Bratislava

Empty trees and red tiles on a few roofs broke the monotony of heavy whiteness that connected air and earth.

Classic buildings complete with white molding and dark wood accents adjacent to those of a severely square concrete description.

A government initiative had begun painting the cement blocks. Out of the ashes of communism rose Caribbean-colored buildings.

They stood out, but not as much as the fluorescent signs advertising the sex shops.

We climbed the winding stairs to the castle that overshadowed the icy Danube.

The path smelled like snow and cigars. The covered cobblestones held the scent and the trampled footsteps of those that had gone before.

From the top, I could see back in time. A bustling city criss-crossed with tram lines, a river heavy with trade, the ruling Hapsburgs.

Wandering back down, the years went back and forth. New restaurant, old opera house, new tram, old tram, McDonalds.

The people could be from both times. Old coats, heads down, white beards or high heels, dyed hair, four-door sedans.

A woman with a baby carriage was standing outside the main church. We brushed through the door to look inside. It was crowded with people standing in the back, a reminder I was not in England. We left when they fell to their knees on a Wednesday morning. The woman with the child knelt on the cold stone outside, her orange jacket stuck to the eyes that weren’t there for ashes.