A canal runs to my right, constrained by mossy banks and filled with stagnant, clear water that reflects the pastel exteriors of the buildings lining its shore. Pointed steeples tower in the distance. Wooden boxes line the street, overflowing with bright blossoms and exuberant greenery stretching mossy fingers toward the stone road.

Up ahead, the narrow path opens to a bustling square. There’s a market taking place, consisting of wooden booths displaying a staggering array of products for purchase. Striped umbrellas shade jam, cheese, honey, flowers, and meats, along with every variety of fruits and vegetables imaginable.

A church bell tolls out a booming, commanding sound. I look to the left to see one of the majestic cathedrals Europe is famous for. It’s a far cry from the small, white-washed chapel Hallie got married in two summers ago.

The building itself is a work of art; the exterior so detailed and purposefully crafted it seems impossible to even attempt to catalog the complicated texture and dazzling architecture. The cathedral fits perfectly with its timeless surroundings while simultaneously completely overshadowing them.

I stare for a while, trying to reconcile how this building just exists. Sitting here the same way it has for hundreds of years. It also serves as an amusing litmus test for distinguishing tourists from the locals. Those manning the booths barely glance up at the magnificent church, while everyone else is gaping upward or snapping pictures.

Eventually I move on, stopping to buy a soft pretzel from one booth and then continuing along the same street I was walking along before. It veers left after a hundred yards, transitioning into an arch bridge that crosses the canal.

The building situated immediately on the opposite side reminds me of the cathedral I just left. It’s comprised of the same dark gray stone and has the same emanation of majesty, but everywhere on the cathedral was pointed steeples and sharply carved edges; this building is rounded. Circular windows, ornate arches, and a domed ceiling are the most prominent examples.

There’s a steady flow of foot traffic heading in and out of the stone structure, and I fall in line behind a couple speaking what I think is Spanish. I’d ask them where we’re headed, but my Spanish is no better than my German. Plus, I receive an answer as soon as we walk into the cavernous lobby.

It’s some sort of museum. There’s a long counter that spans the center of the room, covered with pamphlets. Chattering tourists are grouped around signs displaying clock hands in various positions. I can’t recall the last time I was inside any sort of museum—probably elementary school, if I had to guess—but that’s not why I pause just inside the front doors. It’s the stark contrast between the exterior and the interior that has me stalling to a stop.