Medieval France

Two different days, two different medieval towns in the hills surrounding Nice.

Despite the fact that one could spend forever in Nice, never leave, and still feel totally happy about life, the area surrounding Nice is also full of cool little hidden spots.

We went to St. Paul de Vence our second day in Nice; it was about an hour’s bus ride out of downtown. Situated beautifully atop the highest mountain peak in the area, this intact medieval village has stone walls still standing. There was nothing new in this beautiful little village, it all dates back centuries and centuries. We had to share the narrow streets with few others (probably the biggest perk about travelling in November), and there was plenty of space for us to slip in and out of shops and cafes, all housed in original stone buildings. Some of the ancient homes were still inhabited by families. We spent the whole day wandering the town, taking in the views and the novelty of the place.

The next day we spent the morning in the village of Eze, the more famous medieval village and far more touristy. It was smaller and more expensive. Though this village was built atop a cliff on the edge of the ocean, all the views were blocked by expensive hotels and cost 12 Euro for a beer if we wanted to glimpse the sea. The beautiful gardens we could see halfway down the cliff full of steel animal sculptures could only be accessed if you were a guest at yet another 5-star hotel. Eze is, however, conveniently located halfway between Nice and Monte Carlo, so the hyper-tourism of the village is understandable.

The best part of Eze is the “Nietzsche Trail.” The story goes that Nietzsche was just another struggling, unknown thinker who went to stay at the seaside for inspiration. Everyday he would walk from the seaside up the hill to the village of Eze. It was while walking this path that he had the inspiration that would make him famous. I am sorry to report that I was not struck with any sudden flash of inspiration during my walk uphill, other than that Nietzsche must have been a pretty fit old dude.

Eze turned out to be a rather strange experience for us after we were chased by admiring (?) Frenchmen through the village, they having the upper hand as far as the town layout was concerned, thus taking us a rather long time to shake them. We were later hollered at by landscapers going over the edge of the cliff to trim branches who swung their ropes at us in an effort to make us literally fall before them. Finally, an older American tourist became disgruntled that the public bathroom charged their 40 cent fee in Euros and not American dollars. All in a morning’s work.

Nice

Nice was, for lack of a better adjective, so very nice. Though we were skeptical of visiting a summer getaway destination in November, we ignored the questioning looks of haughty Parisians upon hearing of our next destination and took the 6 hour train all the way south. I’m glad we did!

We left the grey and stormy Paris early in the morning and watched as the landscape beyond the train window slowly began to change. First the clouds disappeared, then mud became sand and soon leaf-less winter trees were replaced by palm trees. The last hour two hours of our train journey were entirely along the coast of the south of France, past Marseilles, Cannes, Toulon.

We’d been hearing mentions of the Villa St. Exupery hostel in Nice since our very first stop in Prague so we booked two beds, despite the trek up the hill to the hostel. From the train station we took the tram a few stops and got off and waited until the hostel van picked us up and drove us up the hill. Located atop a mountain, the hostel used to be a nunnery, with chapel and stained glass windows still intact. Because the hostel is sort of isolated and difficult to get to, it seemed everyone made the trek up the hill for dinner and there was a real summer-camp feel to the way strangers sat at communal tables and became best friends by the end of the meal.

Our first day felt like a dream. We shed the parkas and rain boots, meandered through the Old Town and lounged on rocks beside the sea, where we were gently sprayed by the incoming tide. We climbed to the top of a cliff on the edge of the sea and could see Nice to our right and Monaco to our left. The remains of an old chateau are still there and we counted mice scurrying around ancient foundations at an archaeology site.

The weather was warm, over 20 degrees in November, and all along the beach people were shedding clothes and going for a swim. We ended the day shopping as the sun set and what had appeared to be plain white sculptures during the day suddenly glowed various bright colours. The Christmas decorations were hung along the streets, which seemed so silly in such a tropical environment, but cast a nice glow and we popped in and out of stores beneath them. The day ended early, which remains my only complaint about travelling in November, but didn’t bother us since the day lit hours had been so fantastic.

