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.

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.

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.

Whispers Beneath My Feet.

A lawnmower might help with curb appeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stone-faced politicians.

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

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

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

It’s an unexpected find.

And why I tend to walk everywhere.

Pieced Together.

Bucharest, Beiged in Light.

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

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

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

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

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

Graffiti, an ages-old problem.

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

Naturally, one stops at my table.

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

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

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

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

The Weight of History.

The world's second-largest administrative building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But in the opposite direction.

I don’t even go in.

A Silent Smile.

Perfect strangers, abandoned.

Bucharest, Romania – The city smiles through chipped teeth.

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

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

In more ways than one.

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

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

Like parachutes, falling from the sky.

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

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

The city’s smile widens ever so slightly.

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

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

Bună ziua, Bucharest.

Czech Mark.

Will that be Visa or Mastercard?

Washington, DC — Beer? Check. Cheese? Check.

Embassy visit? Czech.

It may not be my conference, but I'm not often afforded opportunities to attend receptions at embassies. Think of the stories! Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much convincing for me to tag along this evening. 

I’m still an Uber newbie, though, and am a little surprised when a Tesla pulls up. I fumble about the recessed handles, not entirely sure how to open the streamlined door. When I finally do, the dash-mounted screen blips with cars and pedestrians caught in the radar as they cross in front of us.

Space Invaders has come a long way.

Na Zdraví!

We wind through green hills in the north end of the city and slalom down a curvy road into which a few embassies have tucked themselves. My glasses dim with fog as I arrive at the gate framing the Embassy of the Czech Republic. Everyone files though security but me.

My passport is in another car.

We’re greeted with local Czech-style beer and wine, plates of cheeses and meats, and goulash with dumplings. Beef, salmon, pasta and salads. It’s a nice spread in a room lined with an inordinate number of nude sculptures and paintings.

We’re told that the grounds are largely devoid of flat spaces to prevent people from jumping out of windows in attempts to escape with information. Lessons learned, apparently.

Despite the conviviality, all I can think of as I look around the room at everyone eating and drinking without masks is the all-too-reality that someone here has COVID and is passing it around. I regret for a moment deciding this was a story I wanted to experience.

But there’s no escaping now.

(Postscript: COVID was indeed present and several attendees have since become sick.)

Signs of the Times.

Trucker convoy seems to have stalled.

Washington, DC — The sky blushes bashfully through a wispy veil as we leave the country for the first time in three years.

It’s an early start that’s reminiscent of our recent drives in Newfoundland.

We had rented a compact car, but have instead been "upgraded" to an eight-seat Toyota 4Runner. What a beast — good thing gas is now $1.74 a litre.

I'm made claustrophobic by the size of the vehicle and the narrow, curving construction lanes, which force me to narrow my eyes in focus. I reflexively try to make myself skinny as we pass 18-wheelers.

Remains of blown tires curl like sheep horns at the side of the road.

The drive is stunning, as it usually is. In Pennsylvania, otherwise beautiful green hills are scarred by trailers scrawled with Trump campaign endorsements. Some look like children have taken crayons to them.

"Guns! Coal! No socialism!" 

Civics teachers everywhere cringe.

Another billboard with a sleeping woman touts: "Sleep well. There is no climate emergency."

I ponder that as I take my customary walk, in 44-degree heat, to ChurchKey, where I have one of the best beers I've ever had. Despite my exhaustion, it's worth the pilgrimage to the city's best beer bar and to have a cheese plate.

As the day closes, I chuckle at the best directions we received from the GPS today: “Turn left at the white building with the pillars.”

Yes, that rather significant white building in DC.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 976.8 kms
• Weather: Fog, giving way to a mix of sun and cloud. Short, light rain.
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Washington D.C.
  
• Wildlife: Deer

Fortitude.

Sentries past.

San Juan, Puerto Rico — The city’s walls jut out to sea like jagged teeth.

The looming facades of Castillo San Felipe del Moro and Castillo San Cristobal — the largest Spanish fortification in the New World — have been chipped by years of defence and conquest, salt air and earthquakes. Built between the 16th and 18th centuries, they still stand proud.

As strong as you are, though, you’re bound to show your age eventually.

The two UNESCO World Heritage Sites are punctuated by domed sentry boxes at angular corners and dark tunnels that once carried troops to cannon posts atop the forts. As closing time approaches, the parade ground stands still.

I stand, at the centre, history pages flipping through my mind.

Rays sparkle on the waves like lit gunpowder. Blue cobblestone streets flow through the old town as though the dark depths of the sea have washed over them and never receded. The distinctive bricks, now worn and cracked, were made from furnace slag once used as ballast for Spanish ships.

You’re literally walking on colonialism.

Heavy bass thumps from an apartment above as a dreadlocked man dances on the balcony. Below, tourists line up for the local delicacy, mofongo.

Today, Spanish influences remain in the architecture, colourful tile and wrought iron balconies. Various cultures are reflected in the food and the music.

Puerto Rico may be American.

But in so many ways, it's not.

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness.

At what cost, liberty?

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania – With all the driving I've done lately, I appreciate that public transportation will carry us out to the Mann Center for our Vampire Weekend concert tonight.

A young boy pops onto the bus, his smile wide.

His shirt reads: “Shoot basketballs, not people.”

I’m immediately reminded I’m in the United States.