My perfect city, or An Ode to Copenhagen

I have lived in eight different cities to date. Since leaving my native Riga (Latvia) six years ago, I have studied and worked in Kalmar (Sweden), Washington, DC (US), Helsinki (Finland), Edinburgh, London (UK) and Frankfurt (Germany). Oh, and I have also had a fabulous eight months of playing a housewife in Athens (Greece). I have certainly moved around.

Which city was perfect? Sadly, none of them. London is my current “working base”, but I am far from calling it a “home”. Riga and Helsinki, on the other hand, feel like home; I just do not see myself ever working there. DC has the most unbearable, humid climate and is miles away from Europe. Kalmar is obviously small and inadequately connected for a frequent traveller like me. Edinburgh is the most beautiful and historic of them all, but not necessarily the most central. Frankfurt is somewhat on the boring side. And Athens? Athens is a separate topic. Other than being a gateway to the idyllic Greek islands, the congested and chaotic Athens indeed impersonates everything I hate about a city.

Unwilling to give up easily, one day I embarked on a quest for a perfect city to live in. The map of the world in front of me looked overwhelming, but my perfect city was there somewhere! Where could it be?

For a start, it would have to be within a 3-hour flight from Riga – my historic home – as well as from London – my longest lasting base where most of my friends live. There is no way I am cutting off the personal links it took me decades to build. The geographical constraint neatly excluded most cities outside Europe, making my quest quite a bit easier.

My ideal city could only lie by the sea, too. And no, not like Riga, where you'd still need to drive for half an hour before reaching the coast. I wanted a city where I would see the sea, breathe the sea and feel the sea everywhere. A city like, Helsinki, say. Seriously, I will never understand how people even bother living in landlocked locations. My search further shrank to the coastal perimeter of Europe, leaving out the areas in-between.

Furthermore, my city would be cyclist and pedestrian friendly. Athens, for example, is a nightmare for both (read my thoughts on being a pedestrian in Athens here), and London is simply dangerous for cyclists. Still fresh is the wound covering my right leg – the part into which a smart driver opened the door of his car after stopping suddenly in front of me at green light. I love to walk and to cycle, period. My shortlist for a perfect city thus lost all of the Southern and Eastern Europe, and the British Isles. Good riddance.

Next in line came flight connections. I need to get away frequently. Every couple of weeks would be ideal – and the flights better be cheap, plentiful and easy to book. What regards the airport, it should be sizeable yet practical, well-organised and not further than a 30-minute drive from the city centre. By public transport, please.

Multiple other considerations came into play. My perfect city had to be cosmopolitan and open to a variety of ethnic groups. It would regularly host diverse cultural and musical events. Oh, and boast beautiful historic and modern architecture, an efficient public transportation system, as well as great places to eat – partly thanks to those varied ethnic groups offering their traditional cuisines. Inside, the city would have a good mix of broad avenues and cosy narrow streets, large parks and plenty of water-containing structures – fountains, canals, rivers and lakes would all be welcome. And, since I cannot take the heat very well, average summer temperatures should stay below +22C. In the sun, preferably.

Needless to say that, at that point, the quest for "anjči's perfect city" was nothing more than a tie among Amsterdam, Copenhagen and Stockholm.

Amsterdam never really grew on me and was disqualified without much remorse. Copenhagen or Stockholm? It was not the first time I was asking myself that question. My friends somehow tend to pick Stockholm, and I was close to doing the same.

But then I remembered my first visit to Copenhagen in 2004 – my first look over the panoramic city from Vor Frelsers Church spire, my first pølse on Rådhuspladsen and my first bite of that unbeatably delicious Danish rye bread with sunflower seeds (rugbrød med solsikkekerner, mmm). I remembered the many cyclists wheeling through Copenhagen's streets, the feel of the sea everywhere and the impressive yet compact Kastrup airport, 20 minutes from the city centre, by public transport. The charm of old historic buildings blended beautifully with the sleekness of the newer constructions, and traditional Danish bakeries neighboured the colourful ethnic eateries. Copenhagen was the city of contrasts, the city of tradition and culture, the city of the old and the new, the city of the happening. Copenhagen was unanimously The City. My perfect city.