Paris

There's the Eiffel Tower...sort of

The Paris that we all adore from afar died one hundred years ago. This was the conclusion I reached upon leaving the City of Lights after a four night stay. Some pretty talented and famous people lived in Paris, I suppose…once upon a time.

Of all the places we visited Paris was my least favourite, the most expensive and really the most drab. The people, while not as rude as we were told to expect, could certainly not be called friendly. The weather prevented us from climbing the Eiffel Tower (what would be the point if the clouds blocked all views of the city?), the Musee D’Orsay lost it’s power halfway through our rushed self-tour (Van Gogh is difficult to appreciate in the pitch black), and the near hurricane winds and rain made it impossible to visit the gardens at Versailles, which I was most looking forward to. The almonds in Katie’s milka turned explosive in her mouth (they turned out to be pop rocks after all) and I lost my favourite sweater.

Perhaps I would appreciate Paris more if my budget was greater, my French more advanced and the sun came out to visit for at least a few hours. As it is, there are far too many beautiful places in Europe I have not experienced to give Paris another chance anytime soon.



Katie, near drowned, on the Avenue Champs Elysees



Feelings re: missing out on the Gardens of Versailles due to the weather

Bruges

I watched the movie ‘In Bruges’ in Bruges and hated it. But despite my personal feelings towards the dark humor and abundant violence, we wouldn’t have even known Bruges existed if ‘In Bruges’ wasn’t Katie’s favourite movie, prompting her to both fall in love with Colin Farrell and plot Bruges as our mid-Eurotrip destination. I still I haven’t encountered anyone who’s heard of the city apart from the movie, so if you’re one of the rare few, bravo to you.

Bruges may be the most romantic and adorable city in the world. Tucked away in the corner of the self-admittedly strange country, Belgium, it feels like a fairytale. The average tourist was a middle-aged European, who enjoyed sauntering the endless cobblestoned street, admiring the windmills along the canals and exploring the museums. Every building and street in Bruges is either old and beautiful or hides something old and beautiful (like the fancy modern Coast Plaza hotel, which houses ancient church foundations in its basement). It was simply my favourite place that we visited. I think three things contributed to that: 1. I had no expectations, 2. it felt like our little secret, and 3. Belgian waffles, Belgian chocolates and Belgian frites.

While we were in Bruges, we were told constantly that Belgium is a strange place. My opinion of Belgium is based solely on our stay in Bruges, and while there, we encountered nothing that would cause us to disbelieve that assertion. The three very strangest things that we encountered on our entire month of European travel all took place on our first night in Bruges.

1. We somehow got caught up in a parade. Well, we heard it, approached it and joined in, so I suppose that’s how. It was led by three brightly dressed German men, each playing a marching band instrument of sorts and wearing a very hairy and very fake moustache (though the trombone player’s was glued to his trombone, not his face). It was fun and ridiculous and they had a crowd of a few hundred people following them, dancing along. The parade winded through the city and we somehow failed to notice that all participants were roughly the same age and seemed to know each other. We were at the front of the crowd and followed along when we were herded through the front gates of a medieval castle and down into the basement. It wasn’t until everyone around us took off their coats revealing black tie attire, and we ran to the end of the hall searching for an exit only to find the fancy party itself that we realized we had made a dreadful mistake.

2. Walking back to our hostel after escaping from the parade, we passed an old cathedral hidden by the dark and heavy trees in front, lit only a little by a solitary street lamp nearby. As we passed, I saw movement in the shadows of the cathedral, near the entrance, and then a figure emerged from the shadows headed straight towards me. It was a surreal moment. Here we were, two young North American girls purposely lost amongst a maze of medieval streets and alleys, about to face off with a figure from the shadows that, as far as I could tell, no one else had noticed. The figure that emerged was hooded and wore a monk’s robe with rope tied around his waist. In his hands he carried a board of some kind. As we stood, transfixed and horrified by the shadowy figure, he turned from our path and hit himself on the head with the board. Then he did it again. And again. It soon became clear that he either had not noticed us or did not care about us, instead keeping to himself, walking back and forth in front of the cathedral entrance, in and out of the shadows, hitting, hitting, hitting himself in the head. The next day we were informed by our tour guide that Bruges has no monks.

