Where in the World is Dakota?

✈️ Laundry and Launch

Greece had barely settled into memory before I was moving again. 

There wasn’t much time between ancient cliffs and departure gates-just enough to reset, repack, and convince myself that yes, this was sustainable behavior. Apparently, I don’t do “ease back into normal life.” I do “laundry and launch.”

So, instead of easing gently into Germany, I found myself boarding one of the last trains of the night toward Malpensa Airport – because if you know ANYTHING about Italian trains, you do NOT risk the final one. Not when your fight leaves before the first morning train even thinks about running. 

Which is how I ended up spending the night in an airport. 

I’ve done unexpected airport time before – once stranded an entire extra day trying to leave Florida, which somehow feels very different in daylight. Day delays feel inconvenient. Overnight airport floors feel…existential. Not in a cozy “travel influence aesthetic” way. 

But in a hallway near an emergency exit because all the good benches were taken. And half of MXP was under construction – allegedly in preparation for the Olympics. I’ll believe that timeline when I see it. 

Thankfully, Italy does not fail where it matters: tiny coffee vending machines dispensing actual, drinkable Italian coffee. (Longs. Bless them.) Between those –  three…four.. or was it five? – and video calls with friends back to the U.S (blessed, truly, by the time difference) the night felt less like survival and more like a strange, jet-lagged limbo. 

By the time my 6:52 a.m flight boarded, I had officially crossed into the “no sleep but still functioning” category of human existence. 

Munich awaited. 

☕ Running on Espresso and Stubbornness

After landing, I made my way straight to my hostel to drop my bag- the room wouldn’t be ready for hours, but at least I didn’t have to drag my suitcase through the city on no sleep. 

I’ve done that before.

 New York City. Late at night. A suitcase wheel that simply…gave up. 

Some lessons stay with you-drop the bag when you can. 

Next stop: coffee. Again. 

I found a nearby cafe, ordered something warm and strong, and added breakfast to the situation because at that point I was running on vending-machine espresso and stubbornness. I still hadn’t slept. 

It had officially been over 24 hours. And I knew if I sat too long, I would fold. So instead of resting, I did what I apparently do best-I went exploring. 

My destination: the Royal Palace and Museum. 

🏰 Finding the Door

If Greece had been wind and open sky, Munich felt structured. Contained. Ornate. The kind of city where buildings don’t erode into cliffs – they stand squarely and wait for you to notice them. 

Finding the entrance to the palace, however, was… not quite so structured. 

I followed signs through a large garden courtyard. A few other people did the same. We all confidently approached a set of doors. 

Not the door. 

Back out. Around another corner into another garden- beautiful, but… still not the entrance. At this point it felt less like a museum visit and more like a royal scavenger hunt. 

Somewhere between garden number two and garden number three, I pulled out my phone and bought my ticket online- because if I was going to wander in circles, I might as well at least skip the line once I found the correct door. 

Eventually, I did. 

👑 Once Upon a December

Inside the palace, sleep deprivation gave way to something else entirely – awe, maybe. Or déjà vu from a dream I never actually had.

There are rooms you walk through. And then there are rooms that feel like they’re walking through you. 

One in particular stopped me in my tracks. Gold detailing climbing the walls. Crystal chandeliers casting light that felt almost theatrical. Mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors.  For a split second — sleep deprivation fully engaged — I felt like Anastasia.I had to stop myself from breaking into Once Upon a December right then and there. (If you know, you know.)

The stairs alone were an event. Grand doesn’t even feel like a big enough word. They curved and climbed with intention — meant to be ascended slowly, dramatically, with fabric trailing behind you. Not in sneakers on 26 hours of no sleep.

And then the details. 

White gold — which I learned isn’t white at all, but gold painted over wood- layered into moldings and trim so intricately it almost looked embroidered into the walls.

I moved slowly, letting each space tell its story. The preserved pottery. The painted panels. The soft gleam of velvet and silk behind glass — some forgotten woman’s everyday now frozen behind museum rope.

