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.

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.

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.

Ensnared.

Drumming up business.

Bodø, Norway – Church bells chime, their tinkles and dings giving rise to a five-minute song.

With a rumble, rows of women in bowler hats and black wool overcoats drum along. A clash of cymbals welcomes the Arctic sun.

We’ve followed 35 members of the Bodø Paradekorps from the city centre with unexpected excitement. Who had "parade" on their bingo cards?

I hadn't had high hopes for Bodø, which is nestled right above the Arctic circle and is far more modern than most Norwegian towns we've visited. It's not particularly beautiful, but large pieces of street art add splashes of colour.

A stark clock tower stands beside the concrete cathedral, as does the detached tower of town hall, which is linked only by a small bridge. It's like the crane never showed up. 

A spray of colour amidst the concrete.

At the harbour, young men teeter into a floating sauna. Another sells fresh shrimp from his boat.

Two large mesh fish greet us, mouths agape, as we stumble upon a pop-up art exhibition. A DJ blips and bloops. We clap politely during introductions, not understanding a word. We blend in like watercolours.

I’ve tucked my expectations of the town back into my pocket.

Bodø is, apparently, a European capital of culture for 2024 — the northernmost one ever. It seems there has been a “northernmost” of everything on this trip.

Add in a landscape hemmed in by towering mountains, and a sky that melts into a darker blue sea, and it has been a fantastic day.

Travel is so often about these unexpected moments and unforeseen experiences.

It's a reminder to keep an open mind, and to be willing to explore.

Thank you, Bodø.

The Spot.

Clocking in.

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

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

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

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

History, empty today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

All Squared Up.

Don't let the pigeon drive the bus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter the culture, give me dumplings.

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

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

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

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

A cold, crisp beer closes the deal. 

Again, I exhale.

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

Hola, NOLA.

Dancing in the streets.

New Orleans, LA – “Braaap!”

We’re greeted by blasts of brass horn and a storm of powdered sugar as we arrive in the French Quarter.

It turns out visiting the famous Café du Monde offers a far different whiteout from what we experienced during yesterday’s drive. Tables and chairs are slicked by remnants of confectioners’ sugar peaked onto still-warm beignets and subsequently caught on the breeze.

Fattened crows, pecking at the ground of the outdoor café, are thrilled.

Stepping into the elegant Omni Royal Orleans is like stepping into history, as is anywhere in the French Quarter, where ornate iron railings and wrap-around balconies frame art galleries and bars – lots of bars. These days, it seems some of this history has been perverted by neon and cheap Chinese trinkets, but beauty lies behind the troubling evidence of rampant addiction and homelessness.

On cue(s), a man staggers by as if he has wooden legs. It's still early.

But, N’awlins is known for its soul, expressed through food, art and music.

VooDoo like to come in?

Brass bands fill the squares, kept in tune by the rat-a-tat-tat of snares, as we tuck into the back of the Erin Rose and into a one-table room with the trappings of many years of bartending: an old Miller High Life sign rests in a retired brick fireplace. Something tells me it’s not the only thing lit in here.

But the grilled shrimp po’ boy sold under the flag of Killer Po’ Boys – logo: skull and crossed baguettes – is tremendous.

Later, neon catches fire as we wander down Bourbon Street, and into the famed Carousel Bar, which installed an operational merry-go-round in 1949. At least I can blame the rotating bar seats for my world spinning.

The stars, meanwhile, have been replaced by the twinkle of tiny white Christmas lights wound through the trees and over the balconies. One is festooned with "Peace, Y'all."

In the distance, a trumpet sounds mournfully.

In Tune.

Time to Scituate (Mass.) yourself.

London, ON – The folk-rock sounds of Mumford & Sons echoed in our ears as we tucked into the thick blanket of fog that draped over Massachusetts this morning.

After a short visit to Beantown, and a night in Mansfield, we were back on the road.

Last night's power-packed concert showcased the band's new rock-oriented direction, which isn't to say banjos didn't still make cameo appearances, particularly for older songs. The stage show was far more refined than the last time we saw them, in Hamilton, ON in 2011. That was, however, only their second-ever stadium show.