3. We shared a room with a sleeping Mexican who snored louder than a chainsaw and was seemingly incapable of waking up. He slept through water on his face, pennies chucked all over his body, being wacked repeatedly on the face with a sleeping bag, multiple of my screams at the top of my lungs, bass from the club down the hall so loud that it shook the beds, and our door slammed as hard as I could muster, which was loud enough to wake the skinheads down the hall who emerged with the intent to murder. Our entire dorm room was awake and in hysterics at four AM, after trying for hours to shut him up unsuccessfully. So outrageous was our night that Katie and I later met two dudes in Paris who had heard the story of our unwakeable Mexican.

I loveloveloved Bruges. It gets an A+.

Amsterdam

We loved Amsterdam. Of all the places we visited it was the one that reminded me most of home.

Three things struck me about Amsterdam:

1. The bikes

They are everywhere and dangerous and will mow you over in an instant. Everyone who had been to Amsterdam before us warned us of them, so we were well prepared for their tyranny of the roads when we finally witnessed it ourselves.

I was fascinated by the quirks that come with such a bike culture. The bike locks, for example, are heavy iron chains covered in some cutely-patterned fabric and appear absolutely impenetrable. The make up of the canals is apparently 1/3 ancient waste, 1/3 water and a middle layer of 1/3 bicycles. All canals are cleaned out annually by a crane with a big claw at the end which digs deep and comes out unfailingly with dozens of bikes attached. We heard of a game the locals play to see who can make the largest splash when an unlocked bike is thrown into the canals.

2. The utter lack of impressive buildings.

Our tour guide with the Free Europe tours explained that the frugal Dutch could never justify the construction of elaborate buildings if they did not suit an economic purpose. Indeed, the Royal Palace, (the name an indication, perhaps, that no other need ever be built) was covered entirely in green construction plastic and scaffolding. It lacked the decorative tarp that usually covers such buildings in Europe, showing an image on top of the building it is covering beneath. We never heard a single Amsterdamer complain about it.

3. The wonderful canals.

Amsterdam is known as the Venice of the North. At least half the places we visited had expansive canal systems running through the city, and claim a similar sort of reputation, but Amsterdam’s was the best developed. They even had a current, which meant no stink!

I suppose it would be near impossible to visit Amsterdam and not comment on the Red Light District or the weed industry. (Side note, did you know the Amsterdam coat of arms is a triple-X? Hmm, chicken or the egg?) Seeing it all was educational, I suppose, but I can’t say any of my opinions were changed by what I saw, I just saw it all legalized, which makes it cleaner and safer.

The Hague

The Hague (or Den Haag as the Dutch call it) is admittedly not a typical stop for the average young North American backpacker. It was, however, the location I was most looking forward to on our entire trip.

The Hague is a sort of unofficial world capital for international human rights, a kind of social justice headquarters. It is the location of the United Nations International Court of Justice, which deals with, well, issues of international justice. It is also home to countless similar organizations, governmental, inter-governmental and non-governmental. Most interesting for us was the International Criminal Court (ICC), for which we had to go through a lengthy process before our application to visit was approved.

So, for one aspiring human rights lawyer and one potentially aspiring human rights lawyer, our journey to The Hague was a sort of pilgrimage.

Our visit to the ICC was scheduled for our second day in The Hague so we spent our first day exploring. The Hague is beautiful. We bought a map of a city walking tour, which took us all over. The Hague is an undoubtedly Dutch town with international flare. After the drought of sidewalk cafes I’d experienced in Germany, The Hague was like quenching a long thirst. Adorable little bakeries and cafes were everywhere and most of them offered High Tea, which I heard was because of their close proximity with Britain. The cobble-stoned shopping streets had shops which sold elegant cigars, ancient maps and antique books. Everything was loved and well-cared for. Even the Pizza Hut had chandeliers and elaborate Renaissance-style carved moldings. (While we stood outside laughing in disbelief, a woman on a bicycle wondering what the joke was about stared at us a bit too long, crashed her bike into the curb and fell hard in what looked to me like slow motion. It was hard to help when neither of us spoke a word of each other’s language, so we helplessly stood back while she hollered and her daughter yelled back.)

