A rugby fan's first football game: average sport, impressive fans

My cousins are the sporty side of the family. They travel to championships and competitions the way my side sought out museums and history. My cousin acquires team-branded sportswear the way I hunt down regional food specialities for the larder.

Thus while my focus for this trip to Milan was introducing them to the Sforza Castle and the rooftop of the Duomo, their advance planning was all about snagging tickets to take me to an important Inter Milan game on the Sunday. Plus a shopping spree at the Inter store on Saturday to kit the whole family out appropriately.

Athletic spectacles are not, as regular readers will know, entirely alien to me. As a St. Louisan, baseball is my birthright; I’ve seen Cardinals games in multiple cities — including London. Rugby features prominently in the Bencard social calendar, with at least five England internationals in our diary each year and a strong track record of following the team to foreign fields. At the end of this summer, we’ll be attending three Women’s Rugby World Cup games as the tournament plays out across England.

But I’d never been to a football match.

To be honest, I had never been tempted. As a rugby fan whose only exposure to football comes via television news — which is often as much about player antics, tacky wives and hooligan fans as it is about actual gameplay — the prospects weren’t promising. I approached the game with three primary prejudices:

1. Compared to rugby, football is slow and boring, with little action.

2. Football players are badly behaved prima donnas, collapsing dramatically at the lightest touch.

3. Football fans are thugs. The atmosphere is potentially dangerous, alcohol is banned in stadiums, and opposing fans have to be kept apart for safety.

That was not a recipe for enjoyment. But this was Italy, my cousin's sons were very excited, I had three large men to protect me, and I’m up for anything once. So why not?

Surprises from the Start
I was pleasantly surprised. The game was moderately interesting — still boring compared to rugby, but watchable, with some genuinely exciting moments. More importantly, there was no sign of bad behaviour. Though opposing fans are kept in separate sections, I saw no unpleasantness before, during or after the match. The crowd included far more women and children than I expected, and — contrary to what I’d heard — alcohol was available. In fact, as in American stadiums, vendors walked the aisles, passing drinks to your seat.

This may be down to practicality. The rows at Milan’s San Siro stadium are steeply raked, and the seats don’t flip up. Navigating past people already seated requires the balance of a mountain goat and a physique slimmer than mine. Only true desperation could tempt you to move once settled.

Though the original 1926 stadium has been updated — most recently in the 1990s — it’s not exactly comfortable. There are very few lifts and no escalators, so get ready to climb. The vertiginous elevation means everyone has a good view, but the lack of handrails makes descent fairly terrifying. One wrong move and you feel you could launch yourself like an Olympic diver onto the pitch below.

The Real Entertainment: The Fans
Any discomfort was worth it just to witness the show the fans put on. I’ve never attended a sporting event where the audience sustains such constant, passionate involvement. While most stadiums erupt during moments of opportunity or crisis, here the crowd is engaged from start to finish.

There are rituals to respond to each player’s name as the team is announced. Fan conductors on booming drums lead chants and songs, which the rest of the crowd bellows in unison. Supporters’ clubs from across northern Italy bring enormous banners and flags, waving them throughout. I couldn’t help but think of the group rituals of the Catholic mass and the precision of Renaissance flag drill teams — distilled into modern sport.

The game itself didn’t shift many of my prejudices. Though we got two goals from each team, at least 70 of the 90 minutes seemed to consist of men passing a ball back and forth with little effort toward scoring. The players certainly lived up to my image of them as delicate flowers. I confess to indulging in a few wicked fantasies of how they’d fare if three rugby players tackled them properly.

But my assumptions about the fans were totally overturned. Though the two sides were physically separated, there was no aggression. Everyone was cheerful, polite, and respectful. I was particularly surprised by how many families with children were there. In a country where queuing barely exists, fans at San Siro were as orderly as the English..

Food and Public Transport beat the British Experience

While the event food lacked the variety we enjoy at Twickenham — vendors span the world with British hog roasts, African barbecue, Eastern Mediterranean wraps and Asian salads — San Siro more than made up for that in quality. Here. you're pretty much limited to panini. Truck after truck of them, wrapping around the stadium. We weren’t expecting much, but it was late and we knew restaurants would be closed by the time we got back to the hotel.

What we got was a sandwich worthy of a proper restaurant: succulent chicken breast, grilled peppers and onions, some kind of piquant sauce, all tucked into crusty bread engineered to absorb and amplify the flavour of the juices. Perfection.

Even more impressive than the sandwich? The return journey on Milan's metro.

Anyone who stereotypes modern Italians as disorganised should experience Milan’s public transport during a major event. Turnstiles control entry to the station, with electronic screens above counting down the seconds until the next group is let in. Once the gates open, the screens display the number of people allowed in the next wave, counting down as passengers pass through. Once they reach their limit, the timers for the next intake return.

The result? No dangerous crushes. Once inside the station, the is kept at manageable levels; unlike the truly frightening crushes I've encountered at Twickenham or after an event at the 02. Milanese football fans outside at least know how long they’ll be waiting. It’s orderly, efficient and surprisingly calm. London could learn a lesson. And we could use one of those panini trucks at Twickers.

Find a video about my experience here on TikTok 

A bit of culture and a lot of convivial dining dominate a return to Milan

I didn’t expect to be back in Milan just six months after entertaining you (hopefully) with our last adventure here. But my family from Los Angeles was starting a 10-day Italian holiday in the city. I hadn’t seen most of them in five years, so I couldn’t miss the chance and this was the most efficient place for us to meet up.

I had two days on my own before they arrived, then two days to show them around. They’re moderate sightseers but—unsurprisingly, given the cumulative total of Italian DNA in our bloodstreams—like to catch up over a dining table. So our adventures included a bit of culture, a lot of food, and a football match I’ll describe in my next article. 

Here’s a roundup of what we got up to. If you’re planning a trip to Milan, do consider this in partnership with my articles from December 2024. (Sforza Castle, which I revisited, was covered here.)

The Museo Poldi Pezzoli

Unlike the Certosa di Pavia, which I explored on my first solo day, this museum is right in the heart of tourist Milan—just a few hundred yards from La Scala opera house. Yet as far as visitor numbers go, it’s just as far off the beaten track.  I never shared a room with more than three other people as I wandered through this exceptional museum, very similar in size and mood to London’s Wallace Collection.

Like Sir Richard Wallace, Gian Giacomo Poldi Pezzoli was an aristocratic 19th-century collector who, having no children, donated his urban mansion and its collections to the nation. The Milanese palazzo houses a quirky and exquisite collection of treasures: late medieval and Renaissance art from Milanese masters, a Baroque room overflowing with porcelain and decorative arts, a couple of very famous Botticellis, an eye-popping collection of pre-19th-century clocks and pocket watches, jewellery, striking portraits, and an armoury.

