No Words.

A Marathon Day.

Cramped.

Vancouver, BC – Super Mario wobbles past, a star bobbing atop his head.

A time is written on it.

More so, a target. 

With a weary grin, he raises his plush hands in victory as he approaches the finish line of the Vancouver Marathon. Level up.

Just over four hours have passed since 25,000 runners set out across the city, through the campus of the University of British Columbia and around Stanley Park – the third-largest park in North America. It's an unseasonably high 27 degrees in the sun. 

Now, in the final stretch, a din bends around the corner.

So does the tangle of runners' legs that follows.

A pace-setter holds high a paddle, marked 3:56. She has work to do to catch up to herself. And yet, pained faces push hard for the last kilometre, spurred on by cheering fans lining the roadways, holding colourful signs: "You are that bitch!!!"

Some jump and scream in excitement as their friends pass. They have far too much energy to have run the race themselves.

Then, three men slow and lock arms as they approach the finish line. Together.

Support. Camaraderie. An ovation.

It's oddly hard to not become emotional.

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.

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. 

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.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.