

It's humid. Motorcycles bray like New Year’s noisemakers as they rip through crosswalks. Angry horns echo.

Pretending to know where I'm headed, I press firmly through the crowd – now five deep – and across the street. Only one man follows before realizing I was serious when I said "no, thank you."

I may not really know where I'm going, but I have a decent guess. 

The Hassan II Mosque is pretty hard to miss.

Its ornately detailed minaret rises from the ocean, drawing the day’s haze onto the sky. At 210 metres, it’s the second tallest in the world.

Hewn from marble and granite, the mosque is covered in intricate mosaics and features a retractable roof. It can accommodate more than 100,000 worshippers at a time, including 25,000 inside.

Funky cold medina.

We wander down a broad avenue lined with palm trees and into the narrow stone alleys I love so much to lose myself in. Mechanics make repairs from tiny wooden shacks fronted by mattresses, surrounded by pungent aromas of petrol and of the day's catch.

A young man on a stool uses a wooden block to tap a knife as he breaks down a large fish. Beside him, another cleans squid. Farther along, women gossip at a small storefront filled with spices. I'm surprised people largely leave us alone, offering only a soft "bonjour" and a smile.

We alternate our replies in Arabic and French. 

Apart from taking in the bustle and untangling the threads of jagged streets, the rest of the old souk is a disappointment: it's filled with counterfeits and cheap trinkets. Nobody even glances up from their phones to try to sell us anything. 

Just like home.

I'm privileged to be back on my favourite continent for a fifth time, which has brought a very different experience – but one that's still reminiscent.

And one that makes me feel alive in a way few other things do.

Rock On.

"What can we steal?"

Gibraltar, UK – Like a rigid lightning bolt, the Charles V Wall zigzags precipitously downward.

Its 660 narrow and steep stone steps are patrolled by Barbary macaques, which scamper up the wall and rest unhelpfully at our feet. While they're no doubt accustomed to humans, I still don't find it wise to step over a mother nuzzling her baby.

With so little room to turn around, I'm at least afforded time to catch my breath. 

All morning, the Rock of Gibraltar has been shrouded in cloud, shrugging in darkness. Having begun our trek at 7 a.m., we arrived at the Devil’s Gap Battery an hour too early to enter the nature reserve. Naturally, the attendant was late.

And had forgotten his keys.

A Christian rock show.

But we've had the trails mostly to ourselves, apart from the occasional minibus and plenty of monkeys. Most sit quietly, picking at family members' fur. Others jump into treetops, causing branches to draw wide-arcing parabolas. Still more slide across the glass Skywalk – which was, humorously, dedicated by Mark Hamill – rendered slippery from fog.

They're thoroughly delighted. As are we.

We stop at St. Michael’s Cave, where a light show illuminates stalactites and tells some of the history of how it was formed. Ancient Greeks believed it was the entrance to Hades.

Now a concert venue and tourist attraction, we dodge slow drips. A swirl of purple and pink illuminates a formation that takes the shape of an angel.

Stepping outside, the heavens open more fully.

What a fantastic day. 

Unmoored.

Missed a spot.

Granada, Spain – It begins with perfume.

The Alhambra’s tall, labyrinthine gardens gently whisper love letters in jasmine, rose, cypress and orange.

Bright red pomegranates – granada in Spanish – hang like festive balls on a Christmas tree. It’s one of the best-smelling places I’ve visited in a long time.

Inside, it’s also one of the most breathtaking.

Built primarily by the Nasrid Dynasty between 1238 and 1358, the palace and fortress complex is among the best-preserved monuments of the Medieval Islamic world. 

Modest exteriors belie the explosion of geometric tile, marble and intricately carved stucco inside. Swirls of calligraphy have been etched repetitively into the walls as though a student had to repeat a lesson learned on a chalkboard.

Courting lions.

There's an intense beauty to be found in consistency.

