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.

Knuckling Down.

Going to church.

Prague, Czechia – A bus driver pulls over for a smoke.

And a beer.

I double-take and almost miss my turn. Approaching an old stone archway leading to a church, I think I may still be lost.

But the sign outside U Pinkasů whispers to me that I'm in the right place and provides some history. The Gothic courtyard, now striped by rows of Pilsner Urquell-branded benches, is located in an unfinished wing of the Church of Our Lady of the Snows, whose vaults are the tallest in Prague.

Set under a far more impressive version of the golden arches, it's an incredible venue for lunch.

I wanted to try the pork knuckle – one of the country's specialty dishes – before I left and had read that the version here is well-regarded. Despite its storied history, U Pinkasů is a relative newcomer in Prague.

It has only been open since 1843.

Shanked.

A mug of unfiltered beer straight from the tank soon arrives at my table. It's followed by a metal pan containing a painter's palette of pickles, peppers, mustard and a massive bone-in pork shank that has been marinated in dark beer.

With a satisfying crunch of crispy skin, tender meat slouches across the dish. It's the most, and likely best, I've eaten in weeks.

It's a near-religious experience.

In-Spired.

Tired of the stairs, he turned to stone.

Prague, Czechia – The Castle Stairs absorb your breath and your sweat, but reward you with incredible views of the city. 

There are 220 of them, and they're steep – especially when it's a sunny 32 degrees.

I take them two-by-two and arrive at the base of Prague Castle in a few minutes.

A blanket of orange clay roofs unfolds below, pierced only by the city's countless belfries and church spires. Prague's historic centre remains a city of preserved low-rise buildings uninterrupted by the towering shards of glass found elsewhere.

I've arrived at the world's largest ancient castle in time for the ceremonial changing of the guard. The pomp and circumstance skips a beat as a soldier trips on the cobblestones before catching himself on a colleague's shoulder.

I worry about the bayonets.

St. Vitus.

Construction of the castle began in the year 870 and the oldest remaining building is the Basilica of St. George, built a mere 50 years later. The UNESCO World Heritage Site is a history book of curved streets, churches and towers pulled from generations of architects' drafting tables.

I get lost in the cultural monument and marvel at the Gothic architecture of St. Vitus Cathedral, which looms over the city with blackened tips, like saplings caught in a fire. It, too, was founded before calendar years hit four digits.

Dancing in and out of shadows.

Retracing memories from university classes, I look for the window that unsuspectingly became a central actor in the 1618 Defenestration of Prague. As my favourite word in the English language, it seems appropriate. Without WiFi or a good map, I have likely unknowingly walked past it several times. 

At least I didn't get thrown out.

People often say places of worship are built at a city's highest point so they can have a daunting prominence. Or so parishioners can be closer to god.

Having hiked all this steep cobblestone, I'm thinking it may also be a form of penance to remind us of our own mortality.

I can feel each step in a very human way.

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.

 

Tough to Articulate.

"Man Hanging out," David Černý.

Prague, Czechia – Franz Kafka's head spins gently, in silvery tranches.

Modern buildings are distorted in its mirrors.

A man and a woman hang from umbrellas over the street; Einstein, from a beam. A Russian tank, currently painted the colours of the Ukrainian flag, is half buried in a lawn.

Nearby, ghost-like men emerge from the trees, haunted and crippled. The memorial to victims of communism still bears scars of an explosion.

Re-reading my notes from the past couple days, I can see how the heat and my exhaustion haven't served me well in the crowds. I'm not here for the parties, and the crassness of it all likely tainted my initial impressions.

So far, Sunday morning seems quieter.

I'm still grateful for the opportunity to experience such a historic and global city – there's so much beauty to see, but many of the unfortunate parts of capitalism are on full display.

But I have absolutely loved all the public art.

Medieval Times.

Remains of the last guy who didn't pay.

Prague, Czechia – With a grunt, the server stabs a knife into the wooden table.

It stands like an exclamation mark, piercing my bill from lunch.

Beside it sits a replica skull, into which I am to fold my bills and coins.

Open since 1375, and having only closed for a few days when one of the innkeepers murdered a patron who hadn't paid his tab, U Krále Brabantského is said to be the oldest continuously operating tavern in Prague. Word is Mozart and various Czech kings have tipped pints here.

And many, many rogues.

I'm assigned a seat beside a pair of young Franco-Australians who appreciate my initiating a conversation in French. A marinated Camembert dressed with pickled peppers and onions soon appears.

A pint of history.

The pub, located in the shadows of Prague Castle, on the Royal Way, certainly leans into its Medieval origins.

More skulls line the arched doorway.

Candles flicker over low, vaulted ceilings darkly painted with swirls of fairies and ghouls. Ethereal lute music fills the small, cavern-like rooms. Servers are intentionally gruff to hearken back to the age and they provide the percussion as they slam suds onto the simple wooden tables with rhythmic thuds.

Foam bubbles over the glass and seeps into history.

In all, it's a little hokey.

And charming enough I thoroughly enjoy it.