My last weekend’s visit to Copenhagen may have only lasted 36 hours (view the full set of pictures). And it may have rained insanely for most of the time I spent outside. Disregarding all that, those were among the best 36 hours I have had this year. I will not bore anyone with stories – let the few rain-washed pictures I took speak for themselves!

Could it get more bicycle friendly than this?

The wonderful Nyhavn I

The wonderful Nyhavn II

Copenhagen's colourful Nyhavn: the old...

...and the new: Royal Danish Playhouse

About as bright as it got on that rainy day

A windmill in Kastellet/The Citadel

St. Alban's Church

A street on Amager. Apparently, "frokost" is Danish for "lunch". Not to be confused with Swedish/Norwegian "frukost/frokost", which actually means "breakfast"...

A yellow wall, red roses and a bicycle. Paradise materialised!

Vor Frelsers Church, my first ever sight of Copenhagen six years ago

A cheerful wall in Christiania

A view from Rundetårn

"I will miss Denmark. I will be back", were my words when I was leaving Copenhagen six years ago. And today, I could not express it any better. Till next time then! So long to my perfect city.

The Faroe Islands: Europe’s best-kept secret

Take Ireland’s intense green pastures, sheep and stone Celtic walls segmenting the hills. Add Norway’s fjords, Viking mood and modern architecture. Slowly mix in Iceland’s secludedness, fishing tradition and language motives. Put the Danish crown on top, and there you’ll have it – the Faroe Islands. The place so similar to others and yet so unique.

The Faroe Islands (Føroyar in Faroese; Færøerne in Danish; Faroes for short in English) aren’t exactly one’s first choice of a holiday destination. When I told my friends I was going to the Faroes for a long weekend, the reactions I received were something similar to: “Oh, the Faroe Islands. Great. Where are they exactly? In Portugal, right?” Most such conversations would end in an undisputable “Oh, I know. That’s where they kill the dolphins!” After which the question invariably arose WHY I would ever visit a place as barbarian, especially situated in the middle of nowhere.

But it was partly the obscure location of the 18 Faroe Islands (of which 17 are inhabited) that persuaded me to visit. The Faroes lie northwest of Scotland and halfway between Iceland and Norway, lost along the 62th parallel in the secluded part of the North Atlantic. The islands are admittedly not the easiest destination to reach. Although served twice weekly by direct flights from London during the summer, it is primarily Copenhagen that connects the Faroes with the world for the rest of the year. Which makes sense, as the Faroe Islands remain a part of the Kingdom of Denmark (as they have since 1388), albeit enjoying substantial self-governance.

“Why the Faroe Islands?”

I wouldn’t blame anyone for asking that. The answer is a rather long story dating 10 years back to my favourite subject at school – predictably, geography. Until at least a few years ago, certain Latvian schools would dedicate a full year of geography classes exclusively to the Nordic countries: Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden. Don't get me wrong – it was not a random choice, as the Nordic region is historically and economically important to the Baltic countries.

The Nordic region is made up in an interesting way. Besides five sovereign states, it includes the so-called autonomous provinces: Greenland, the Faroe Islands (both belonging to Denmark) and the Åland Islands (belonging to Finland). There is also Svalbard (belonging to Norway), which, strictly speaking, does not have an autonomous status – but sits far enough from the metropolis to be vaguely regarded as self-governing.

I was always fascinated by our Nordic geography classes. The study material was expanded to include not only the pure-case geography but also cultural and political facts about the region. For example, we had to memorise each country's highest peak (excluding Denmark, which did not turn out to be particularly high). Or we would study what each parliament was called (the Icelandic one was the oldest in the world and the Finnish one possibly the most unpronounceable). Or did you know that Hans Christian Andersen’s home town was Odense, on the island of Funen? Or that Vatnajökull, translated as "the glacier of lakes", was Iceland's biggest glacier? In short, a lot of fun used to be had at our Nordic geography classes. One day I will come up with a fully-fledged post just about that.

To business though; why the Faroe Islands? Just because people do not often go there! In the last six years, I have visited all five Nordic countries and even lived in Sweden and Finland for a while. I have not managed to set my foot in a single autonomous province in the Nordics, however. The Åland Islands I have sort of seen from the ferry on my way from Turku to Stockholm, and doubt I will come rushing back. Greenland and Svalbard have been on my dream list forever, but remain painfully expensive to get to. That only left the Faroe Islands, which, compared to the Arctic territories of the Nordics, were actually just around the corner from London. I had to visit urgently, end of story.

