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.

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 

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Great Dane.

Become a star flyer at Tivoli.

Copenhagen, Denmark – Obscured behind the tall walls of Tivoli Gardens, rides whirl like the flip of a poodle skirt caught in the breeze.

The Star Flyer climbs steadily, twisting as would a spider ascending to the heavens.

At one end stands a mountain of fibreglass, its tip dipped in white. The stiff flag at its peak points to the north. Opened in 1843, Tivoli is the third-oldest amusement park in the world.

The oldest is only 10 minutes away.

Rather than go inside, we sit on a green box edging the sidewalk and eat a pølser wrapped in bacon, painted with remoulade and topped with a sprinkle of crispy onions. It’s the extent of our carnival today.

But it’s a (very) good one. Even the late Anthony Bourdain raved. Yes, about a hotdog.

Anyone have a corkscrew?

So I sit with shoulders shrugged, hopeful the sunshine will erase the grogginess that comes with having been plied into an airplane seat that doubles as a straitjacket. It has been a long day of travel and we’re hanging on by an eyelash for our limited time in Copenhagen.

The only clouds are in my head, but exhaustion still feels like wool, tucked above my temples.

It’s a national holiday in Denmark and others obviously feel better than we do. For Constitution Day, they walk along the various canals, well-dressed in white with Danish flag ribbons stuck to their chests. 

Many swing open bottles of wine.

Although we typically walk everywhere, we maximize the value of our 24-hour transit passes by taking water taxis around the city, including to the Little Mermaid and the lesser-known Genetically Modified Little Mermaid. Flags rattle against silent masts, pinned to the harbour. 

Nyhavn: a box of crayons.

We pass long lines of people tanning casually along the shore and among Nyhavn's wood and plaster structures, which groove in shifts of bright colours. Most are more than 350 years old. 

Sunlight offers a bright, white exclamation mark that cascades on indifferent ripples in the water.

Turning the corner, a small boat pops out from under a shallow bridge, a table set at its centre. A bottle of wine stands sentry.

I could get used to this.

Sky Check.

Winging it.

New York City, New York – Email, text and a travel app chime in unison as we arrive at LaGuardia Airport. 

Very early.

"Not again," I sigh.

I've had a rash of postponed and cancelled flights in recent years, particularly those involving London International Airport. But we risked it this time for convenience and had no issues on arrival.

Sure enough, our flight from New York is delayed sufficiently enough we won't make our connection home. At least renovations have vastly improved LaGuardia since the last time I was here.

Heading to the lounge, I ask the attendant if there's an earlier flight. There is! She takes our passports, shoos us inside for a quick breakfast and gets us onto one that leaves in 20 minutes.

As we depart, she hands us updated tickets and doesn't take our passes for the lounge. "Keep it between us and have a happy holiday," she says with a grin. 

Credit where credit due: Air Canada's service is generally justifiably maligned, but not today. Exceptional.

Sometimes it pays to be at the airport (painfully) early.

As I'm known to be.

Up to Speed.

Auf Wiedersehen, München.

Munich, Germany – I'm not sure what's worse: the running or the standing.

The taking stairs two at a time and sprinting through an airport only to arrive at a beautiful glassed-in gate. And finding it empty, your plane taxiing just out of reach.

Or not moving at all in the service desk line until we're told it's closing and that we should find another. Then spending five hours there – to serve 15 people.

Au revoir, Paris.

Movement would not have been discernible in a stop-motion film.

But I make new friends from North Bay and we rustle up some beers from duty free, laughing at the absurdity. Apparently, drinking in the airport isn't frowned upon in Germany.

A trolley with Snickers bars, nuts and other snacks is wheeled out for us. We'll be put up for the night and given dinner at the hotel, before flying home through Paris tomorrow. Things are looking up – I have nowhere I need to be.

So much of travel: hurry up and wait.

And making the most of experiences.

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.

No Words.

 

Time's Up.

Clocking in at more than 600 years old...

