The Brandenburg countryside unfolded dreamscapes of orange fields and purple broccoli trees through the strangely tinted window of our Euro-City: it began, the sky lourding low, weighing down forest and towns and electricity lines running overland along long cleared pathways, buzzing with the low hum of high voltage, powering our electric steam engine; twitching frog legs.
It's good to be on the road, beginning to trace our trail on an imagined map, red lines straight out of Indiana Jones criss-crossing terrain that blends from the familiar imperceptibly into the mysterious, undulations of unknown coastlines and towns bristling with consonants.
With Saxony came the hills, vineyards, baroque residences on hilltops overlooking terraced slopes, with Prague arrival in the industrial outliers of Holesovice.
Wearied by the last night's discussions with Polish dissidents in White Trash, the alarming lack of beautiful people in the Rote Salon, and the presence of Hackney youths in Berlin's seedier parks, Prague came on slowly like an energy saving lightbulb. After headcheese and pivo you find me typing here. \goodnight.