And there I was – boarding an Atlantic Airways flight at London Stansted, destination Faroe Islands!

Day 1: Let the journey begin

The queue for my flight at London Stansted airport could not have been longer than 60 people. Interestingly, all of them were carrying substantial amounts of luggage. I immediately theorised that (a) the Faroese passengers could not have been too spoilt for options back home and were coming back from a regular shopping trip to London; and (b) the non-Faroese passengers were too spoilt for options back home and were carrying all personal necessities with them, just in case. Either way, my skinny backpack looked rather optimistic in comparison.

"May I ask where you are travelling today?" asked an elderly lady outside the security belts, a "UK National Statistics" badge shining on her chest. "Oh. The Faroe Islands? How unusual". She hesitated for a few seconds before taking a note of my destination in her survey form; the "Faro Is." was what she eventually wrote down. I guess my statistical entry will be excluded as an extreme outlier.

For an airline of a nation of 50,000 people, Atlantic Airways made an impeccable impression of timeliness and quality of service. Like other Nordic countries (except Denmark), the Faroe Islands have a state monopoly on alcohol sales, managed by a company called “Rúsdrekkasølan”, or simply “Rusan”. I had therefore been advised to fill up on alcohol while in the air. Two rounds of drinks were offered during the 2-hour flight, which the Faroese seemed to take with full seriousness. Given the fact that alcohol was only legalised in the islands in 1992, this hardly came as a surprise.

Alcohol aside, the Faroese obsession with football is not a secret to anyone. The Atlantic Airways’ inflight magazine (ambitiously titled "Atlantic Review") informed me that a certain Gunnar Nielsen was the first ever Faroese footballer to play in the English Premier League, on 24 April 2010. The fact that he saved a goal shot by Dane Nicklas Bendtner could not have been emphasised enough. I can only imagine the full scale of the Faroese joy – nothing short of a national celebration!

On arrival, I was going to ask the passport officer to stamp my passport, as a memory of the Faroes. I did not have to ask, though; every EU passport was being stamped as a rule. Unlike Denmark, the Faroe Islands are officially not part of the European Union.

The transfer from Vágar airport to Tórshavn took about an hour. On the way, we passed two long tunnels and a shorter one. Back in the days, only ferries interlinked the Faroe Islands; today, two undersea tunnels connect the key islands, and projects are being made to build tunnel access even to the most remote islands in the south, Sandoy and Suðuroy.

Twilight was setting in as we approached Tórshavn, the Faroes’ capital on the island of Streymoy. "Would you like to stop here?" the driver suddenly asked, and slowed down. Blue clouds were covering the harbour; more windows were lighting up as the darkness was falling. "The smallest capital of the world", the driver said, his smile glowing with pride. With 18,000 inhabitants, this is indeed the title Tórshavn is most frequently associated with.

I checked into Hotel Tórshavn and was out again in minutes. Past 11pm, Tórshavn was only beginning to get properly dark. The Faroe Islands' location in the North Atlantic means that summer daylight is blissfully long; unfortunately, it also means notoriously dark winters.

Tórshavn in twilight

Tórshavn's harbour before dark

Day 2: Exploring Klaksvík and Kalsoy

My first day on the Faroes began in an early morning bus to Klaksvík. Situated 70 km from Tórshavn on the island of Borðoy, Klaksvík is the Faroes’ second largest town and the central point of Norðoyar, the Northern Isles. The latter are made up of six islands (Kalsoy, Kunoy, Borðoy, Viðoy, Svínoy and Fugloy). I was hoping to dedicate my Friday to at least Borðoy and Kalsoy.

A handful of locals were already waiting for the bus. Glancing curiously at me, they exchanged greetings and latest Faroe-wide news. The Faroes are a small, close community where most people know each other by family name, if not in person.

Klaksvík was quiet, with barely a soul outside. Around 9am, tourist shops were still shut but supermarkets were open. Numerous fishing and leisure boats filled up the harbour. A large church was clearly visible on an elevated part of town; it turned out to be Christianskirkjan, the largest church on the entire archipelago. Unfortunately for Lonely Planet, the travel guide had missed the church altogether in its recommendations for Klaksvík, instead christening the town as “a little short on sights”. Interesting how one could ever miss the country’s largest place of worship – and an impressive building at that.

