Autobahns and country roads alike are tamed by David Farley

It's the night before our three-day drive through Central Europe's castle country, and my navigator pal, John, and I are bent over a road map in the only open pub in Hirschhorn, a village just down the Neckar River from Heidelberg. When I look up, every beer belly in the room is facing us. Our itinerary is apparently all wrong. So is our drink of choice. The pilsner we're imbibing is "for the frau," bellow the assemblage of rotund, mustached men, who hold tall, vaselike glasses of hefeweizen beer garnished with thin lemon slices.

Several itinerary suggestions—and a change in beer—later, John and I are ready to retire to our hotel, which is the medieval castle that dominates the village. We're about to cruise the Castle Road, a west-east German-Czech collection of connected country routes that stretches more than 600 miles from Mannheim to Prague, passing 70 castles along the way. Like Hirschhorn, the heavily fortified fortress we're rambling up to, about a dozen castles have been converted into hotels. Structures that are three or four times as old as the United States itself should appeal to any American—especially when (for less than the cost of a New York City hotel room) travelers can sleep in a palace that was once verboten to all but potentates and princes.

That alone intrigued me, but there was more. Having lived in Prague in the '90s and gone on to earn a master's degree in Central European history, I know this part of the world well. At least I thought I did. Like many travelers, I've floated between Mitteleuropa's metropolises—Berlin, Munich, Vienna, Prague—eschewing backwaters for big cities. I was ready for something different. Thus, Castle Road's promise of medieval walled towns, dark forests, turreted fortresses, and enough empty stretches of concrete to feel like I owned the road was an adventure I couldn't ignore. And best of all, I'd get to do it in a sexy, top-of-the-line automobile.

Day One, 125 Miles: Hirschhorn to Colmberg
The Germans gave the world the BMW, the Porsche, the Mercedes-Benz—supermachines that other automakers could only hope to emulate. So I was initially chagrined to learn I'd be driving a car called the Pontiac Solstice. That is, until I saw the Solstice. This two-seater convertible roadster—with its compact and curvy body, leather bucket seats, and 18-inch-thick wheels—was the closest I'd seen to a real-life version of the Matchbox cars I'd played with as a boy. Factor in its seven-speaker stereo system, MP3-player capabilities, and lingering scent of the assembly line, and I suddenly understood why cars (along with women, of course) can send a man from adulthood to adolescence in zero to five seconds.

When we pull out of Hirschhorn, following the Neckar River–hugging B37 highway, we're the star of the road. Uma Thurman on wheels. Laborers stop to stare as we approach. Guys walking hand in hand with their girlfriends steal long, furtive glances. Adding to the mystery, the Solstice has Michigan license plates (it will be for sale only in North America), thus making the vehicle infinitely more gawkable.