The concert opened with a whisper as Marcus Mumford let the energy build, almost mumbling through the opener, Only Love. Sounds crested like waves, quietly building through the band's older material and new songs. The new direction brought a level of stadium-appropriate thrashing impossible with their older tunes.

People danced, insofar as they could when pressed elbow-to-elbow throughout the venue.

Parking at the Xfinity Center, however, was a tangled mess, as long threads of cars stood, engines off, for more than two hours before finally moving. Trying to get 12,000 people out three gates was, apparently, more than a small challenge. It's no wonder concertgoers experienced with the venue arrived with hibachi grills, games and plenty of food and beverage. The whole evening was a giant tailgate party.

Getting back to the hotel at 2 a.m., however, left us with only four hours of sleep.

Just what you want for a 10-hour driving day.

Vitals:

•     Time: 10 hours
•     Distance: 970.9 kms
•     Weather: Foggy, leading to thunderstorms, heavy rain
•     States/Province: Massachusetts, New York, Ontario
•     Wildlife: None

More Hullabalooza.

Wake- field, Québec - A number of great signs pointed us, cajoled us, pleaded us and directed us throughout the weekend. This one, in Wakefield, made me chuckle. I also want to "Attain Joyful Fluency". As opposed to the painful bilingualism I grace now. "Master tense situations"? Doesn't matter what language, that's a great skill to have in your back pocket ("I'm a teepee, I'm a wigwam"; "No, you're too tense"). Another sign I found to be quintessentially Quebecois advertised condominiums. In French, it pointed out that Gatineau was only 25 kilometres away. And in English, it blared out that Ottawa was only 30 away. Well, it is always said that you need to "Know your audience". But it was still funny to me. The sign of the weekend, however, must go to the store along the road (alas, no photo) that sells "Second-hand candles". I'm not kidding. Really, are they in bulk? Are they still liquid, or still smoking (somebody might be)? Are the colours all molded together in one gelatinous blob? Are wicks included? Tough to wax poetic about that one. By the way, a quick Google search for "second-hand candles" results in 1,280,000 hits. And strangely, for the Internet, no porn. Or ear candling.

During a peaceful walk gone amok on Saturday, SCS lost her wallet after the reception, but prior to the evening party. A wee panic ensued. Luckily enough, a retired police officer found it and tried to track her down, visiting local restaurants and businesses. He even called her parents. I'm guessing he worded it carefully, rather than say "Hey, I found your daughter's wallet along the railroad tracks beside the lake...but there's no sign of her". Not good. They told him that we had rented a car from Enterprise, which I had happened to park nose first (showing the logo sticker on the back) after heading to the mill in my new role as Sherlock Holmes. As he came to the door at the Bed and Breakfast, his phone rang. SCS had gone into the Pot au Feu restaurant (free plug because of your kindness) and one of the staff passed her a piece of paper. On it, her name and a phone number to call. I'd have been jealous and all, but you know. I am sure it is strange to see your name in a random and unexpected situation like that.

Anyway, it all worked out and we headed to the 'Bal en Blanc', where we were to wear all white, hence the name. A little skeptical at first, but it really worked out. Even after Labour Day. Neat. Even the decor was white, with sheets hung. And I can no longer say I've never had a man sporting a fluffy, black boa jump into my arms. No, I'm not going to post the picture. All in all, a good time, for sure.

Sunday, we had a little more time for relaxing and went hiking in the hills and over to the covered bridge. It was an absolutely spectacular morning, with blue sky and fluffy clouds. Air crisp like a potato chip. It just smelled and tasted good. Tickling the skin and tempting the nose. Along the way, we saw a flash of red fly by and saw a woodpecker take up in one of the trees nearby (above right). I hadn't seen such a big pecker before. Oh, let's re-write that one. Quite a weekend for birds as I had also seen my first wild bald eagle on Friday, flying gracefully over the Thames river.

All in all, it was a really good trip. I love hitting the road and seeing new things and new places. It didn't hurt that we were in a very pretty spot in which I could actually picture myself living if only there were appropriate work there. Oh, that work thing. Details, details. On the way back, we also hit the Hershey's factory in Smith's Falls (what, no damaged peanut butter cups in bulk? Shame, shame!) and Ikea in Burlington. We've kind of been jonesing for Ikea for a while and really, it's tough to come out of there without having bought something. Fall-smelly candles and tea light holder (oooh, that just reeks of manliness, doesn't it!) and some brushed steel tins (that's better) for me. The great book case dilemma for SCS, though she also couldn't resist coming away with some goods. Whoever says money doesn't help obviously doesn't have any. It makes the world go around, unfortunately.