My star sight, however, was the studiolo: Poldi Pezzoli’s personal study, and reportedly his favourite room—where he chose to be moved before he died. It’s a glorious combination of frescoes, gilding, stained glass, and sculpture, pushing 19th-century Gothic Revival to its limits in anticipation of the Italian Liberty style. A sumptuous jewel box of a room, and worth the price of admission alone.

The Duomo Roof Walk
This is about as solidly “on” the beaten track as you can get—probably second only to Leonardo’s Last Supper on the must-do list for Milan. There’s a reason for that: it is magnificent.

I’m on record saying the inside of the cathedral is a disappointment; its exterior is what’s worth your time. And there’s no better way to appreciate the splendour of the medieval stonework than to get up on the roof and see it close up.

You can walk up or pay a bit extra to take the lift, then do a circuit around the whole building, with a final climb up another set of steps along the front façade to reach the spine of the cathedral. It’s fascinating to compare the original statuary and decorative elements to newer replacements (easily spotted by their lighter colour), and to marvel at the level of detail. Much of this work would have been invisible to those on the ground, yet every fold of a robe, line of a cheek, or vein of a leaf is carved in loving detail—for the glory of God.

Even if you take the lift up, most tickets assume you’ll walk down. If you have a walking stick or mobility issues, you can talk the guards into letting you ride down as well.

Sunday Like Locals
My cousin’s wife has her own cousins in Milan, so we all came together for an extended family Sunday. We started with Mass at Santa Maria del Carmine. This is a church that, in Milan, is unremarkable and barely makes the guidebooks, yet would be a headline attraction in many other cities.

It has Renaissance bones, a Baroque altar lined with impressive life-sized silver reliquary busts, and a variety of side chapels ranging from original Renaissance to baroque to Gothic Revival. As a Catholic, I find attending Mass in a foreign country an interesting way to dip into local culture. The ritual is familiar, but the language foreign—you’re participating like a native, yet still an outsider.

The church sits in the heart of Milan’s posh Brera neighbourhood, which hosts an excellent Sunday market—mostly antiques with a few crafts. After Mass, we took a pleasant passeggiata through lively but not overcrowded streets, eventually circling back to almost exactly where we’d started.

Convivium Ristorante, just across the square from the church, was our lunch spot. Its eclectic East-meets-West design (including some enormous Buddha heads) contrasts with its resolutely Milanese menu. The staff filled our nine-person table with shared starters before we tucked into individual mains. The food was excellent, but secondary to the atmosphere—an ideal Sunday afternoon of familial connection, lingering until the place closed for its afternoon break.

Eating in the Galleria
Even more than the previous meal, this was about the experience rather than the food. You’re going to pay a premium—probably 20% to 40% more than elsewhere—for the same dishes you’d get across town, but you’re buying the privilege of sitting in one of the most iconic architectural spaces in Europe. 

Don’t bother with any of these restaurants unless you’re sitting outside with a view. Neoclassical buildings rise around you under a sparkling glass arcade, while the world promenades by on inlaid marble streets inspired by Ancient Rome.

We ate at Salotto, near the Piazza della Scala exit. I suspect all the restaurants here are similar: cheerful staff fluent in English, decent antipasti, weak spritzes, slightly soggy pizza—but no pressure to leave once you’re settled. That’s what you’re paying for, so linger. See and be seen.

Meat Feast
Il Mannarino is a top-quality butcher with an attached restaurant just south of Centrale Station (Via Carlo Tenca 12). Vegetarians need not apply. Culinary heretics who prefer their meat well-done should also stay home. But if you revere beef and pork, this is the place for you.

You order at the counter, take a seat, and wait for the magic. The family had just arrived after an epic trek from LA and were far too tired to make decisions, so we told the staff: just bring us nice things. A procession of delights followed. Highlights included rare bistecca fiorentina, meatballs, and Puglian bombetta—little meat rolls of pork shoulder and caciocavallo cheese wrapped in prosciutto and fried crisp.

Wine isn’t available by the glass—the smallest unit is a carafe. Sensible, really. This food deserves multiple glasses of red. 

Antica Trattoria della Pesa
Worth booking. Worth taking a taxi. This classic Milanese restaurant claims to be one of the city’s oldest in continuous operation. Today, its Porta Garibaldi neighbourhood has been transformed by cutting-edge redevelopment. This is where you’ll find the Bosco Verticale, high-rises planted with vertical forests and visible from the train station.

The restaurant itself is a holdover from when this was a gritty industrial area near one of Milan’s main gates. They set up the kitchen where the best produce first arrived in town. Their menu is firmly rooted in traditional Lombard cuisine, serving ossobuco and risotto alla Milanese on par with Trattoria all’Antica in the Solari district. (I would have returned there, but it was too far from our hotel. This was a worthy substitute.)

Where We Stayed
Continuing our loyalty to Club Accor—and collecting those all-important reward points— I tried out the Ibis Milano Centrale, near Centrale Station. While I prefer the Solari neighbourhood, with its Mercure and direct connection to Linate Airport, I was surprised to find I actually preferred this Ibis.

Technically, it’s  a lower-tier hotel than the Mercure, but the room décor was more cheerful, the lobby larger and more comfortable, with a proper bar and restaurant (unlike the Mercure’s pokey breakfast room). It’s also just a short walk to the stop for the Line 1 tram, which runs right past La Scala, the Galleria, and the Castle. I’m likely to book here again—despite its “budget” label, it was the better hotel.

The Certosa di Pavia rewards efforts to get off the beaten track in crowded Italy

The Certosa di Pavia is a perfect reminder that it’s still possible to see marvels in Italy without having to elbow your way through a crowd. You just need a bit of fortitude—and a willingness to stray from the usual tourist path. 

In central Milan, tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper sell out within 24 hours of coming online. The Duomo’s rooftop is impossible to access without booking well in advance, and the Castello Sforzesco is a magnet for dense, slow-moving tourist clusters. But just 25 miles south of the city centre lies the astonishing Certosa di Pavia. It’s every bit the masterpiece as those headliners in town, yet you’ll stroll right in—and likely have the place almost to yourself. It’s even free. Though good form suggests buying something from the monks’ shop, and a guided tour warrants a donation at the end.