Ornate décor. Room after room of paintings. So many paintings. 

One painting, though, held me longer than the others.

🎨 Light Against the Dark

A still life — flowers gathered in a darkened space, the background so deep it almost disappeared into shadow. At first glance it seemed muted. And then your eyes adjusted.

The pink rose near the center caught the light first — soft but luminous, its petals unfolding like silk. Around it, bursts of blue and red punctuated the darkness. Not loud. Not chaotic. Just deliberate. The blues were almost electric against the black, small sparks of color. The deeper reds felt heavier — velvety, grounded.

It wasn’t just the flowers. It was the contrast.

The way the light seemed to fall from one unseen direction, touching certain petals while letting others remain half-hidden. The way life felt suspended in shadow.

Everything around it in the palace shimmered — gold leaf, chandeliers, carved moldings.

This painting didn’t shimmer.

It glowed quietly.

Maybe that’s what made it beautiful. 

Because without the darkness, the color wouldn’t feel so alive. The light wouldn’t feel so intentional. It reminded me that contrast doesn’t diminish beauty-it defines it. THat sometimes what draws you in isn’t brightness alone, but the courage of it-daring to exist against something heavier. 

Beauty doesn’t disappear in the dark. It just waits for the right eyes to notice it. 

After rooms of white gold and imperial scale, there was something almost intimate about this piece — color daring to exist against darkness.

🚪 Spectacle & Secrecy

But the palace wasn’t finished with me yet. 

The rooms continued – unfolding into one another without the kind of hallways we’re used to. No clear separation between “private” and “public” the way modern homes pretend to have. One chamber simply opened into the next, and then the next, and then the next. 

It blurred the line between spectacle and secrecy. 

And then there were the servant corridors.

Narrower. Quieter. Hidden pathways running parallel to grandeur.

I couldn’t help but wonder what they witnessed. The quiet observers of royal life. What they say. What they overheard.  Who they saw slipping into rooms unannounced. Midnight conversations. Unchaperoned strolls. If Bridgerton has taught us anything, it’s that the ton would absolutely have opinions.

The beds were another surprise. Elevated so high I would have needed a committed hop to climb into one. Suddenly, The Princess and the Pea felt less like fairy tale exaggeration and more like architectural realism.

I leaned over a stairwell railing at one point, peering down into levels I couldn’t access. The pull to wander further was strong. I wanted to know where every corridor led. Who had descended them in silk, who had scrubbed them in silence. What secrets were swallowed by those walls.

There were tapestries in one dining hall that felt heavy with history — scenes frozen in thread. Windows looking out over gardens where vendors had set up booths below. Another window revealed the very garden I had wandered earlier, and I tried to imagine it in full green bloom instead of winter’s restraint.

The Emperor’s Hall was massive — the kind of room that swallows your footsteps whole. And the fireplace? Monumental. The sort of structure you don’t gather around — you gather beneath.

A chapel quietly tucked into opulence. A reliquary vault heavy with preservation. Room after room layering dynasty over dynasty. 

🕯 Altered, Not Erased

Even World War II left its mark here – Opulence interrupted. The palace, like so much of Europe, had not been untouched. It had been altered. Opulence interrupted. Restoration stitched back together.

Eventually, imperial ceilings gave way to fresh air.

🌭 Street Food & Recalibration

On my walk back to the hostel, I grabbed a foot-long bratwurst — because after imperial ceilings and gold leaf, nothing says balance like street food in one hand and architectural awe still buzzing in your head.

At 1:55 p.m., my room was finally ready.

And this hostel was different.

Not a bunk. Not a curtain. Not a shared shuffle of strangers.

An entire little room to myself. Two twin beds. A small table. A dorm-sized fridge. A wardrobe. I could spread my bag open on one bed and not have to repack it every time I needed socks.

After thirty-something  hours awake, a warm shower felt like quiet recalibration.

And the bed — no staircase required- might have been the most luxurious room I entered all day.