We wandered along the numerous canals in the mornings as fog blanketed the city. We ate pannekoek for lunch and fries for dinner. We sat on the swings in the gardens of the Queen’s current working Palace. We explored the newly built high rises the Dutch are so proud of but bore us Canadian visitors to tears. We toured the elaborate Parliament buildings and shopped for gifts. We chased pigeons in squares and watched swans float along the canals. We even tried to catch a glimpse of the Prime Minister as an aid held open the door of his office and a black car sat outside waiting.

I loved this city of helpful people, quaint historical shops and international influence. I would love to return in the summer, when the beach, which is a twenty-minute bike ride away, opens for surfing and strolling along the promenade. But a visit in the fall was just as beautiful; fall-coloured trees and foggy canals.

Our second day in town was spent at the ICC. Before sitting in the visitor’s gallery of the court, we got to join in on a tour organized for Master’s of Law students specializing in European Law at the University of Luxembourg (and just declined to mention to anyone that we had barely got our B.A.’s). We got multiple informative sessions lead by ICC staff and met a judge, a feisty blonde middle aged woman from Belgium.

Sitting in the court viewing room was a surreal experience. The court room was small, and held no more than twenty people: prosecution, defense, judges and witness. The man on trial was being tried for multiple war crimes.

The viewing gallery was separated from the court room by a thick pane of glass and held double the amount of individuals as were in the court room. A curtain was drawn in front of the middle pane of glass so as to protect the identity of the witness testifying. The voice of the witness came through our head sets garbled and distorted. The view shown on the TVs (which gave a live stream of various angles of the court) distorted the face beyond recognition. The identity of this witness was completely protected.

The Hague is a quaint little place where big world decisions are being made. I'm so glad we made it there.

Sachsenhausen

On our third day in Berlin, Katie and I took the S-bahn to Oranienburg, a quaint suburb that was home to one of the Nazi-built concentration camps, later used by the Communist Soviets as a work camp for the Nazis they had captured. Unlike the more famous camps, such as Aushwitz, Sachsenhausen was not an extermination camp, but a concentration camp. Though massacres and human experiments did take place in Sachsenhausen, it was not the camp’s primary purpose.

The inmates of Sachsenhausen were worked, starved and made to live a hellish nightmare. There’s probably no one reading this hasn’t been informed of what life was like in a Nazi concentration camp, so instead of explanations I will give my impressions.

As we walked along the path leading to the main entrance gates, we were bordered by fences on either side, one cement and the other chain link. Beautiful bright orange and gold leaves hung over the tops of the fences and made the walk in rather beautiful. The air was crisp and birds chirped all around us. It was a perfect serene fall day, a gift that I suppose not even jailers can deprive their prisoners of.

After passing through the main gates inscribed with the infamous Arbeit Macht Frei (work will set you free), and crossing past the no-man’s land, where anyone escaping would have to pass and anyone caught there would be immediately shot, I found myself standing in front of a half circle field. This was the roll call field, where roll call would be conducted twice a day. Often inmates would be required to stand on it for hours on end or do endless pointless movements as punishment. The ground was barren. So many feet have trampled this former patch of grass that it has never grown back and remains dirt to this day. It was also as hard as walking on cement. The usual give of a dirt field was long gone, the dirt having been packed down as countless feet trod upon it. In this case, the evil effects of what took place in the camp have even inhibited the earth’s ability to renew itself.

Directly in front of me, about 100 feet away, stood the former location of the gallows, where prisoners would be hung for various reasons. The gallows were set up in two deep rounded holes, conveniently the same size as an evergreen tree trunk. Every Christmas the jailers would set up a Christmas tree in one of the two holes, celebrating the birth of a life on the exact same spot that so many were taken away. Was this meant as a mockery to the inmates? Was it to further humiliate the many Jewish prisoners? Or was the Christmas tree simply placed there out of convenience, the jailers unaware of their own hyposcrisy? It served to remind me that the jailers were just as human as the inmates, celebrating their nation’s holidays as any other German would. Realizing they were human and not monsters, just as we all are, made it ever the more disturbing.

