Unlocked - a window in the palace garden

When a Chinese dynasty is overthrown, tradition dictates that the old palace must be razed to make way for a new one in its place. But in the summer of 1644 the Manchus broke with the age-old habit, sparing the already fire-damaged residence of their predecessors a similar fate. Instead the new rulers would set about restoring the 15th-century marvel to its former glory.

Today the palace still stands at the very heart of Beijing; it’s a vast complex of some 980 buildings housing more than 8,600 rooms, or 9,999 – and a half – if you count with the Chinese unit of jian. It was believed that Heaven had 10,000 rooms, and the Emperor could not attain that amount or risk incurring the wrath of the gods.

In dynastic times admission to the city was met with the promise of certain death, but nowadays it costs a more affordable 45RMB during the low season (prices are raised to 60RMB in the summer months). By coming in winter, I thought that I had evaded the usual mass of tour groups. But I could not have been more wrong.

Despite near-zero temperatures, the late morning crowds at Meridian Gate are as thick as ever. In Chinese the expression for a multitude is “people mountain people sea”, and this is the exact sentiment that runs through my mind as I am swept up in the human tide. The Forbidden City receives more than twelve million visitors each year, and these days domestic tourism is burgeoning in the most populous nation on the planet.

Meridian Gate

Gate of Supreme Harmony (Taihemen)

Frozen bed of the Jinshui (Gold Water) River

White marble railings, Taihemen

Female bronze lion at Taihemen

A sign of the times

Once inside however, I breathe a sigh of relief. The crowd disperses through the vast courtyards, moving slowly but surely along the central axis, where it was once decreed that only the emperor could walk. Among the flag-waving guides and tour groups in baseball caps I see the signs of a wealthier, more upwardly mobile China. At Taihemen a row of visitors hold up their iPads, taking photos of the ceremonial throne hall in the bright winter sunshine.

Taihedian, or the Hall of Supreme Harmony, sits at the focal point of a powerful axis that bisects Beijing. Many of the city’s landmarks – the Temple of Heaven, Tiananmen Square, the old Drum and Bell Towers – are situated on or along the so-called “dragon vein”. Even the Olympic Park, home to the iconic Bird’s Nest and Water Cube, is aligned to the historic axis.

But more than anything, the Forbidden City is best known as a place of intrigue. Tales of love and betrayal, eunuchs, jealous emperors and concubines colour its 600-year-long history. The more “public” areas of the palace are virtually devoid of trees, a practical move to deter any would-be assassins.

Hall of Supreme Harmony - the emperor's ceremonial throne room

An imposing sight

Unrestored paving stones

Golden eaves and marble platforms

Glazed roofscape

Towers of the Imperial City

Only royal buildings could use the yellow tiles

One of the most famous characters who lived within the walls was a woman by the name of Cixi. At the age of fifteen she entered the palace as a concubine, rising steadily through the ranks until she became the emperor’s favourite. Eventually she bore him a son, and when the emperor died she took control in the name of her young child.

Popular culture, both in China and abroad, portrays her as a villainous and cruel woman, hungry for absolute control. Vilified for her extravagant spending (she used funds meant for modernising the navy to build herself the Summer Palace), Cixi was charismatic and shrewd, ruling for no less than 47 years from behind the curtains.

But Empress Cixi also had something of a softer side. In stark contrast to her reputation as a “dragon lady”, she was known to have a great love for animals. As regent one of her first royal edicts was to prohibit the maltreatment of the palace dogs. She entrusted her prized kennel of Pugs, Pekingese and Shih Tzu to her chief eunuch; the latter two, bred to resemble the mythical guardian lions of old, were kept exclusively within the palace grounds.

A bronze tub used for firefighting

Gilded bronze lions guarding the Inner Court

A pavilion in miniature

En route to the palace garden

Looking towards Jingshan (Prospect Hill)

Cixi ruled China in an age of fragility, social unrest and remarkable change. The weakness of the Manchu administration – and the country’s technological backwardness – allowed repeated incursions from Japan, the United States and the major European powers. To this day the Forbidden City bears the marks of that tumultuous era; the gilded bronze tubs throughout the palace are heavily scratched, marred by invading troops who attempted to peel away the thin layers of gold. It is an episode that is far from forgotten by many contemporary Chinese.

When Cixi died in 1908 at the age of 72, the Qing Dynasty had reached a state of perpetual decline. Less than four years later the monarchy would be overthrown, ending over 2,000 years of imperial rule and ushering in a brand-new republic. In 1925 the Forbidden City became the Palace Museum, and for the first time in its history, the doors were opened to the very people it had tried so long to keep out.

