A European Castle Call

The best part of castle hopping, I learn, is not taking in the view from the tower or touring the interior to glimpse armored suits and period furniture. It is turning a corner and catching sight of a superannuated stone structure holding court: its unforgiving position at the highest point in town, its spires pointing heavenward. As we roll into Coburg, there on the hill sits a 900-year-old sleeping beast, its stone facade and towers radiating an orange glow from the sun. One of the castle's claims to fame is that Martin Luther spent six months here in 1530, hiding out from papal henchmen. John, still stuck in the guidebook, says that it houses a superb collection of Reformation-era paintings.

But we swap one German institution for a more prosaic one: the roadside bratwurst stand. The young, blond, and bespectacled sausage flipper is more interested in the Solstice than in giving us something to eat. I propose a deal: If he makes us two bratwursts, I'll show him the car's engine. He immediately throws two brats on the barbie, and I pull the hood lever. Just then, about six guys appear out of nowhere. They too want to be part of this peep show. Sausages in hand, the Germans are about to get their first peek underneath the Solstice's skirt.

I raise the hood, which opens from the top. Gasps are followed by, sotto voce, sehr schön (very nice). We start off again and connect with Route 303 in the direction of the Czech Republic.

I've crossed the German-Czech border dozens of times in the past decade but not since the Czech Republic was admitted into the European Union, in May 2004. I wonder if this border has disappeared, like those between other EU countries. The answer is no. And the border guard does not look the least bit pleased at the sight of the Solstice. He leans his head out the window of his booth, scans the car, and fires several questions my way. He's fixated on the Michigan license plates. After a search of the vehicle and our bags—and our reassurances that the car is not stolen—we're free to go.

Day Three, 230 Miles: Kynzvart to Prague
If the Germans salivated over the Solstice, the Czechs are downright bewildered. "We should be wearing space suits," John says as we enter Kynzvart's small main square. A group of schoolchildren walking in single file stop in their tracks, a clutch of purple-haired grannies fall silent in mid-sentence, and a nun looks at us as if we've just emerged from the netherworld. We're obviously not from these parts. To add to the puzzle, John and I pull over and ask three construction workers for directions…in Czech. (We both lived in Prague about a decade ago and still speak enough of the language to get by.) We're an enigma wrapped in a spaceship and cloaked in a Slavic-speaking conundrum.

We take off on a small road that winds through a coniferous forest. Appropriately enough, by the time we reach the village of Lazy, we start thinking of giving up. But it's not until we reach the curiously named burg of Horni Lazy that we actually find the motorway.