Striking the balance

Klaksvík's harbour

The Faroese alphabet illustrated

I continued my tour by hiking along a mountain trail to Klakkur (414m), the peak which Klaksvík owes its name to. Random sheep were peeping curiously from both sides of the road; brisk locals were dashing back and forth. The path came onto a small viewing platform and seemed to end there – but, just as I was turning back, a man leading a small girl by the hand passed me by. They walked through an old gate (which I thought was used for the sheep) and headed further uphill, not at all confused by the absence of a path proper. I did not ask for a second invitation and followed them.

Cotton flowers sat scattered around me, fronting up the dramatic Norðoyar peaks rising out of the surrounding fjords. The soaked, spongy grass bounced to my steps. It is said that it is always raining in some part of the Faroe Islands. Forty percent of the islands' electricity is produced from hydroelectric sources; the humidity is high at all times, averaging 90% annually in Tórshavn and peaking in August due to the frequent fog.

On top of Klakkur, I caught up with the father and daughter I saw previously. Both smiled at me. "Er du fra Danmark?" the man asked. I shook my head. "I am from Klaksvík originally”, he continued in English, “but live there, in the capital. Copenhagen". The Faroes remain part of the Danish realm, and many Faroese choose to study, work and live in Denmark.

Klaksvík from the path to Klakkur

A (very sweet) Faroese sheep

Kalsoy and Kunoy from Klakkur

My next stop was the island of Kalsoy. Lying west of Borðoy, Kalsoy is connected to it by a 20-minute car and passenger ferry. Pictures of this distinctly shaped island frequent travel guides for the Faroe Islands. Long, narrow and crowned with a succession of dramatically abrupt peaks, Kalsoy is rightfully nicknamed as "the flute".

From Kalsoy’s Syðradalur harbour, I continued to Trøllanes, Kalsoy's northernmost village. Five different tunnel segments (all fearlessly narrow and barely lit) jointly known as Kalsoyartunlarnir cut through the mountains along the way. Despite being small, Trøllanes was among the prettiest villages I saw on the Faroe Islands.

You've got mail

Trøllanes, Kalsoy

Welcome to Trøllanes

My final destination on Kalsoy was the Kallur lighthouse, a 40-minute hike north of Trøllanes. Unsure where the lighthouse was, I climbed about half-way up the Borgarin peak and took a right turn. I must have clambered too high, however, as Kallur was looming far below me. Merely a white dot from where I was standing, the lighthouse was or seemed much smaller than I had imagined. I headed down slowly, praying not to be sent flying downhill. After one of those Faroese rains, Kalsoy’s grass-coated hills were slippery and dangerous.

Suddenly I spotted a pretty white bird sitting in a niche in the rocks below. It was a fulmar (the most common bird species on the Faroes) and looked like it was brooding. As little room for manoeuvre as I had, I did my best not to disturb the beautiful creature – and stepped upon a small rock to its side.

The next moment, I felt the ground collapsing under my feet. The earth and the skies swapped several times; I hit the ground, turned over and slipped furiously on my stomach along the grass, further and further down the steep hill. Just one thought blinked briefly in my mind; that it was all over. My hiking obsession had cost me my life.

And then the crazy motion stopped; shocked, I pulled myself up. My clothes were stained in mud and grass; my mouth and nostrils were full of soil. Half of my nails were broken, the right foot was twisted and beginning to swell, and a massive blue spot was covering my right shoulder. And Nikie, my camera? It was lying in the grass beside me, and looked slightly dirty but perfectly undamaged. I got away easily.

I wondered if anything in my backpack was broken and took it off. My hands started shaking when I saw it, covered generously in a bucketful of wet soil. It was clear I had landed on my back – which, had it not been protected by a backpack, would have been in much more trouble than it was the case. I thanked God for being alive. Finally I understood the whole seriousness of "Never Hike Alone" posters I saw earlier in the airport and Tórshavn. I'll never hike alone again. At least on the Faroe Islands.

Such was the state of shock I was in that I did not turn back immediately but continued to Kallur. Surrounded by six different headlands, it was a most beautiful viewing spot – but I cannot say it was worth the dramatic fall. I kept palpating my body to make sure, yet again, that nothing was broken. Or missing.