Lost in translation

A tranquil alleyway

Rooftop guardians

Midday at the Imperial Garden

Garden gateway

Into another world

Morning at Tiananmen Gate

On the northern edge of Chang’an Avenue, a towering red wall guides me towards the gate at Tiananmen. To my left thirteen lanes of traffic thunder past a column of barren trees, their branches throwing long winter shadows across the paving stones.

The smell of diesel that is so prevalent in Chinese cities seems strangely absent, and I look up at the morning sky, painted a glorious shade of blue. This is my sixth time in Beijing, and like an awkward encounter at a high school reunion, I am struggling to identify a city that has undergone a rapid transformation in the years since we last met.

Beijing has changed, almost beyond recognition, but so have I.

When Tiananmen finally comes into view I am unnerved by what I see. It is not the familiar golden roof sparkling in the sun, nor the portrait of Chairman Mao that presides over the masses. Instead it is a security checkpoint manned by a group of gruff-looking guards, menacing in their Soviet-style winter uniforms. I take a deep breath and weave my way into the crowd, following an excited group of domestic tourists. But as we pass through the checkpoint the unthinkable happens. Completely by accident, I make eye contact with one of the guards. The edges of my mouth pull upwards, shielding my unease, but I am caught off guard by her response.

She grins. A wide, beautiful, flawless grin. It is sudden and unscripted, and my anxiety instantly evaporates into thin air.

Beijing may be intimidating at first glance, but behind its tough veneer there lies a genuine warmth and a friendliness that is best seen in the city’s parks and hutong, the lovely alleyways that crisscross the older neighbourhoods within the Second Ring Road.

That night I am with Niki, an American who has lived here for the past six years. We are somewhere east of the Forbidden City, on a main road packed with neon signs, showrooms and upscale hotels. We turn a corner into a dimly-lit hutong, where the din of traffic gives way to the gentle soundtrack of a low-rise neighbourhood. I can feel my shoulders relax. The evening calm is punctuated only by the occasional motorcycle and the sounds of children playing outside their homes. This is the Beijing that I remember from my previous trips, and the one I am hoping to share in the next few posts.

Lanterns at Qianmen

Qianmen Street, a recent reconstruction

The National Emblem, Tiananmen Gate

In Brno, there’s a reason why the cathedral bells announce the noon an hour early. Back in the 17th century, when virtually all of Europe was embroiled in the Thirty Years’ War, an invading Swedish army swept across the lands of the Czech Crown. Olomouc, the historical capital of Moravia, was occupied and left in ruins; Prague would eventually fall in 1648.

But there was one city that managed to defend itself against the unstoppable Swedes. For four months the citizens of Brno held out behind their protective walls, defying the invading forces until the 15th of August, 1645. Frustrated by the lack of progress, the Swedish commanders decided to end the siege if the city was not taken by midday. But on that August morning it was a clever, quick-witted alderman who would have the final word. At precisely 11 o’clock the noon bells tolled from every one of Brno’s churches, tricking the Swedes into pulling out just as headway was being made.

Brno, it seems, is a city of creative thinkers. At the Old Town Hall five pinnacles adorn the portal of the clock tower, but the highest is twisted and bent like an octopus tentacle, the mark of a stonemason dissatisfied with his wages. Then there’s Gregor Mendel, who jumpstarted modern genetics with his pea plant experiments at the Abbey of St. Thomas.

But while everyone who comes to the Czech Republic finds themselves pulled towards Prague, Brno is a welcome surprise and a boon for those longing to escape the maddening crowds. Compact, welcoming, and undeniably beautiful, it reminds me of a miniature version of Vienna.

At Náměstí Svobody – Freedom Square – audacious green glass panels jostle with elegant pastel-coloured façades. Under a sky crisscrossed with tram cables the náměstí is graced by Brno’s very own pestsäule, a decorative column celebrating the end of a plague. Nearby the dreamlike Parnassus Fountain takes pride of place in Zelný trh, traditional site of the city’s vegetable market.

On the way to lunch we stroll past Mahen Theatre, where the low winter sun sparkles off a trio of French windows. Its neoclassical lines mirror the grand venues along the Viennese Ringstrasse, concealing a technical system that was groundbreaking for its time. When it was built in 1881, the Mahen became one of the world’s first public buildings to be lit entirely with electric light. That same year a devastating fire destroyed the Ringtheater in Vienna, prompting the builders to change their plans and forgo gas lighting in favour of Edison’s new invention. It’s the kind of ingenuity you’d expect from Brno; after all, they did fool an entire Swedish army.

The first time we crossed into Eastern Europe, it was on a train from Vienna to Prague. We had just completed a road trip across Switzerland, spent a few days soaking up the magnificent Austrian capital, and now it was time to check out a city known for its dreamy spires and pastel-coloured beauty.