Sunday night was spent in Toronto. A shout-out is in order to Connor, who hosted us (his parents might temper that a bit). He is, afterall, in the vernacular of SCS, "Fresh Human". And an adorable one at that.

1,470 total kms. Yawn.

The ever-so-imporant road trip music: Cat Power: The Greatest;Swing Kids OST; Great Lake Swimmers: Great Lake Swimmers; Sarah Harmer: You are Here; Band of Horses: Everything All the Time; Coldplay: Live 2003; Hayden: Elk Lake Serenade; Midlake: The Trials of Van Occupanther; Emily Haines: Kives Don't Have Your Back; Acid House Kings: Sing Along with the Acid House Kings; Voxtrot: Mothers, Sisters, Daughters & Wives; Sarah McLachlan: Fumbling Toward Ecstacy; Sarah Harmer: I am a Mountain; Kathleen Edwards: Failer; REM: Green; The Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs; REM: Out of Time.

Day Three. Home Sweet Home.

London, Ontario - And, he's back. Good golly, we return to Michigan today, where they like them some churches, mighty fine. Halleluiah!

The day started off well, with a complete – and most importantly – included, hot breakfast, Super 8-style. Make-your-own waffles, cereal, doughnuts, some sort of chopped sausage grits/porridge concoction I didn’t touch. And coffee. The orange juice was skunky, so it got tossed. Not a bad start, particularly after the lack of real food yesterday. Up at 6:54, I am still completely knackered. My throat is scratchy. And not in the sexy way. The trip started to catch up with me last night, but I really didn’t want to ply myself from the covers this morning. Well, I should have crawled under them earlier. Sigh. Such a dummy. Having started at the crack of darkness on Tuesday didn’t help either. Really.

On the road at 7:34 – not too bad a turnaround time despite the fog in my brain. One sign that it’s going to be a good day, though: the warning at the entrance to the highway states that it is not to be used by “farm implements”. Brings back fond memories of one of my former history professors who would always sprinkle his lectures with the term because he knew it would make us all laugh. Absurd, really. Another good sign: it’s clear and 20 degrees. Starting at 2,078.7 kms. today.

7:44: Big Bone Lick State Park. No comment. It’s too early, dammit. And I’m dumb today. Just past this, and outside Cincinnati, though, a giant traffic snarl lights up like an LED board. Signs warn of 10-15 minute delays. I remind myself of the perils of cat naps during that stretch. Then stretch and yawn. Where’s that coffee again? Gone. Damn my inability to drink more slowly. Sigh (number two).
What’s Playing: The Organ, Grab that Gun

8:13: Cincinnati! Finally, free from the clutches of the hordes. Traffic jam, be gone.

8:34: 2,170.9 kms. It’s grey out, but at least it's not raining.
What’s Playing: Man on the Moon, OST

8:57: West Carrolton, OH for more gas. Looks like a ritzier neighborhood. Whoops, maybe not the best place to choose for gas. It just struck me that I’m so used to not going to generic gas stations that I have stuck with the majors to fill the rental car. Hmm. $2.479 a gallon for a total of $26.48. According to news reports last night, fuel is cheaper across the US than it has been in a year and it is anticipated that gas prices will be down to $2.00 a gallon by Thanksgiving. Depends if their President starts another war somewhere. Sorry, my little yellow ribbon must have peeled off. I can support the troops just fine, thanks – I just don’t support that government. There is a very BIG difference. But these people carry guns, so I’ll keep my trap shut. Big trap. Big guns. Closed.
What’s Playing: Lauryn Hill, The Miseducation of

9:34: 2,272.7 kms.
What’s Playing: Alanis Morissette, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie

10:34: 2,383.7 kms.
What’s Playing: The Tragically Hip, Day for Night

11:23: Michigan!

11:29: Monroe, Michigan, here we come. Alright, one more stop for the road trip. The last hurrah. The big finale (have I built up the anticipation yet?). Jerky!