Prague, Czechia – In a hazy heat, history seems to melt off the stone walls of the city's 12th-century old town square.

It's 35 degrees and packed.

Golden rings shimmer on the old town hall as a grinning skeleton strikes 11 o'clock. Bells chime with a thin tinkle.

In unison, the crowd casts eyes upward for the hourly show at The Orloj, which has no doubt been a sight to behold since it was first installed in 1410, making it the world's oldest operational astronomical clock. 

Small doors open above the clock face, beginning the parade of apostles.

The city has a great palette.

Colourful buildings framing the square are no short of stunning. From Gothic to Art Nouveau, it's like flipping a glossy magazine's pages of architectural styles throughout the ages. 

Admiring details on the facades, I trace a delicate 18th-century mural of St. Wenceslas down to the doorway. A red-lit message ticks along a simple LED sign hanging above.

"Thai massages," it whispers garishly.

Prague's sophisticated cultural history seems to have been usurped.

Bare-chested bros two-fist tallboys of lager, their shoulders charging at abstract angles past a Starbucks nestled between marijuana and trinket shops. Stag parties sport matching t-shirts, except the grooms, who stagger along in tutus and rabbit ears. Nearby, young women tug on vape pens with shrugs of Botox-lipped indifference, as though they're nibbling on Twizzlers.

History is being melted away by more than the heat.

On Track.

Do widzenia, Kraków; I enjoyed you.

Kraków, Poland – Steel shutters suddenly fall from the ceiling, causing travellers to scatter like ants in the rain.

They slide under the gates as police officers wave them along.

Confused, I stand watching the departures board at Kraków Główny, the city's main rail station. The screen only holds slots for a dozen trains, so it'll be a while before the EuroNight Chopin to Prague appears.

I lunge for an elevator to platform three, where I've been told my train will be. There are 10 tracks per platform and I still don't know which will be mine.

As I reach the top, the glass elevator doors don't open, even as a woman tries frantically to get in from the other side. We're locked down.

I'm 20 minutes to departure.

Well-trained.

Heading back downstairs, I ask a police officer if he speaks English and tell him I'm trying to get to platform three. "Then go," he says with a dismissive wave in the direction of the ticket desk.

It finally occurs to me we're not under attack, and that the station closes unneeded areas at night. I make it to platform three, but can only access the first two tracks. Both are full.

But not with my train.

The display blinks and Chopin finally shows platform three, track one; but the trains aren't moving. It updates again to two. The track is still full.

I suddenly remember reading that Polish train stations sometimes use the words for track ("tor") and platform ("peron") interchangeably. It must now be platform two, not track. Or is it?

Down to four minutes.

Again, I run at full sprint through crowds equally panicked about their trains. Someone tells me the train to Prague doesn't leave from platform two, as they hurry to Budapest. But I have to try.

Sure enough, on platform two: Chopin, idling lazily.

Having done my research, I know I'm in the second car and make the last dash.

Naturally, I'm at the wrong end of the train.

Settling into my sleeper cabin, I exhale. We begin rolling through the night and an illuminated Basilica of St. Anthony in Rybnik makes a punctuation mark on the day.

I'm loving this.

Pole Position.

A journey cobbled together.

Kraków, Poland – Advancing with mild hesitation, the flickering bar on the ticket machine says "Processing."

Same, machine; same.

I've been up for 30 straight hours and attempted various origami folds to tuck myself into the tight airplane seats found on discount airlines. It turns out I'm not as pliable as I may have once been.

It doesn't help the seats on Eurowings are as thin as cafeteria trays.

For being the primary mode of transport into the city centre, the train is less well advertised than other options. A sign is tucked into the corner, almost an afterthought. When I ask for help, the woman at the information desk looks up from her phone just long enough to offer a dismissive wave in its direction.

The platform is a stew of languages, all seemingly asking the same questions. All seemingly in the same sort of haze.

The machine may be slow, but it’s relatively intuitive.