Eight years later we are back in the Czech Republic, riding the rails between Český Těšín and the second city of Brno. It’s a three-hour journey with one transfer at Ostrava, an industrial centre that was once known as the “steel heart of the republic”.

We disembark from the first train, its painted exterior worn with age, and pull up the handles on our suitcases. Along the edge of the platform a trail of shoe prints lie etched into the snow. It’s a haphazard record of journeys past, and a reminder that the most fleeting moments can leave us all with the deepest impressions.

Some of my fondest travel memories took place on board a train. In Japan it was discovering that seats could be rotated a full 360 degrees inside a Shinkansen plying the mainline between Kagoshima and Fukuoka. And while travelling in England I learned the art of alighting from a First Great Western inter-city express. It involved rolling down the window, stretching out an arm and swinging it downwards – unlocking the handle from the outside.

Enroute to Brno, our second train seems unassuming at first glance. The ageing interior is sparse and utilitarian, but its sliding doors and cozy booths suggest something far more exciting. We squeeze our suitcases through the corridor and plunk down on the patterned blue seats, an entire compartment all to ourselves.

Once we leave Ostrava the scenery becomes a gentle blur of villages, rolling fields and rusting industrial sheds, all covered by a blanket of snow. And then it hits me. It is this combination – Communist-era train and winter landscape – that gives the experience more than a hint of Cold War mystique. Bond or no Bond, it could easily be straight out of GoldenEye.

Eventually we reach the Moravian lowlands, where darkness has fallen and the snow has all but disappeared. The train makes a wide turn minutes before pulling into Brno, giving us a glimpse of the city lights clustered around the outlines of two hills. One is crowned by a floodlit castle; the other, the twin spires of Brno’s neo-Gothic cathedral. As first impressions go, it is as memorable as the ride itself.

It’s New Year’s Eve, 2008, and we are in the northeastern corner of the Czech Republic. Along with my mother and sister I’ve made the trip to one of the country’s lesser-known regions, located right along the Polish frontier. This pocket of Eastern Europe, I am told, is called Cieszyn Silesia.

For no less than 600 years the town of Cieszyn was the seat of a small autonomous duchy, ruled by the Silesian Piasts and then the Habsburg dynasty. It became incorporated into the vast, multicultural hodgepodge that was the Austro-Hungarian Empire, a status that it retained until the empire’s breakup at the close of World War I.

But the change proved anything but peaceful. In an age when self-determination was championed across Central Europe, both Poland and Czechoslovakia claimed the entirety of Cieszyn Silesia as their own. In January 1919 tensions reached a boiling point and the two newborn states went to war over Cieszyn. It was an engagement that lasted all of seven days, ending with the diplomatic intervention of several major European powers. The following July a new border was hammered out at a conference in Belgium, splitting Cieszyn right down the middle. Most of the city – including the medieval heart – became part of Poland; the western suburbs and their immediate hinterland were transferred to Czechoslovakia. For the Poles this lost region, home to a predominantly Polish-speaking populace, was known as the Zaolzie, “the lands beyond the Olza”.

Benjamin is one such resident of the Zaolzie. Although born and raised on the Czech side, he would more readily identify himself as being of Polish heritage. At home his family speaks Silesian; depending on who you ask it’s either the local Polish dialect or a separate language altogether. When I meet Benjamin in 2008 he is in his late twenties, dressed in the manner of an American college student. He speaks like one too, no doubt the result of a year spent studying in the Midwest. But beyond his outwardly global appearance his eyes tell a story of hardship and tumultuous change. As a child he witnessed the fall of the Iron Curtain, flocked to Prague to see the opening of its very first McDonald’s, and lived through the dissolution of Czechoslovakia in 1993. Then came 2004, when eight nations across Eastern Europe became full members of the EU.

We are standing midway between the snowy banks of the Olza, on one of the two bridges linking Český Těšín with Polish Cieszyn. Not so long ago – until 2007 – crossing the river meant greeting immigration officials and having your passport stamped into a foreign country.

Benjamin points to the abandoned border crossing, an empty hulk of exposed beams floating precariously above the street. Even in its dilapidated state the canopy is a symbolic gateway to the original Cieszyn, now freely accessible to those living in the Zaolzie. “Take a photo,” he murmurs. “The next time you come it will be history.”

Crossing into Poland

The Rynek - Cieszyn's market square

Looking up Głęboka, the main street on the Polish side

View from the Piast Tower, Castle Hill

Polish Cieszyn

Divided city, reunited by the Schengen Agreement

Český Těšín - "Czech Cieszyn"

Town Hall, Český Těšín