We like to think we are far removed from the atrocities of the Nazis and that such inhumane hatred could never again manifest itself the way it did in the past century. But those responsible for these acts were human, as we are also human. Only a few years ago one of the remaining barracks, number 32, which housed primarily Jewish inmates, was firebombed. We need to remember we are only one great hate away from the irrational manifestation of such fear and anger. The proper response to such a danger is not fear, which makes us irrational and all the more susceptible to manipulation, but integrity, involvement in the democratic process and keeping our leaders accountable. It was Plato who said “the price of apathy towards public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” If members of a democracy refuse to allow such things to occur, they simply will not. No man can stand up against the citizens of an entire country, and this citizen will never allow a Christmas tree to be placed at the same location as the gallows.

Berlin

Berlin was such a momentous stop. There is more to see and do and experience in that city that anywhere I have ever been. Berlin is a business hub, home to the German Parliament, a burgeoning artist community, thriving music scene, and a complex of museums known as Museum Island. But perhaps greater than all the rest is Berlin’s history. The most notable historical events of the last 100 years were based largely in Berlin. It was from Berlin that the Nazis operated their campaigns of horror and terrorized the world until the end of the Second World War, when it was split into West Berlin and East Berlin, the wall was erected and then the wall fell down.



War ravaged pillars slowly being replaced



Our hostel couldn’t have been located in a better spot. We stayed at CityStay, roughly three blocks from Alexanderplatz (with the famous TV Tower) in one direction and Museum Island and Lustgarden Platz (where Hitler famously marched before thousands) in the other.

We’d been recommended a specific tour guide, Terry, by others who had been to Berlin, so we hunted him down on our first day in town. His tour was ten hours of history, insight and first-hand stories. Terry had worked for the British foreign service in Berlin after the war helping East Germans immigrate (read: escape) to West Germany. When the wall fell, he rode a kid’s bicycle along the top of it, and pointed out to us his old place of employment, the Palace of Tears, where family members from the West would have to leave their Eastern relatives behind. His guide skills are so good the Allied troops once used him as their tour guide.

Memorial to the Murdered Jews of the Holocaust

Terry showed us all the major sights of Berlin as well as the lesser known places of historical significance. We went to the famous Jewish synagogue, which was saved from Kristallnacht rioters by one police officer who had the courage to turn them away. Behind the synagogue he took us to a dilapidated old building which, he explained, used to be a Jewish school for girls, until the Nazis raided it one night and shipped all the girls to a concentration camp.

(Sadly, all these years after their persecution by the Nazis, the Jews of Berlin are still not safe. Police are stationed around the clock at all major locations of Jewish significance, protecting them from a newer sort of enemy: Islamist extremists.)

Section of the wall bordering the former Gestapo headquarters

We walked past the city’s famous art galleries and later, apartment buildings occupied by starving artists who decorate the street with brightly-coloured strips of cloth. We stood on top of Hilter’s bunker and Terry pointed out just how close the Soviet tanks where when Hitler finally committed suicide; they were less than a block away. We walked past Checkpoint Charlie to the former headquarters of the Gestapo, which has been turned into a museum in the past few years where photos are displayed along the building’s foundations. It felt like I lived 80 years in a single day.

Aushwitz inmates

Our second day in Berlin, we went to the German Historical Museum for a special temporary exhibit on Hitler and the German citizens. We stayed for close to six hours and only made it satisfactorily through half. It explored a question so many of us have asked ourselves when studying WWII and the Holocaust: how could the German people have let this happen? What role did they play and how did they get there? The exhibit delved deep into the activities of Hitler before he became Chancellor as well as his better known activities after.