“Certosa” is Italian for “Charterhouse,” the name used for Carthusian monasteries. This one was funded by the ruling Visconti family, dukes of Milan. When the last Visconti married into the Sforza line, the new dynasty took over the dukedom—and continued the sponsorship. The same people commissioning the blockbuster masterpieces of Renaissance Milan sent artists down here to decorate their private entry ticket to heaven. They spared no expense.

(Carthusians, by the way, have a long history of hosting lavish aristocratic patronage. Miraflores in northern Spain—with its royal tombs and perfume-making monks—is one of my favourite sites in that country.)

The complex, strategically located between Milan and Pavia—the first and second cities of the old Visconti-Sforza dukedom—is anchored by a glorious church. Its facade is encrusted with inlaid marble, detailed carvings, and Gothic pinnacles to rival any cathedral in Italy. Its architecture sits right at the junction of Gothic and Renaissance, managing to capture the best of both. A sequence of courtyards and cloisters surrounds the church. Some are open to the public; others can only be accessed on a monk-led tour. 

You know you’re in for something special from the moment you enter the gatehouse. Look up: frescoed Renaissance grotesques twirl overhead. Then emerge into a long rectangular courtyard, neoclassical façades embracing you, with the glittering jewel box of the church gleaming at the far end.

The church interior—and in fact the whole complex—has been much restored. It was shut down by Napoleon in 1796 and left mostly empty until the Italian government designated it a national monument 70 years later. You’d never know it had fallen into disrepair. Cross from the sunlit courtyard into the dusky interior and the first thing to catch your eye is the ceiling: alternating vaults painted in cerulean blue with golden stars and bold geometric patterns. The large, rectangular nave is spare, but the chapels along either side are brimming with masterpieces.

The floor plan is cruciform, but you’ll only get as far as the base of the cross before a towering wrought-iron screen blocks your way. The Carthusians were a cloistered order; they didn’t speak or interact with the public. Everything beyond the screen was for the monks—or their noble patrons. Today’s resident Cistercians are more outgoing. Several times a day, one of them will unlock the gate for a guided tour. The tour is in Italian, but you don’t need to understand it to join. (If your Italian is minimal, reading up in advance will help you appreciate what you’re seeing.)

What lies beyond the screen is even more extraordinary than what you have seen so far. 

In the arms of the cross-shaped plan you’ll find magnificent funerary monuments. One side holds the marble, recumbent figures of Ludovico “Il Moro” Sforza and his wife Beatrice d’Este. (Top photo.) History tells us he was never the same after her death—a grief that may have contributed to his disastrous invitation to French troops to help him defend his lands. That call for help kicked off a cycle of foreign invasions that kept Italy under outsider control for centuries. But Ludovico also bankrolled Da Vinci and sparked Milan’s greatest artistic flowering. Flawed though he was, his tomb is surrounded by artistic paradise: inlaid marble, frescoed walls, and stained glass of breathtaking quality. In the opposite chapel rests Gian Galeazzo Visconti, founder of the dynasty, in a far more flamboyant canopy tomb. Between the two, portals adorned with reliefs of noble faces lead to ornate sacristies bursting with gilded altars and woodwork marquetry. 

The choir and altar area at the head of the cross were redone in the late 16th century in full Baroque style: neoclassical temple elements, bronze statues in dynamic motion, and yet more exquisite marquetry. (Not quite as spectacular as the treasures at Santa Maria in Organo in Verona—but close.)

From the church, your guide leads you through the monks’ doorway into the first of two cloisters. This one offers a glorious view of the church’s rear façade. While the front blends Renaissance and late Gothic styles, the back leans hard into the Romanesque and Gothic. Stacked colonnades, soaring pinnacles reminiscent of Milan’s Duomo, and exuberant terracotta detailing are everywhere. You’ll also find a striking terracotta lavatorium, where the monks would wash before meals, and a frieze in the same style circling the cloister. If you’ve ever wondered where London’s Victorian architects got their ideas for all those fanciful red-brick embellishments—like those at the V&A—look no further. There are similar examples elsewhere in Italy, but none better than here.

The adjacent refectory may be more modest, but for those who couldn’t get tickets to see Leonardo’s Last Supper, Ottavio Semini’s version here offers a worthy consolation prize. While no match for Da Vinci’s genius, its setting—with original benches and tables still in place, and a pulpit projecting ten feet above the dining room floor—offers a more authentic sense of how these rooms were used. The refectory was a place of silent reflection, where monks ate without speaking while scripture was read aloud. Unlike Leonardo’s mural, now encased in a functional museum setting, this room retains its sense of sacred function. 

From this cloister you move into a second, even larger one. At first glance it seems plain—until you realise what you’re looking at. The lawn at its centre is bigger than a football pitch. Terracotta decoration continues around the arcade. And instead of monastic cells, this cloister is lined with individual houses. Yes, houses. If you ever found yourself consigned to a cloistered life, this would be the place to do it. 

Each monk’s home had its own entrance foyer, sitting room with generous fireplace, a clever drop-leaf desk built into a bookcase, a bedroom filled with light from leaded windows, and a private L-shaped garden with a shaded loggia. It’s hardly full compensation for a life of isolation, but certainly a generous interpretation of the vow of poverty.

One corner of this cloister offers a view out to the monks’ vineyards—just one example of the work they performed when not in prayer.

The tour ends with a walk down a long hallway leading back to the main courtyard. Along the way: a small museum and the monks’ shop. The Cistercians continue monastic traditions of agriculture and healing, offering honey, beer, wine, and herbal remedies prepared in a beautifully preserved Renaissance pharmacy. Photography is strictly forbidden inside. Fortunately (for my wallet), I had no checked baggage allowance on my flight and couldn’t bring any liquids home.

Despite being within Italy’s largest metro area (Rome is technically the largest city, but Milan takes this broader category), the Certosa is surrounded by fields growing rice for the famous  risotto Milanese. There is a profound, rural quiet. To process everything you’ve seen, stop at the Gra-Car café just outside the gatehouse. Nestled in a garden of herbs and roses, it served up a giant Aperol Spritz—with included side-platter of olives, crisps, and nuts—for just €8. I could have lingered for hours, but didn’t want to gamble with my return logistics.

And therein lies one of the reasons this place is off the beaten track. While it’s not necissarily hard to get to, it does require some effort. 

There’s a station at Certosa di Pavia, but it’s a 20-minute walk from the monastery. Trains are infrequent, and reaching Milan’s Centrale station requires a transfer. I opted instead for a frequent, inexpensive (around €4 each way) direct train to Pavia.