Kallur lighthouse, Kalsoy

Borgarin peak, Kalsoy

Limping, I semi-hiked back to Trøllanes, caught a minibus to Syðradalur, a boat to Klaksvík and – finally – a bus to Tórshavn. The entire transfer took me exactly three hours. In the meantime, the skies had cleared up enough to let through the occasional blue, and even a handful of rays of the cold Atlantic sun. I was hoping the next morning would bring brighter weather. I was also hoping my swollen foot would heal enough for me to walk like a human again.

Klaksvík harbour

Day 3: Exploring Northern Eysturoy and Vestmanna

My foot was much better the morning after. Sadly, I could not say the same about the weather – depression-inducing tap of raindrops was what I first heard upon awakening. White mist was covering Tórshavn, and I wondered if we'd see anything at all during the tour. It was too late to retreat though – the guide, Sámal Bláhamar of Tora Tourist Traffic, was already waiting downstairs with the rest of our 7-people group. He smiled when I asked him what the forecast was for the day. "I'll bring you where the sun is shining!" was the answer. "There is always a place on the Faroe Islands where the sun is shining".

And he was right. The weather on the Faroes is changeable to the extreme. As we drove north, the rain first turned into drizzle and then stopped altogether – finally giving way to beautiful sunshine. The legend goes that the British troops (which occupied the Faroes during World War II) referred to the islands as the "Land of Maybe" due to their whimsical weather.

Our two primary destinations for the day were the northern part of the Eysturoy island and Vestmanna bird cliffs. We made quick photo stops in numerous locations on our way, including Hósvík, við Áir, Hvalvík, Oyrarbakki, Funningsfjørður and Funningur. Sámal was a jewel of a guide, readily answering the endless questions our group was showering on him.

Funningur, Eysturoy

More of Funningur

The Faroese "traffic police"!

It was around lunchtime when we reached Gjógv, a village in the north-east of Eysturoy. Literally translated as the “East island”, Eysturoy is the second largest of the Faroe Islands both in size and population (11 thousand people). “Gjógv” is the Faroese for “gorge”, and the place was in fact named after a 200m long sea-filled gorge, which creates a natural harbour there. Often referred to as the "prettiest village on the Faroes", Gjógv was wonderfully peaceful and calm. Local children were playing in chilly streams carrying mountain water to the sea. An old sailor was grilling freshly caught fish on the rocks. In front of me, two ladies were painting ocean views in watercolour. I took a picture of one of them, and she smiled. "I'm not from here" she said in English. "I'm from the capital". Was she from Tórshavn? The lady smiled again. She was from Copenhagen.

Gjógv, Eysturoy

A perfect Gjógv household

A Danish lady painting in Gjógv

Panoramic Gjógv

Our drive continued to the western part of Eysturoy. Past the Faroes’ highest peak (Slættaratindur, 882m) and the archipelago’s northernmost football stadium, the road led on to the Eiði village and further down to Brúgvin um Streymin, the bridge connecting Eysturoy and Streymoy. Numerous motor boats were making their way south, the wakes spreading rhythmically in the sun. "They are sailing to the Ovastevna festival on the island of Nólsoy", Sámal said. "But if I saw this many boats all heading the same direction on any other day, I'd think they had spotted pilot whales somewhere".

After about one hour's drive, we finally reached Vestmanna, a pleasant Streymoy village with the population of over 1,000. The Vestmanna bird cliffs along the north-western part of Streymoy is what makes the village so popular with the visitors. Many tour operators on the Faroe Islands time their own tours with boats departing to Vestmanna bird cliffs. Indeed, the place looked almost as busy as Tórshavn – and definitely livelier than Klaksvík.

As it happens on the Faroe Islands, the weather had the last word in shaping our plans. The famous Vestmanna bird cliffs were so thickly embraced in white fog that we had no choice but to turn away and head towards the eastern side of the island of Vágar instead. The skies overhead were criss-crossed by numerous white dots – the famous birds so many enthusiasts come to watch on the Faroes. High-rising grottos were looming majestically in front of us. Had it not been so cold and misty, the crystal blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean could easily have belonged in the Mediterranean.

Panoramic Vestmanna

The grass is always greener...on the Faroes

Tired after a day's adventure, most of us were struggling to stay awake on the drive back to Tórshavn. Sámal did everything to bring us back to life. We stopped in a village called Kvívík and were forced out of the car – to encounter a pleasant surprise of a mixed Danish/Faroese choir. Out in the sun stood the singers, pointing hands to the skies and singing away in unison, to nobody in particular. Truly a scene never to forget!