I had always assumed that the best way to survive such a government would be to keep your head low and avoid trouble as well as involvement. I learned that this was not an option with the Nazis. They had organizations set up for every segment of society: boys clubs, girls clubs, mothers organizations, clubs for families wishing to take holidays, young boys who wanted a job, etc. If one was not a member of any club, others would be suspicious, but one would also be severing oneself from social interaction and community. All organizations were taken over by Nazis: churches were only allowed to teach Nazi-approved lessons and unions were outlawed and then reformed as Nazi organizations. It was impossible for the German citizen to escape from the Nazis, and once they had you, they worked you. The exhibit was excellent, and I felt I learned more lessons on the relationship between citizens and their government in those six hours than I did over four years of political studies.

Our activities during the days exhausted us and we ended up in bed earlier than usual, so we never encountered the famous Berlin nightlife. Of all the places we visited, Berlin is the city to which I would most like to return. I feel I only scratched the very surface of what this city has to offer.

Lustgarden Platz, near our hostel

Lustgarden Platz. Hitler is the one marching with his arm outstretched in the centre.

Prague

Fifteen years ago, Prague was every backpacker’s dream. Far from the nearest Western European tourist destination, it was untouched by the Second World War and cheap, a sort of hidden European oasis with 4 Euro hostel beds and beer for even less.

Since then, the rest of the world has caught on to this gem of a city. And it really is a gem. The political history is fascinating, having been absorbed by the Nazis and later “freed” from them by the Communist Soviets, who imposed yet another form of dictatorship upon the population. Hitler loved Prague and planned to make it the cultural capital of his empire. Throughout it all the Czech people resisted and their enduring spirit is often praised.

The city is wonderful to wander. The old cobblestoned areas are so expansive that they extend beyond what one can walk in a day (or perhaps, what I can walk in a day). We took one of the Free Europe tours that operate in major European cities which enabled us to get our bearings (I highly recommend them if you’re ever in Europe). We explored the Jewish Quarter, once the city slum, now the area that boasts such shops as Louis Vuitton and Prada. We crossed over the famous Charles Bridge (which was really just a bridge with lots of tourists) to the John Lennon Wall, an ever-changing wall of graffiti dedicated to the theme of peace. It was very colourful and covered in peace signs and bible verses and lyrics from Beatles songs, the sorts of things I love.

On our first night in town I dragged a jet lagged Katie to the main Old Town Square (what a good sport!), where we climbed the beautiful tower of the astronomical clock and got a view of the city as twilight began to settle in. We could see the castle, the fall market, the streets and the Tyn Cathedral, which was far more beautiful from up high than on the ground. Perhaps it had something to do with the moon rising brightly from behind.

Despite our meager budget, we were still able to sample plenty of Czech food. We found a bakery around the corner from our hostel that sold delicious and decently-sized pastries for as little as 12 cents. There was also a fall spice festival in the main town square for the time we were there which boasted multiple pigs roasting on spits. Oh, the heavenly aromas that manifested themselves in that square! Bratwurst on a baguette was a filling dinner for only 3.50 Euros, and a lunch of baked and fried potatoes smothered in three melting cheeses cost me only 2 Euros.

Prague is the Europe that so many North Americans dream of. It is as big as a city but as quaint as a wealthy medieval town, growing in character with each passing century.

(Oh, and a quick logistical note: if anyone is planning on visiting Prague, I would encourage you to stay at the Mosaic House, a palace of a hostel, which set our standards high from the very beginning of our adventure.)

 

Frankfurt

The first day of our big Eurotrip started with a train delay which caused me to miss my connection that would take me to the Frankfurt airport. Three trains and plenty of waiting later, I greeted a jet lagged and travel-weary Katie. Our hostel was located in Frankfurt’s Red Light District. All the reviews we’d read online implied the area was completely safe and clean, nothing at all to worry about. Not so. Two girls walking alone after dark would have been completely unsafe. Luckily we had the sense to arrive back before the sun went down.

Frankfurt was nice, a sort of one-day visit nice. In an effort to get Katie adjusted to the time we explored as much of the city as we could. We strolled along canopied paths beside the river, did some window shopping and marveled at the massive skyscrapers beside beautiful Gothic architecture and half timbered houses. Not much old architecture is left in Frankfurt.