Even as a seasoned European train traveller with passable Italian, I found the system challenging. Multiple train operators run from Centrale, it’s not obvious which one you want without asking, and queues at the ticket desks were long. Ticket machines refused to print, and the mobile app wouldn’t let me register. Eventually I managed to buy as a guest via the website, but downloading the QR code was far from intuitive. Once I had it, I still had to decipher which platform to use—since Pavia is a stop en route, not an end point. The trick: the departure main hall just outside the platform gates has a big, electronic board that shows destinations will all the stops along the way.

All this faffing meant I was an hour behind schedule. (Allow time to admire Milano Centrale while you’re there—it might be Europe’s most majestic train station.) Once in Pavia, I had lunch in the lovely Piazza della Vittoria, then hunted for the bus stop to the Certosa. Apple Maps was off be almost two blocks, and there was no signage to help me correct my error. Fearing I’d run out of time, I hailed a taxi. And, tired and uncertain of return logistics, I called the same driver to bring me back. My cheap train, bargain cocktail, and free admission were ultimately offset by €70 in cab fares. Oh—and the return train was half an hour late.

One more tip: the monks close for lunch. Check the website for exact opening times.

So, fair warning: getting off the beaten track demands patience, effort, and cash if you want to speed things up or cut down on the walking. But the reward is immense. You’ll have the time and space to reflect—without interruption—on spectacular treasures. In Lombardy, the Certosa di Pavia is the finest example. 

Spargel season adds variety to a comforting parade of German culinary classics

German food is comfort food. If you’re a fan of hearty meat dishes and stodgy carbohydrates cooked in tasty animal fats, this is heaven. Vegetable-haters are on safe ground: the occasional side salad or dollop of cabbage (pickled or fried) is usually the only thing standing between you and your meat and potatoes.

Late spring and early summer, however, bring a change of pace. It’s Spargelzeit—white asparagus season.

Germans are fanatically devoted to this vegetable. Unlike the English preference for thin, green spears, here the stalks are creamy in colour and the fatter the better. We noticed a clear difference in restaurant quality: the more upscale the establishment, the thicker and tastier (presumably fresher) the asparagus. Germans insist that the white variety has a milder, more delicate flavour. I’m sceptical, but then English asparagus is reckoned to be among the best in the world, so I’m already spoiled. I will admit that keeping it white by mounding earth around the stalks does maintain tenderness at a thickness where green asparagus would have gone woody.

Thus, Germans can plate up pale giants with a satisfying density that can easily stand in for meat. Spargel with boiled potatoes and hollandaise in season—or Käsespätzle, the Teutonic macaroni and cheese, year-round—are the only vegetarian dishes you can reliably expect to find on traditional menus.

Most decent restaurants will have a dedicated spargel menu during Spargelzeit, which runs from mid-April to the end of June. If they don’t, walk away. That’s a clear sign they aren’t sourcing locally or changing their menu with the seasons. (We cruised down the Rhine in the same season in 2022 and never saw a stalk on board—a telling sign of how industrialised and inauthentic cruise food can be.)

Unlike Italy, where food can change radically over the next mountain range, traditional German menus don’t vary much from place to place. Aside from a passion for currywurst (hot dog-like sausages dredged in curry-flavoured ketchup) in Berlin, a preference for heavily spiced Sauerbraten (roast beef in a vinegar-based sauce), the more frequent appearance of goulash, and a few distinctive local beers, we found little on this trip to differentiate Saxon cuisine from what we’ve eaten in Bavaria. If a distinctive Saxon cuisine exists, we needed more help to find it. That certainly didn’t diminish our enjoyment.

The king of these stereotypical dishes is schnitzel. Veal—a by-product of Germany’s thriving dairy industry—is pounded thin, breaded, and pan-fried. There’s a wide variety. At cheaper places you might suspect the kitchen started with frozen, pre-breaded cutlets. But at the high end, you’ll find magically light offerings where the breading bubbles away from the meat, which is perfectly cooked to preserve its flavour without overdoing it. I suspect obscene amounts of butter are involved.

Pork in all its forms is celebrated across Germany. A roast knuckle with perfect crackling or slices served with sauce are the most typical. Dumplings are as common as potatoes. On this trip, I encountered pretzel dumplings for the first time—an exciting discovery. Their flavour profile is subtly different; if you like big, soft pretzels, this is a taste sensation. Flammkuchen—Germany’s answer to pizza—is done on a wafer-thin crispy crust with crème fraîche and is an excellent lunch option. And of course, sausages are ubiquitous.

In Saxony, wine is surprisingly prominent. There’s a thriving local trade along the Elbe around Dresden. Whites are crisp, bright, and easy to drink. While Müller-Thurgau and Riesling dominate, some of our favourite bottles were Bacchus—a grape widely grown in England. When drinking red, we enjoyed several Spätburgunder (Germany’s name for Pinot Noir): very light, low in tannins, with gentle berry notes. We sampled a range from a €3.50 grocery store Spätburgunder to a €46 celebratory Bacchus at Lutter & Wegner. Honestly, there wasn’t much differentiation by price. My only shopping regret is not bringing home a few cases of that Lidl red from Dresden.

On the beer front, two local varieties are worth trying. Leipzig does a distinctive brew called Gose, made with salt and coriander. We were glad to try it once, but returned to our favourites. More my style is Kölsch, the super-light lager brewed around Cologne. It’s served in small glasses, swapped out every time you finish, ensuring it’s always cold.
Restaurants Worth Seeking Out

Listed in order of preference, with the most memorable meal on top.

Nussbaumerin, Munich
Johanna Nussbaumer’s restaurant is a much-lauded local favourite in one of Munich’s poshest neighbourhoods. There are just 13 tables across two elegant rooms that feel more like an upscale home than a restaurant. Fitting, since this is the Austrian chef’s personal domain. She started cooking here in 2008 and a few years ago assembled a kitchen crew trusted enough to allow her to move front of house. Now she greets every guest and will stop by for a chat if you’re up for it. This was my perfect holiday meal. A salad of lightly poached asparagus and cured salmon is about to be revived at our place for a dinner party. Then came the perfect schnitzel—so delicate and flavourful I have no hope of recreating it. The apricot dumpling dessert, which I’d first encountered at Göttweig Abbey, finally lived up to its potential: gooey, substantial-yet-light, tart and sweet. I’d make the journey just for that. Johanna, sitting with us at the end of the evening, explained that the secret is home-made jam at the centre rather than a whole apricot and had the staff crack a jar for us to try it in its raw state. What an evening. 