In Islamic architectural tradition, rooms open through arched doorways into central courtyards lined with sharply manicured box hedges and reflecting pools. The serene, liquid canvas of the Court of Myrtles would eventually inspire the Taj Mahal.

Having fallen to Christian conquest, the Alhambra became a Spanish royal court in 1492. As a result, the city is a fascinating blend of Moorish, Gothic and Spanish Renaissance architecture that speaks to 800 years of Andalusian history, religion, community and culture.

Walking into the Hall of Ambassadors, we feel a faint connection.

Here, behind the flicker of a thousand pinpricks poked into the shutters, Columbus received royal endorsement for his journey to the Americas.

It's like the stars aligned. 

A Stone's Throw From the Past.

Up at the crack of dawn.

Cartegena, Spain – Cartegena's Calle Mayor is tiled in blue marble.

I can only imagine how slippery it becomes in the rain.

The naval port’s main street carries you through a history sculpted from millennia. Today, stunning Art Nouveau structures appear to have been pulled from the ground as ornate blinds for the sun.

They flaunt wealth from several mining booms, where silver and lead literally and figuratively shaped the city.

Painted iron railings curl across the fronts of well-appointed apartments – embroidery stitches tying times together. Pots of flowers punctuate the pale yellow and pink buildings with colourful rosettes.

Tucked behind them sits a Roman theatre built in the dying years of BC. It’s still being unearthed.

Farther down the street, hollow facades are held up by steel frames. Their former insides are being turned upside down in an attempt to expose even more of crooked lines that have drawn the city’s history.

The sun breathes late-season warmth onto our necks as we reach the top of the hill in Parque Arqueológico Molinete, where ruins as far back as the city’s founding in 227 BC are strewn like discarded chicken bones. 

A sign tells us this was a rough red light district by the 18^th century and somewhere you wouldn’t have wanted to be. Now, feral cats scamper over crumbled walls and past small, painted houses the municipality has built for them.

More than 2,000 years later, the hill is still home.

Time Tapas.

Something's fishy.

Barcelona, Spain – A perpetual motion machine twists behind the thin, marble bar at La Plata.

He smiles, spinning the spigot of a barrel set atop the fridge.

Without so much as a splash, house-made red wine falls in a graceful arc into thimble-sized glasses. It's a perfect dive.

As he has for 50 years, Pepe Gómez moves effortlessly, serving small plates of fried anchovies. Washing glasses. More anchovies. Wiping down the counter. A plate of sausage. Tossing out smiles and jokes with regulars. 

And mentally tabulating bills of the growing crowd, which spills out onto the darkened street.

Based on faded photos on the wall, it seems little has changed since the small, corner establishment opened in 1945. It feels like you could be stepping into any one of them.

Still six tables. Still four tapas on the menu. And still a crowd celebrating the end of the day.

Set amidst the wallpaper of tourist shops hawking cheap trinkets in the Gothic Quarter, a moment of authenticity.

Feeling Familar.

Searching for a pot of God.

Barcelona, Spain – The towering sandstone forest of La Sagrada Familia is bathed in a warm glow of ambient colour.

Flames flicker on the floor. Sunrise stretches over branched ceilings.

It's as though all seasons are present at once and you can't help but look up – to gawk, even. When I last stood on this spot 30 years ago, it was the site of a gift shop and of continuous construction.

Now, it's a place of prayer in the world's tallest church.

And, next year, after 144 years, the chisels are rumoured to finally stop – construction of the basilica will be complete. 

Walking around the south side, though, I have my suspicions.

Having received one of the earliest entrance times, I step outside and have the entire front of the building to myself. 

I'm lost in the enormity of the moment.

Intricate carvings appear to crawl from the stone. Seasonal fruits in reds and oranges adorn the spires, dotting the sky with colour. A green cypress tree, reminiscent of Christmas, is decked with 21 doves. Delicate bronze trumpets, muted and turned green, are pressed to stone lips.