Uh, Santa lives there, right? How exactly do I get into a career in Jerky? I’m sure Guelph offers a degree in it.

Anytime a man wearing an apron -- and surrounded by various cured meats -- approaches with shears, do not fret. Smile broadly. Samples! Teriyaki Beef. Smoked Beef (sorry, drooling on the keyboard). Some other kind I cannot remember, though if I search far enough back into my molars, I might find some stringy remnants. Mmm, remnants. Jerky = yum. Especially on road trips. Too bad this one is almost over.

Anyway, paper bags full of jerky and I’m a happy man. In the absence of other exciting photo opp’s today, we’re going to embark on the journey called “Jerky over Michigan”. Replete with reviews. In depth reviews. Some might even say, “meaty”. Others stick to “dry”. Those ones are usually being jerky.

Beer flavoured beef. Spicy. Okay, I get it – tough to go too far astray with this one: Give man meat. Give man beer. Man be happy. A club, too? Over the moon.

11:34: 2,484.9 kms. Last stop? For real this time? Michigan Welcome Centre in Monroe. There’s the coffee again. And empty the car of garbage acquired in six states and one province over three days. But really, I just wanted to add to my map collection. I just got back into the car and wow, does it smell strongly of dried meats. Mmm, dried meats…Sorry, I just lost more time, opening and closing the door. Wafts are so good. But such a tease. Need more meat. Did I mention there’s jerky? Jerky, we’re close, you know.

Try the garlic beef, you say? Why, mighty nice of you to ask. Barkley was feeling left out and wanted to try some, too (I don't even want to see the cat gut after that one). This was surprisingly bland until 5-6 hours later. Just ask anyone I talked to. Except the jerky, he’s gone (hey, it was a lonely car). That conversation went like this: “Am I shaped like a state you just left?” “Not yet,” I replied. Then it became Rhode Island, which was subsequently sucked into the dark, gurgling ocean.
What’s Playing: Travis, The Man Who

12:20: Detroit! (Sorry Paul, “The D”).

12:28: Canada!*
(*Caveat: Well, we’re at the midpoint of the Ambassador Bridge, so they haven’t technically let me into the country yet. But the Russian judge ruled in my favor on this one.)

12:34: 2,555.8 kms.

My favorite jerky of the day was the honey garlic pork. Ever so slight a zip. Tender. I don’t want to pig out because I’m bac-on track to get home. It was smooth. Like butter. Very chewy butter. At least it looks like a maple leaf for going across the border (that’s what they’d say at Ruby Falls, anyway).

12:36: SCS wins the bet (she had wagered that I had a 42 per cent chance of getting stopped at the border, I had wagered 74 per cent). I whizzed through without any difficulty this time. I think the ever-so serious agent even raised the corner of her lip the slightest bit when I replied to her query about items to declare: “…right at $100 worth of apparel, including a pair of shoes…and some jerky.” A micro-smile at best, but I know she wanted some. I was just glad that she didn’t ask where I had been; I’ve had a mental block about remembering “Huntsville” all week, for whatever the reason.

Welcome to Canada! Windsor! Eek. 24 degrees and sunny. Finally make it to the good ol’ 401 eleven minutes later.
What’s Playing: Split CD: Wolf Parade, Apologies to the Queen Mary and EPs

13:34: 2,652.7 kms.
What’s Playing: Split CD: Regina Spektor: Soviet Kitsch and Begin to Hope

14:20: London! Grr. Welcome back to the city’s horribly mistimed lights. All red. And I’m so close I can taste it. Or maybe that’s just the jerky.

14:34: 2,749.4 kms.

14:38: Gas for the last time. 89.7, which is still cheaper than I’ve seen it in quite a while around here, for a total of $34.77. Drivin’ isn’t cheap.

14:43: HOME!!! (Yes, that one deserves triple exclamation marks). Total trip kilometers: 2,751.7. 35 hours and 28 minutes of tooling around time. Two bags of Crispers. Two Granny Smith Apples. A bag of Licorice. Most of two boxes of granola bars. Two 2L bottles of pop and a litre of water. A bag of Skor bites. And jerky, sweet jerky. Where would I be without you? Um, here.
And yes thanks, I am as tired as I look. But it was worth it.