Lutter & Wegner, Leipzig
I’d hoped to introduce Piers to this cornerstone of Berlin’s traditional food scene, but we were too busy there. Imagine my delight to discover a branch in Leipzig, in the shadow of St. Thomas Church, where Bach ran the music. It’s right next to the Bach museum—which we intended to visit, but a long lunch triumphed. An asparagus salad creatively mixed with strawberries, thyme and a well-balanced dressing overcame my aversion to fruit in savoury dishes. And here I discovered goulash served with dumplings—an innovation over rice or potatoes that deserves to spread.

Wirsthaus am Hühnerdieb, Aachen
This oddly named spot—"the tavern of the chicken thief"—benefits from being our first alfresco meal of the year, in a sunny square on just our second day. Even so, the spargel soup spiked with crisp bacon was one of the best asparagus dishes of the holiday, and Piers’ Flammkuchen was nearly perfect. Aachen is within Cologne’s Kölsch zone, and lunch here rivalled Charlemagne’s cathedral as the highlight of the day. The square, just down from the town’s picturesque Rathaus, is home to the Couven Museum. And the chicken thief? He’s an amusing statue caught red-handed: he meant to steal a hen but grabbed the cockerel, now crowing his impending doom.

Paulaner Restaurant, Dresden
The big Munich beer brands now run halls all over Germany. This Paulaner branch stood out for its location—right across from the Residenz Museum (collapse here when you can’t walk another step)—and its homey, historic interior. Classic beer halls are close cousins to Britain’s best pubs: dark woods, brass, smoked glass, historic bric-a-brac. This one served up perfect pork knuckle with crackling that shattered like glass. And, of course, my husband’s favourite beer.

Gasthaus & Gosebrauerei Bayerischer Bahnhof, Leipzig
In a valiant effort to be healthy after 14 days in Carb Central, I ordered a salad. This being Germany, it was Wurstsalat—a bit of lettuce buried under strips of what Americans would call Bologna. With a soft pretzel. Not healthy, but it tasted like a hundred childhood lunches, so full marks for nostalgia. The real draw here is the word Brauerei. This microbrewery has taken over Germany’s oldest train station. A great place to try Gose. It’s not unpleasant, but one was enough for us.

Pulverturm an der Frauenkirche, Dresden
It’s no surprise that the lowest-ranked restaurant is also the most touristy. A Bencard’s Bites guideline: the higher the tourist profile, the lower the authenticity. That said, it was fun and the food was good, even if it felt mass-produced. The setting—a sprawling cellar around the base of a medieval armoury tower—is dramatic. We came here after Easter mass and it felt celebratory. Piers loved the giant glasses of beer. I tried the Saxon-style Sauerbraten and found it unpleasantly spiced, full of Christmas notes like cinnamon and nutmeg. Very medieval. I didn’t try another to confirm the regional flavour. After that, I stuck with pork and veal.

The penalty for all this comfort food when I returned to my first post-holiday Weight Watcher’s meeting? Five pounds. Looking back over this copy, I’m probably lucky it wasn’t more. Germany is a treat, but two and a half weeks there makes me happy to return to a veg-heavy diet.

A classical pilgrimage through Eastern Germany delights, surprises and shocks

If you love classical music, I can’t think of a better holiday destination than the Berlin–Dresden–Leipzig triangle. These cities are steeped in musical history, were home to some of the greatest names in the canon, and still boast a rich performance scene playing to packed houses of people who know their stuff. We were both amazed and delighted to see the diversity of ages in the audience. Younger people are rare at operas and orchestral concerts in England, but not here.

If you can only visit one place, history probably demands that it’s Leipzig. Bach called it home for more than 25 years, and Schumann and Mendelssohn also lived here. Wagner was born here, and Handel entered the world just up the road. But if your goal is to pack in the most performances in the shortest time, Berlin is your best bet. For opera, however, I’d head to Dresden’s sumptuous venue—even if the acoustics are, sadly, a bit dodgy.

Since this trip revolved around celebrating my husband’s birthday, we built in a lot of music. He was a good sport about agreeing to Tosca as one of our operatic choices, despite his antipathy towards Italian opera. (Performance schedules suggested that modern Germans are far keener on Verdi and Puccini than my husband is.) Here’s a round-up of what we saw. And where we saw it, since for me the venue is as important as the music.

Bach’s Easter Oratorio in the Frauenkirche, Dresden
There’s nothing quite like hearing music in the setting for which it was composed, and I doubt it gets much better than experiencing Bach’s Easter Oratorio on Easter Sunday in a church he both knew and performed in. The Frauenkirche’s stunning architecture—essentially a circular tower with three tiers of seating looking down on the altar—is as much a performance space as a house of worship.

But it is very much a church. And a very special one. Completely levelled in the bombing of Dresden, its ruins stood as a silent protest against DDR modernism for 45 years. Locals refused to let them be swept away. After unification, the church rose again, meticulously reconstructed using salvaged pieces where possible, like an enormous jigsaw puzzle. Sitting inside this symbol of resilience, listening to Bach’s soundtrack for a holiday centred on hope and rebirth, brought tears to my eyes.

Tosca at the Dresden Semperoper
This is one of the buildings in the world actually named for its architect, and Gottfried Semper earns the honour. While the Sächsische Staatsoper Dresden is one of the world’s leading companies, it’s the building that elevates the experience to something truly special.

Outside, it’s a palace: a bit like the Colosseum given a Baroque makeover. Inside, soaring neoclassical corridors are held aloft by marble columns and painted with frolicking gods and grotesqueries. It’s a common decorative scheme for an opera house, but Semper’s genius was restraint. High ceilings, giant windows and subtle colour make the space feel light and expansive.

All the famous opera houses have grand staircases, but here there are two, cleverly tucked to the side to make room for a magnificent reception hall curving around the front of the building. Its windows frame glorious views of Dresden’s historic centre. The auditorium features stalls and four horseshoe-shaped tiers. I liked the formality of ushers unlocking the door to your section when it was time to sit down.

The performance? A traditional, visually bold Tosca, with a standout soprano. But from our seats—second tier, right side, near the pit—the orchestra usually overwhelmed the singers. As glorious as the music was, it’s a pity not to hear Scarpia’s baritone in all its villainous grandeur.

Bach Cello Suites, Berlin Kammermusiksaal
This, unexpectedly, was my favourite performance of the trip. I’ve always considered the cello a mournful instrument. Bach’s suites are known as academic exercises for virtuosos; they have a reputation as being more admirable than enjoyable. But three things conspired to create a magical evening.