I may not be the slightest bit religious, but I'm still awed.

And humbled by Gaudi's vision.

Small Plates of Barcelona.

3.14 tapas for the price of one.

Barcelona, Spain – The blue dot on the map doesn’t budge.

It just winks, apprehensively.

Despite confidence we’ve hopped onto the right train from the airport, our lips are curled into question marks. “There’s only one way you can go,” I tell myself. “And there are other tourists aboard.”

And yet, we seem to be circling farther north.

Suddenly, we arrive at Passeig de Gracia station and hurriedly grab our bags. Stepping out into a bustling Barcelona evening, the blue dot finally careens across the screen, marking our real location. 

The GPS has awoken from its slumber.

We wander through the Gothic Quarter, which has come alive for Halloween. Men in top hats and long, dark coats lead ghost tours through jagged alleys lit at crooked angles in cigarette yellow. In a small square, a full choir of buskers breaks out in a beautiful rendition of Let it Be.

We settle into a table in an adjacent square for vermut de Reus and tapas, both exhausted from the day and equally giddy at the prospect of patatas bravas, octopus parmentier and a shimmering plate of Jamón Iberico.

Two buskers swing by the table, crooning Valero, expectantly holding out cups between bites.

It's a warm welcome to Barcelona.

A Jewel.

Footfalls.

Niagara Falls, ON – Even as it rattles through my bones, the crash of a fifth of the world's fresh water leaves me stilled, in awe.

It's deceptive in its emerald shimmer, rolling off the lip of the falls and spitting diamonds, caught in the sunlight.

I've been coming to Niagara Falls since I was a child and it continues to amaze, even as the area balloons in kitsch to accommodate an unceasing flow of tourists. But it's all about the natural wonder: so many mouths agape, like the Horseshoe Falls themselves.

Aboard the Hornblower, we dissolve into the mist, ruby-red ponchos inflating like comic book characters. I stand humbled beneath the torrent, swirling in the power of nature. Spray blows rainbows across the bow.

For the first time, we visit the Niagara Parks Power Station. Built in 1905, it was the first major power plant built on the Canadian side of the falls. It's now a beautiful museum that wears the history of electric power on its sleeve. Drips lead to a roar as we make our way down the 2,200-foot tunnel that once carried water away from the turbines.

We emerge beneath the falls. It's a vantage I've never had.

And it's spellbinding.

Collossus of Roads.

I sell sunsets down by the seashore.

London, ON – It’s a day spent watching fresh memories, but stitched in reverse.

And at high speed.

That is, of course, until we near Toronto on Highway 401, which is always a centipede of steel and impatient engines. Trucks heave. Lowered cars with cannon-like mufflers try to slip into new lanes unnoticed.

You can feel the collective eyeroll.

Work commitments have required us to return all the way home today – what's a thousand kilometres between friends? So, for now, I tuck memories into the centre console, scribbled onto maps over coloured lines I'll likely never cross again. 

But which I'll hold with me forever.

At last: home, sweet home. 

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 1,123 kms
• Provinces: Québec, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: Hare

A Grey Time.

A blank page unfolds before me.

La Malbaie, QC – Greys slip into nothingness.

As we set out to the mainland, the air swells with pregnant fog. It's like peering through wax paper as the boat pushes into folded waves. Ripples vanish even before they form.

We've joined a group of daytrippers for a tour to Île Nue de Mingan, which sprouts with nature's flowerpots. It's a stone chessboard laid bare by high winds. Beauty, in nakedness.

Botticelli would be proud. 

It's a nice, free trip where we're somehow the only ones not sporting bright red lifejackets – until the horrified captain notices us shivering. An Indigenous member of the tour picks a stick up off the stone beach and tells us it has come from the mainland. It's been gnawed by a beaver.

And there are none here.

Unfortunately, what's gnawing at me now is that we have to cover 1,800 kilometres by the end of day tomorrow.