For 17 Zloty ($5.60 CAD), we have a comfortable 20-minute, five-stop run into the old town and, unlike most transport tickets in the city, this one doesn't need to be validated.

This time, I have plenty of room to stretch out.

Surprise!

The wait. The weight.

Reykjavik, Iceland – “Excuse me, sir; would you mind taking a photo?”

He stands in the doorway, fidgeting with his wallet. His camera hangs from his neck.

I tap him on the shoulder and repeat the question when I don't get an answer.

As he turns, I see a haze pass across his face. He squints. I watch seconds pass with each blink as he begins to register. Somewhat.

“What are you doing here?” comes the expected reply.

I’ve come all this way to surprise my parents, who have been travelling the past 10 weeks. My father shakes his head and laughs. He’s giddy to tell my mom, who’s not yet ashore.

So many things could have derailed this plan: bad weather, a change of itinerary, no desire to leave the ship, a mood. And yet, as they so often do, things worked out.

On the ferry to Viðey Island, he tells anyone who will listen that his son has surprised him. He shakes his head and beams a very special smile.

In a word: success.

What a great, great morning.

Ice Landing.

Un-wolf-like lupines.

Reykjavik, Iceland – The North Atlantic recedes into moonscape as we descend with a bump into Keflavik.

A church, nestled neatly into the shore, blends into an outcropping of rocks, its steeple the only pin in an apparent plan for stealth. Old tombstones are scattered around like pebbles.

The ground nearby is a wrinkled camouflage shirt of muted greens and browns spattered by purple tufts of lupines.

Riding the Flybus Airport Transfer into Reykjavik, which is 45 minutes away, appears to be the most cost-effective option, unless you’re already renting a car.

It’s a smooth ride past a tight green thread tucked into black, where golfers swing through a few holes. The volcanic rock no doubt offers many more.

Winding through a town, we pass brightly painted homes clad in steel, before tracing the olive green ribs of mountains illuminated by a sun that only sets for three hours these days.

It’s hazy, not unlike me this morning.

And I’ve had even less rest.

Bourbon and ON.

Reserved.

London, ON – The rolling green hills around Versailles, Kentucky are stitched together by raw boards: braces holding prized racehorses in place.

Appropriately, the endless pastures are the colour of money.

For miles, the grass is stained white by fresh paint. One farm, in all black, stands in contrast, like Johnny Cash.

We cling to tight corners on country roads before pulling through the stone and iron gate at Woodford Reserve. The name is relatively new, but a distillery was first built here in 1812 and the location is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

We’re immediately drowned by fresh cut grass and sweet sour mash.

Oak barrels teeter down tracks between long, thin stone buildings, headed for a rest.

We left booking a tour too late, so the rest of our day looks similar.

Homeward. 

Vitals:

• Time: 9 hours, 20 minutes
• Distance: 779.9 kms
• States/Province: Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

A Connection is Made.

A Grand Time.

Tokyo, Japan —Touching down at Haneda Airport, I rub my hands anxiously at the prospect of having only two hours between connecting flights.
 
The hands of time spin, too.

Kelin had graciously offered to guide me by train to terminal three for the long journey home, but we have our wires crossed and he's nowhere to be found. With the recent state of the world's airports – long lines, constant delays, mounting frustrations, backlogs and cancelled flights – I choose instead to say a quick goodbye to the team and hustle off to catch the bus on my own.

Slower, sure, but easier to navigate at this point, particularly after last night’s wrap-up celebrations at Nagi – featuring more than a dozen Okinawan dishes, including SPAM sushi, and bottomless drinks – followed by somehow making it to the 3 a.m. last call at the Grand Line.
 
I needn’t have worried: the efficiency of Japan’s airports is something to behold.
 
Nineteen minutes later, I’ve arrived at the terminal, scanned my passport, cleared security, waved a couple papers at indifferent officials who barely looked up from their conversation and arrived at my gate.
 
Fifteen minutes of that time was the bus ride.