First, the performer: Jan Vogler, one of the world’s finest cellists, playing an early 18th-century Stradivari. (Top photo) He was electric. Second, the venue: Berlin’s Kammermusiksaal, a purpose-built chamber music venue built in the 1980s specifically to show off this quite intimate style of music. It only seats 1,136 maximum and combines excellent acoustics with a striking, futuristic design. The seating bays jut into the space at angles, giving it a sci-fi aesthetic. The lobby continues the look, with walls of coloured glass circles casting cathedral-like light into broad white plazas.

Third, I had my AI concert buddy—ChatGPT—on hand. With no one nearby and lights dimmed but not dark, I could quietly use my screen to get context. It told me about the venue, Vogler, and the pieces. When I confessed I sometimes struggle with instrumental concerts because there’s nothing to look at, my digital companion suggested scenes I could imagine for each movement, aligned with Bach’s intentions. It transformed the evening.

Don Giovanni, Berlin Komische Oper at the Schillertheater
When I booked this, I was unaware of two key facts: First, the Komische Oper’s usual jewel-box theatre is closed for renovation. (I had been more interested in getting inside than in seeing yet another production of a very familiar opera, much as I like it.) Second, Berlin’s opera scene is infamous for avant-garde, often bizarre reimaginings of the classics.

I was sad to miss the regular venue, though the Schiller Theater’s late art deco vibe had its charms. And this was Don Giovanni, after all—surely one of the most reliably entertaining operas ever written. It couldn’t push the envelope more than the challenging production we’d pushed through at Longborough Festival Opera. Ha!

It wasn’t just Giovanni, but an edited and re-arranged Giovanni mashed up with the Requiem. Instead of the usual finale, where the ensemble reflects on the villain’s fate, we skipped directly from the Don’s descent into hell (on an acrobatic harness, with flames) into the Requiem. Musically magnificent, dramatically muddled. Giovanni started off on a hospital gurney and was resurrected … making me wonder if he’d already died and the whole thing … not just the famous dinner scene with the ghost … was his journey to hell. There was a lot of nudity, including blurry visuals of orgies. Donna Elvira was a man, thus turning the Don into a pan-sexual predator. Zerlina was heavily pregnant already when meeting the Don, who developed a disturbing fascination with her baby. There were dancing skeletons. Strange interpretive dance, some naked with luxuriant pubic hair. A narrarator wandering about injecting poetry from Far Eastern philosophy, and occasionally showing up in a box as some kind of Zen priest.

I could spot brilliance in the madness. I suspect fragments of this production will be recycled elsewhere. But as a whole, it left us dazed—and in need of a stiff drink. The DJ spinning retro ‘80s classics in the rooftop Monkey Bar gave me a much-needed safe space that night.

Brahms and Elgar at the Gewandhausorchester, Leipzig
These composers aren’t our favourites. We’d have preferred more local fare: Leipzig hero Bach or a night of Wagner overtures. But Piers was keen to hear the Gewandhausorchester— the oldest civic symphony orchestra in the world—and this was the most appealing concert on offer across our three nights.

Brahms’ Symphony No. 3 and Elgar’s Violin Concerto in B minor are lushly romantic, string-heavy works dripping with emotion. But to my ears, they’re classical music’s equivalent of binging on empty calories: rich while consuming, forgettable afterwards. Other than one theme in the Brahms, nothing lingered in your ears.

What did stick was the building. The Gewandhaus is, hands down, the ugliest concert hall I’ve ever seen. The performance space is fine. It’s the public areas that stun—for all the wrong reasons.

A brutalist relic of the East German era, it’s a steel-and-glass shell with no warmth. You enter to find yourself in a vast lobby, faced with an enormous three-storey curtain wall. Upon it, a German Expressionist mural depicting the power of music. But to me, it looked like a gallery of goblins: instruments menacing, faces twisted in anguish, colours evoking night, mud and blood. I know the cultural ideals of communism viewed art as duty, not joy. And I support preserving the past. But honestly, the best thing Leipzig could do to improve this venue would be to whitewash the dementors and paint something cheerful.

Over two weeks in Germany, the variety of music we experienced—and the places we experienced it—was magnificent. We could have done more, but we needed to leave some time for dinners and quiet evenings. Tickets were about 30% cheaper than similar events in England, which made indulging even easier.

If you’re a classical music fan, this part of Germany is well worth the trip. Go to Dresden for old-world opulence, Berlin for the avant-garde, and Leipzig for a bit of everything. Just… if you choose the last, walk briskly through the Gewandhaus lobby without looking up.

Resurrected splendour cuts through my top three cultural experiences in Eastern Germany

Given the horrors of the 20th century, it’s a wonder that any treasures of art and architecture remain to admire in the former East Germany. Yet many do—thanks to the thousands of people over the past 85 years who have preserved, restored, and reinterpreted the region’s cultural riches.

Efforts are still ongoing. Like Sleeping Beauty awakening, buildings and works of art long ignored are reopening to the public, often after years of renovations that blend historic restoration with bold contemporary design. Norman Foster’s glass dome on the Reichstag is the most famous example of this approach, but it’s a trend you’ll find across the country.

My three favourite cultural sites from this trip were all devastated during the Second World War and have since been brought back to glorious life. These museums won’t just delight your eyes—they’ll also restore your faith in modern approaches to cultural preservation.

The Residenzschloss, Dresden
I am a museum glutton. It’s rare that I’ll ever push back from a cultural banquet before closing time if there are still galleries to explore. But the Residenz was too much, even for me. The collections are so lavish, so overwhelming, that I found myself visually and mentally saturated. I had to stop. Rather than continue, I retreated to a long lunch to process what I’d seen.

The blockbuster core of the Residenz is the Green Vault, so famous it requires a timed-entry ticket separate from general admission. That’s not just because it’s Dresden’s top attraction; many of the rooms are small and the museum needs to control crowds. These were purpose-built treasuries for the rulers of Saxony, and in the early 1700s, the art-obsessed Augustus the Strong decided that the rooms should be just as ornate as their contents. He went gloriously over the top.

Each room follows a different colour scheme, with spiralling gilded wooden accents, mirrored walls, painted ceilings, and marble floors. High baroque, at full tilt. Objects are grouped thematically: a room of amber pieces; another with solid silver figurines; one wall lined with rock crystal drinking vessels, another with shell-shaped goblets encrusted with jewels. There’s jewellery, ceremonial weapons, classical bronzes, and more decorative frivolity than seems possible in one place. It’s even more dazzling than the Habsburgs’ collection in Vienna’s Kunsthistorisches Museum—a place I didn’t think could be bettered. The quality may be similar, but Vienna can’t match the splendour of these rooms themselves. Remarkably, they were restored from wartime devastation; if not for a single gallery showing before-and-after photos, you’d never guess.