And we don't reach our car until near noon.

Vitals:

• Time: 8 hours
• Distance: 668.9 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, burning off into beauty
• Wildlife: Porcupine 

No Words.

Seeing the light.

The Gulf Course.

Isolated, in the best possible way.

Île aux Perroquets, QC – Far off in the water, a rock smudges the horizon.

The lighthouse atop is barely visible.

We're waiting for a yellow boat, affectionately named Moutarde, to take us there for the next couple days. A beluga spouts near shore, only increasing my excitement.

Then, the low hum of a small outboard motor.

For five kilometres, we brace ourselves against swollen waves – it has stormed the past couple days and snowed only a few weeks ago.

As we approach Île aux Perroquets, a raft of sea lions nod. Puffins and razorbills (here, "petits pingouins") whir overhead in a spectacle of rapidly shifting dots and dashes – a welcome in Morse code.

As our luck has it, we're the only guests on the island for both days.

CliffsNotes on effective takeoffs.

Our hosts are incredibly hospitable, creating delicious homemade meals from local ingredients: haskap berries, seafood and freshly baked croissants. And always, too much dessert. 

As it's part of the Mingan Archipelago National Park Reserve, tourists visit during the day. But by 4:30, it's just us. Emboldened, thousands of birds drop from the cliffs in batches, peppering the sky in a search for dinner. Sea lions bark roughly from Île Nue, slightly to the east.

Puffins extend their orange feet, fluttering furiously as they land – standing – in holes etched into the cliffs by their shell-like beaks.

With tourists gone, they've come out to play. It's a feathery fireworks finale.

And the sun sets like a flock of flamingos, aflight.

Vitals:

• Time: 35 minutes
• Distance: 51 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Overcast and cold
• Wildlife: Beluga spout, sea lions and countless birds, including puffins

Thunder Run.

The Golden Rule.

Rivière-au-Tonnerre, QC – Needles shed by windswept pines stitch together La Route des Baleines in north-eastern Québec.

Despite hours slaloming the coast, we see no whales. Nor moose, which diamond-shaped signs warn us of at regular intervals. For me, tradition holds.

It is, however, a beautiful-beyond-words drive through the jagged curves of mountains, which open their arms into countless lakes and into the St. Lawrence. Blues touch fingers with the horizon. 

I'm not sure I've taken a more stunning roadtrip east of the Rockies.

At one point, we comment about the lack of tunnels chiselled into the rock. One immediately appears around the next corner. I downshift. We try the same with moose.

Nothing.

On a roll in Sept-Îles.

Our only stop is at Casse-croûte du Pêcheur, in Sept-Îles. There, we have a lobster roll in a restaurant shaped like a giant, kitschy lobster pot. It's nicely toasted and tasty, but contains too much filler. 

Arriving at L'Escale Lam-Air is like stepping into a 1950's-era seaside motel. And I mean that in the best possible way. A Post-it note tells us our key is in the door to the room. We're well beyond cellular service and tourist season hasn't yet started – the hotel doesn't have full-time staff.

In other words: a great place for vacation.

We step off our back porch onto soft sand and over massive rocks filled with fossils, including one of a full fish. Gulls squawk, but we otherwise settle into silence before cracking a crab-flavoured beer. 

The sun set sets in glowing amber through the windows of Saint-Hippolyte church and upon a day filled with more beauty than expected.

But, still no whales.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours, 8 minutes
• Distance: 591.2 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

U-Bear Eats.

Sacré-Coeur, QC – Raindrops have been redrawn as mosquitoes.

As we make our way into the forest, a shape-shifting black cloud swallows the air in front of us. They tattoo our skin. 

It has been a pleasant day spent on a pair of ferries, including in the stunning Saguenay Fjord. Home for the night, though, is at Canopée Lit, in a cabin set high in the trees. It's equipped with a small kitchen, a separate bathroom and a birdhouse, which hangs from a rope.