The city was fine, but one day was enough and we were eager to move on. The next morning began at 6am as we boarded a train and set off for Prague!

Beyond the Black Forest

Whew! Exactly one month after my last entry and I have returned!

One month ago, my friend, Katie flew to Frankfurt and the two of us set off on a European tour, following our hearts wherever they desired. As a result, we managed to visit six different countries in four weeks. One month is nowhere near enough time to do Europe justice--indeed, it is not long enough to do justice to the average European country alone--but we were restrained by our budget, our life goal timelines and the fact that winter was rapidly settling in.

Katie and I travelled well together, something that wasn't entirely unexpected, as we'd previously been roommates twice, in two different provinces, and had travelled together before for lesser amounts of time. Furthermore, we both favour history over art, have been deemed to have the same personality type by the (in)famous Myers-Briggs and, as is often important for the geeky type, have extremely similar political views.

Over the next week and a bit, I'll be posting photos and highlights from the various places we visited. Thanks for still checking in!

In Bruges, Belgium

The Day of Secrets

Part of what I love so much about Europe, in particular this part of Germany, is that there are secrets hidden everywhere. Just take Wednesday for example, another day Shar and I spent cycling around the village where Jonas was raised. We hauled the bikes out again and got ourselves all set up to go (this time packing sustenance). We decided to head to Neckarbishofsheim, a village we’d biked to last summer and found absolutely charming. The ride, we knew, was completely flat. The first three kilometers were through fields, the second three on a bike path beside the highway. So we set off, enjoying the blue sky and sunshine.

We took a new, hillier path and reached the village tired. We pulled in to a park we knew and walked around until we found a spot in the sunshine. The park used to be the location of a castle, now just a random ruin scattered here and there, a huge pond with fountains, plenty of red-leaved trees and a newer-style hotel and fancy restaurant. We played cards, ate pastries and rested.

When we were ready to go, we set off out a side gate of the park that took us to the fields. We saw markings for two different bike paths, one a blue square, the other a red triangle. Finding the markings was a sort of treasure hunt. They were painted on the side of barns, tacked to fence posts and glued to the ground. The bike paths went in the same direction for a while but we soon reached the point where they separated. As we were trying to decide which path looked more promising, I noticed a sign tacked to an post, old and worn, barely visible beneath the ivy that now covered it. It had the red triangle on it, pointed in the proper direction, and on it had the words written, Schloss Neuh…., schloss meaning castle. A castle in these parts? Neither of us had ever heard of a castle so close to Jonas’ childhood home, and we were sure we would have by now if it was real. But there was the sign, encouraging us forward, promising a castle stood nearby. What did we have to lose?

So we set off in the direction of the red triangle, which lead us first between garden plots for elderly city folk, behind a barn and then up into a dense deciduous forest. It was beautiful (unfortunately, this is where my camera died, so I didn’t get any photos of the surprises we discovered next).

Before long, on our right appeared a large and open hut made of wood with a roof but no walls, in the middle of the forest just off the steep and seldom-used pedestrian path. I parked the bike and climbed up the hill into the hut. From there, I could barely distinguish something further up the next steep incline beside the hut. I climbed down from the hut, up the next incline, and found tire swings, monkey bars and a little dragon to sit on which rocked. Up the next incline were picnic tables and an old grill. We’d found a play park, totally deserted, some of it in ruins, some of it not, all of it looking old and forgotten. In the middle of a forest. Perhaps the most intriguing part was a door visible only from the bottom of the hill coming out of the side of the hill. It was small, hobbit-sized one might say, with the date 1839 above the blue metal door bolted shut. From further up the hill, looking down, there appeared to be nothing there, but a smoke stack gave away the existence of something tucked into the hill.

We never found the castle. We cycled a few more kilometers through a conservation area and then back to the secret park. As we sat on the tire swings we decided some hidden things are best kept hidden, it is their secret nature that makes them exciting, their mystery which gives them purpose. I didn’t mind my camera dying that day. The hidden park will remain hidden, waiting for the next forest wanderers to discover.