Photography is not allowed inside the Green Vault … another decision to keep people flowing through this remarkable space … so I borrowed an image from the web.

Upstairs is the arms and armour collection—a shared passion of mine and my husband’s. We’ve seen world-class collections in Vienna and London’s Wallace Collection, but Dresden outshines them. There’s an enormous gallery of Islamic weapons and armour, many of them jewelled, and a series of Turkish campaign tents as intricate as any carpet, set up dramatically in a vast, dimly lit space. European armour is displayed in another enormous gallery where curators have arranged the figures as if in action: jousting knights, melee combatants, and noble warriors astride richly adorned horses. There’s even silver armour—utterly useless in battle, but stunning as a display of wealth.

We jumped forward a couple of centuries to the 19th-century State Apartments, recently reopened after restoration. Though there was more to see, I simply couldn’t absorb anything else. Each item we looked at was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, and I’d already seen hundreds. I almost cried with frustration as I passed by yet another treasury level, left unexplored. I will be back.

Sanssouci, Potsdam
A generation after Augustus created his ornate Saxon treasury, Frederick the Great was building his own fantasy palace across the border in Prussia. By then, baroque had given way to rococo—more gold, more marble, more swags, more frills. If you prefer minimalism and clean lines, Sanssouci may be your personal nightmare.

This was Frederick’s escape from the pressures of Berlin—today a half-hour drive, then a day on horseback. Sanssouci itself is surprisingly compact: a single-story enfilade of rooms, with Frederick’s private suite at one end, a few guest rooms at the other, and salons for dining and socialising in between. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in extravagance. Every inch the Enlightenment king, Frederick gathered his friends here to talk philosophy and play music.

The formal rooms are all white marble and gold gilt (top photo), adorned with frolicking classical deities. More intimate spaces are pastel-toned, with silk wall coverings, inlaid wooden floors, and ceilings dripping with ornamental plasterwork. Frederick, a keen naturalist, brought the outdoors in: one room’s plaster ceiling is a web of golden spiders and insects. My favourite, however, is the guest room decorated for Voltaire, where exquisitely detailed birds, animals, fruit, and flowers spill across creamy panelled walls.

When Frederick needed more space for guests, he transformed the nearby orangery into overflow guest space. There are both entertaining rooms and bedroom suites here. Though less grand, it would still shame many other royal residences of the time.

All of this sits within a park. Immediately around the palace are formal gardens with blue-and-gold trellises and terraced walks; beyond that, a vast landscape garden in the English style. I hadn’t realised that Sanssouci refers not just to the palace but to the entire park—nor that the park contains multiple palaces. Nor that Potsdam itself is a charming town full of impressive architecture. We had just three hours for the main palace and the orangery. This place probably deserves at least an overnight stay and a couple of days’ exploration.

The Neues Museum and Nefertiti, Berlin

Frederick the Great’s great-great nephew, Frederick William IV made his own cultural contribution: Berlin’s Museum Island. The Pergamon Museum, its star attraction, is currently closed for multi-year renovations. That gives you the chance to devote your full attention to the only slightly less famous—but just as rewarding—Neues Museum.

Like so many buildings here, the Neues was gutted by wartime bombing. Its treasures had been hidden, but the structure itself needed decades of work. When I last visited, it was still closed for renovation; it finally reopened in 2009. David Chipperfield and his team have achieved a masterful balance: parts of the building have been fully restored to their 19th-century glory, while others show bare brick and scarred walls, a silent testimony to war. Throughout, sleek modern displays make it a joy to explore.

Most people come for one thing: the bust of Nefertiti. She’s arguably the most recognisable object from ancient Egypt and one of the most famous sculptures in the world. Her serene beauty is undiminished by millennia. She stands alone, lit dramatically in her own room, at eye level so you can meet her gaze. She’s also at the centre of an ongoing international controversy, with Egypt demanding her return. I won’t wade into the debate here—but if you’re in the same city as Nefertiti, you owe it to yourself to go and see her.

Tour groups sweep in and out of her gallery, but the rest of the museum deserves as much attention. Nefertiti belongs to the Amarna period, a short, joyful chapter in Egyptian art named after the capital city she and her husband Akhenaten built. The Germans were lead excavators there, and outside of Cairo, I doubt you’ll find a better collection from this era.

Beyond Egypt, the museum houses impressive Greek and Roman collections (some of which are normally in the Pergamon), as well as artefacts from ancient Germany and nomadic peoples of the Eurasian steppes. One highlight is a tall, hammered golden ceremonial hat—utterly bizarre, completely unique, and just as memorable as Nefertiti herself. 

You can also take a look at the artefacts Heinrich Schliemann brought back from Troy. More disputed loot, but arguments going in multiple directions this time. The Soviets took the best stuff back to the Hermitage after WW2 and haven’t returned it despite German requests. And, of course, the Turks would like the treasures to return to their point of origin. What tangled webs we weave in our museums.

Closing Thoughts
These three museums represent very different times and tastes, from ancient elegance to baroque flamboyance to Enlightenment intellectualism. But they all have something in common: destruction, followed by rebirth. They are monuments not only to the past, but to the enduring human desire to preserve, rebuild, and celebrate beauty. That, in itself, is something worth seeing.

History's hard lessons: A sightseer’s journey through Germany’s twentieth century

History isn’t just entertainment. We study the past to learn, to do better, to be better, to not repeat the mistakes of our ancestors. Germany, sadly, offers abundant opportunities for that kind of reflection.

So while I’d prefer to spend two weeks here immersed in art and architecture while I am here, I feel it’s a basic human responsibility to spend some time contemplating the train wrecks of the 20th century. No modern German should feel guilt for the errors of that century, but they do bear a unique responsibility for sharing that past with the world. 

They do an amazing job.

Though we didn’t visit them in this order, let’s go chronologically and start in Leipzig at the Monument to the Battle of the Nations. The battle commemorated is from the Napoleonic wars; a bloody, multi-national nightmare with Germans fighting on both sides. But the monument wasn’t erected until the centenary in 1913. Like so many delayed war memorials, it’s making points that stretch far beyond the original event.

The architecture here is known as Wilhelmine, roughly contemporary to Edwardian in the UK. It’s eye-popping. Armoured stone giants stand sentinel over an enormous tower fronted by a long reflecting pool. The proportions are of giants, not men, and the warriors are a strange mix of medieval and modernism. Inside the dome is a symbolic crypt for those fallen in battle, with more giants on guard. Above, at the four points from which the dome springs, sit even bigger figures representing the virtues of the German people, while in the dome itself hundreds of mounted knights ride in solemn circles to heaven.

