Back on Track.

The world passes like in a film cell.

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

"I hope so," is my cautious reply.

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

I take that as my sign. 

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

Twelve times.

But there are no signs on the platform.

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

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

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

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

Settling in makes me giddy – I love night trains.

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

Fang You Very Much.

For some, the décor a-Peeles.

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

Occasionally, he looks up at the road.

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

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

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

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

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

All-Bran.

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

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

It's not really. 

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

Gold star, marketing team.

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

(I grudgingly find them clever.)

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

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

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

Put on the Flow.

The mici cut the mustard.

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

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

I may have been wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Reflexes of an aging cat.

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

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

I miss by a hundredth of a second.

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

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

Square Dancing.

Lining up for more.

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

Braşov is beyond-words beautiful. 

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

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

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

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

Squares within a square.

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

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

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

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

It was built in 1477. 

This is amazing.

Run to the Hills.

Braşov's brutalist train station, opened in 1962.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nacho Problem.

(Ground) Zero service.

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

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

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

But they’re really tasty.

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

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

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

And has been served in a pint glass.

A tasty afternoon, indeed.

Whispers Beneath My Feet.

A lawnmower might help with curb appeal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stone-faced politicians.

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

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

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

It’s an unexpected find.

And why I tend to walk everywhere.

Pieced Together.

Bucharest, Beiged in Light.

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

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

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

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

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

Graffiti, an ages-old problem.

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

Naturally, one stops at my table.

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

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

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

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

The Weight of History.

The world's second-largest administrative building.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But in the opposite direction.

I don’t even go in.

A Silent Smile.

Perfect strangers, abandoned.

Bucharest, Romania – The city smiles through chipped teeth.

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

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

In more ways than one.

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

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

Like parachutes, falling from the sky.

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

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

The city’s smile widens ever so slightly.

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

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

Bună ziua, Bucharest.