Come morning, it will be hoisted up to us, holding a toolbox filled with breakfast.

But for now, we bask in the contentment of laying back and staring at the stars through the half-dome skylight, tree branches brushing gently against it like a cat. Silence and peace. 

Apart from the low, insistent buzz of one last, unseen mosquito.

Vitals: 

• Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
• Distance: 66.7 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, lifting, giving way to sun and (finally) warmth
• Wildlife: None

Signs of the Zodiac.

Between swell moments.

Rivière-du-Loup, QC – Rhythmic squawks: an alarm clock.

That and daylight spreading its wings across the sky.

It was all of 4 a.m. 

Apparently, we're far enough north to have much shorter summer nights, which is always an adjustment. It's the between times where a confused mind simultaneously seeks action and sleep.

I just want coffee.

After a sumptuous breakfast, the radio cackles. We're told the waves are too high for the boat to dock and that we'll need to be evacuated by Zodiac. Our hosts seem distressed.

We don our backpacks and rain gear, giddy with adventure.

The journey takes us through the forest, slippery with storm, and into an area otherwise closed for breeding season. The quiet cove shimmers in greens. Ferns fan our faces.

Assuming it's to take us all the way back to Rivière-du-Loup, we're surprised to see a grey, two-seat inflatable slowly rounding the corner.

I've seen bigger boats in a pool.

We immediately catch an oar in the mud and have to circle back. 

But, we soon make it to a larger boat anchored farther out in the water, grins as wide as the swells. Vanishing into the raindrops, our evacuation is complete.

Phare Away.

Alight.

Îles du Pot à l’Eau-de-Vie, QC – In the fog, the St. Lawrence fades from the page.

Imagination fills the remaining space.

Ships hurtle toward the rocky island, sailors’ faces as white as the waves. Each man tugs at a rope with raw hands, clasped in prayer, hoping the storm won't be their demise.

Ashore, the lighthouse keeper stokes triumphant flames in the broad, brick fireplace. He checks the wick burning atop the tower as a creak in the floorboards announces the arrival of additional hands. The glow grows, punching at the gloom.

Sleet hits the windows, rattling me from my reverie. The storm worsens. Winds whistle a maritime tune. 

Built in 1857, the historic red and white lighthouse we're sharing with a couple we've just met has no doubt seen its share of gales. A hundred-and-sixty-eight years later, though, it's still standing. We're told it's the only lighthouse in Canada where you can stay the night.

We climb the tower, looking across the island – now a bird sanctuary. Angry gulls pierce the clouds in slow-moving corkscrews. Razorbills skim the shifting surface of the water. It's moody.

And I can think of few places I'd rather be during a storm. 

Vitals:

• Time: 50 minutes
• Distance: 70.6 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Cloud, leading to severe storms
• Wildlife: Beluga spout; countless birds, including great blue herons, razorbills, murres and gulls

Bedeviled.

Finding this place wasn't a fluke.

Rivière-Ouelle, QC – A driftwood whale sits atop La Baleine Endiablée, bleached by the sun.

It's home for the night after more than 11 hours and nearly 1,100 kilometres on the road. The sun has finally come out at the end of a day painted in blended greys.

So has my French.

Unsurprisingly for us, the auberge hosts a nanobrewery. Out back, picnic tables overlook farm fields that roll up into the mountains,  glistening in the distance. It has been a long, but not particularly taxing day. Still, the idyllic setting is a welcome respite.

We've settled around plates of méchoui – Québecois barbeque pork – with gravy, coleslaw and spiced fries. The server arrives with a 9.5% barleywine.

In a pint glass.

The devilish whale, indeed.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours, 14 minutes
• Distance: 1,091.9 kms
• Provinces: Ontario, Québec
• Weather: Fog, cloud and rain, leading to sun
• Wildlife: None

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.

Roving.

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.