If you were dropped here without context you’d think you were on the set of the Lord of the Rings or a Wagnerian opera. It’s beautiful and impressive, but also dark and disturbing. When it comes to our lesson-learning, this is architecture capturing the myth-making and brutal nationalism that helped propel Germany into the First World War.

Which, of course, led directly to the Second. Berlin, thankfully, is much more than its dark WWII legacy, and there are many places in the modern city where it’s easy to forget it entirely. But it’s never far beneath the surface.

This is most obvious at the Memorial to Murdered Jews of Europe, a 4.7 acre site in the very heart of official Berlin, within clear sight of the Reichstag and the Brandenburg Gate. The last time I was here it was still under construction. I loved the idea of almost 3,000 dark, concrete stele evoking the memorials in a Jewish cemetery, placed on undulating ground. The idea was for you to get lost in the sadness and contemplation.

I confess to being a bit disappointed by the final result. The fact that it’s hemmed in on every side by major streets, and overlooked on two sides by upscale modern buildings (including the US embassy), takes away from the reflective nature. On a sunny Sunday the margins of the site were thronged with chattering tourists and though most walking between the stones were doing so quietly, there were enough children using the lanes as a playground to break the mood. I think the contemplative intent of the site would have been helped by a screen of trees between it and the buildings. But that would undermine the intent of a placement which is meant to force contemplation. It demands that we “never forget”, and I think it manages that. 

As an eternal optimist I prefer to consider the Memorial in partnership with the gloriously restored main synagogue. You can see its luscious pastel and gold dome from all over the city center. Driving past it on our bus tour showed a beautiful building I’d like to get inside on my next visit to Berlin. It’s a celebration of hope, resilience and the potential of the future rather than the sadness of the past. 

If you want real sadness and contemplation, however, you need to get on a train. We took a guided tour to Sachsenhausen. Any concentration camp is horrific, but this place has a unique status. As the internment facility closest to the capital it was both the model and the test bed for the whole Nazi philosophy of incarceration. 

Tragically, this was the place the Nazis took visiting officials to show they weren’t committing war crimes. They were, of course. This place saw the whole nightmare hit parade: working people to death, medical experiments, industrialised execution. But here the Nazis wrapped it in a tidy model facility, with pleasant woodland walks to help the guards relax and a reassuring message of rehabilitation. 

People were sent here to protect the state. Not just Jews. Communists were the first big intake. Homosexuals, the mentally infirm, Romany gypsies, captured opposition soldiers. Sachsenhausen had a viscous equal opportunity about it. Anyone whose ideas challenged the government could be considered a danger to society and sent here. No due process of law. No protections. Because fear of “the other” overpowered the safeguards of democracy. 

The 8th of May, 1945, brought the downfall of the Nazis, but not liberation for all. Eastern Europe traded German oppressors for Soviet ones and fell behind the iron curtain for another 45 years. The Soviets turned Sachsenhausen into their own camp and a memorial for the communists who died here, with a towering monument that bears all the marks of their propagandistic, power-shouting, personality-free art. They chose not to mention of any of the others who died here. It was only after the collapse of the Soviet Union that a re-united German government restored Sachsenhausen to reflect its broader picture. There are still not that many buildings to see here. Two barracks have been restored as museum areas, the medical facilities stand and the execution facilities have been reconstructed (in a respectful way), but it’s more than enough to get the lessons across. 

To search for lessons from the years of Soviet occupation it’s off to the DDR Museum. That stands for the Deutsche Demokratische Republik, known in English as the GDR (German Democratic Republic); its own country … but under tight Soviet control … from 1949 to 1990.

This is an entirely modern, purpose-built tourist experience just across from Museum Island. There’s plenty of interactive stuff for the kids: opening doors, listening to audio, sitting in a Trabant car or at a Communist leader’s desk. They’ve re-created a whole 1970s family apartment, complete with clothes, toys, household products and a television directory. It does a great job explaining how this short-lived country came into being and what it was like to live there. 

I suspect this museum delivers two very different experiences, based on your perspective. 

As an American who grew up at the end of the Cold War I was raised to believe that EVERYTHING that happened behind the iron curtain was a disaster and all lives there (except perhaps those of the bosses) were a misery. This museum takes a more balanced view. There were upsides: roughly even pay scales showed that everyone was valuable, community activities were abundant, women had careers, there was free education and subsidised Baltic Sea holidays. Of course, in exchange you got the Stasi, limited choices for your life and your consumer goods, wildly restricted media, restrictions on freedoms and a whole world filtered through party propaganda. 

I was pre-disposed to see the museum as a validation of capitalism, which finally put the DDR in a well-deserved grave. But I couldn’t help noticing that there were as many Germans in the museum as visitors, and a great many of these seemed to be family groups in which older members were taking children on a nostalgic road trip. I couldn’t understand any of the German, but the body language wasn’t solemn or mournful. They spent more time in the Trabant simulator than in the Stasi listening post.

They reminded me of all the news stories I’ve read about East Germans missing aspects of the old regime because they feel ignored and sidelined since re-unification. Lesson: even seemingly objective museum displays may have different meanings depending on the outlook of the visitor. History is not black and white, but a million shades of grey.

While it doesn’t fit neatly into my 20th century theme I have to give a nod to the Bundeswehr Military History Museum in Dresden. The collections cover the entire history of the German military, going back to the Middle Ages. The 20th century galleries are extensive, however. They cover both World Wars and the aftermath with impressive collections of artefacts. Some are expected: uniforms, weapons, paintings of battles. Others are subtle and heart-wrenching. The display I remember most is a stark wall of shoes taken from a death camp.

This enormous museum has both historical tracks to follow, and thematic ones. I particularly liked the latter. Animals in war told surprising stories. Military language showed how war has influenced our speech, and vice versa. A section on military toys was particularly intriguing and didn’t shy away from considering the question of whether this ongoing part of childhood is good or bad. Like the country it represents, this museum refuses to look away from the hardest truths.

Modern Germany has done an admirable job balancing horror and history. In this Dresden museum they do it with a bold architectural statement: a Daniel Libeskind-designed addition. It is a glass arrowhead breaking the formal facade of the building, meant to demonstrate the transparency of democratic government. To me, the jagged edges also provide a physical demonstration of the disruption of war. It is the embodiment of a tragic “double-edged sword”: no sane person wants to go to war, but you have to prepare for war to keep peace. Our ongoing challenge is to find the right balance.

None of these German sites are easy, or enjoyable. They won’t leave you comfortable. But they will leave you thinking. And that, I believe, is how we build a better world.