They sang out loud

We then passed the Norðradalur village and its magnificent views over the smaller islands of Koltur and Hestur, back into Tórshavn. The capital was a most beautiful sight – covered in rays of splendid sunshine splashing through the clouds and reflecting in the harbour. I wished the next day, too, would be as nice. But then again, one can never know on the Faroes.

View from Norðradalur over Koltur and Hestur

Panoramic Tórshavn

The lighthouse at Skansin, Tórshavn

Tórshavn harbour

Day 4: Exploring Sandoy and Nólsoy

Sunday brought with it the fresh supply of white mist, but our group (miraculously unchanged from Saturday) had already learnt to be philosophical about the Faroese weather. From the tiny Gamlarætt harbour, we took a ferry towards Skopun on the Sandoy island south of Streymoy.

In Skopun, we were introduced to the world's largest post box, about a hundred times the normal size. Unfortunately, it did not look like there were any letters inside waiting to be delivered – in a place as small as Skopun, I doubt if even a regular-sized post box would ever be full.

We stopped in Sandur, the largest population centre on Sandoy with 600 inhabitants – and were unexpectedly greeted by the Chairman of the Board of Directors of SEV, the Faroes' main utility company. It was Sámal's surprise. Having heard I was involved in the electricity sector, he thought it would be a good idea for me to meet some relevant locals! It must have been the first chairman of a national utility company I had ever met. And will meet in a (possibly) long time to come.

Near Sandur, Sandoy

Having previously been educated as a doctor and held the positions of the Mayor of Sandur and the Minister of Social Affairs of the Faroe Islands, Páll á Reynatúgvu turned out to be a multi-talented individual. As if that was not enough, he had also played for the Faroes in international football matches. There may not be that many people in the islands, but active individuals they certainly are!

From Sandur, we drove on to the villages of Skálavík, Húsavík and Dalur. Like elsewhere on the Faroe Islands, each settlement had a coastal location. Before the roads and tunnels were built, the villages – and indeed the islands – were only connected by boats. Wonderful sunshine had by then made its way through the clouds. Its reflection in the long stretch of Húsavík’s pristine sandy beach was absolutely timeless.

Dalur, Sandoy

Drying fish in Húsavík, Sandoy

The beach in Húsavík, Sandoy

"Welcome to the mainland!" were Sámal's words as our little ferry reached Streymoy. As small as the Faroe Islands are, its largest island is indeed “the mainland” when compared to smaller surrounding ones.

I spent my last few hours on the Faroes on the island of Nólsoy, a 20-minute ferry ride from Tórshavn. The Ovastevna festival was over, and only the lonely canopy was playing traditional Faroese music to the few remaining locals in Nólsoy's namesake settlement. The familiar white mist was setting in. I walked through the village and the surrounding hills. In the low visibility of the mist, the feeling was most surreal. People, houses, rocks, birds and the ocean – all emerged suddenly out of nowhere, like stage decorations.

Nólsoy in misty twilight. As cheerful as it gets!

It was time to return to the real world of London (view the full Flickr photo set for the Faroe Islands). Or perhaps it was the real world that I was leaving behind? Could anything be more real than the sound of the bird's wings up in the misty skies? Than the narrow fjords reflecting grass-covered hilltops and windswept cliffs of the surrounding islands? Than thousands of sheep grazing in perfectly green pastures freshly sprinkled with Atlantic rain? As the promo video for the Faroe Islands goes, “They have not moved much in the past millions of years... and are still standing out there, waiting to enchant you”.

And I was enchanted. God knows I was.
~~~~
So enchanted I was by my visit that I returned to the Faroe Islands a year later. Read my second blog story about the Faroes, The Faroe Islands: Second time around.

View my photos from the Faroe Islands: the first visit to in August 2010 and the Ólavsøka trip in July 2011.

VisitFaroeIslands.com.

Whaling on the Faroe Islands

Before reporting on my recent trip to the Faroe Islands, I could not help commenting on the infamous “dolphin slaughter” frequently associated with the archipelago. Some of you may have seen mass petitions on the internet, sporting blood-curdling images of hunted sea mammals and urging the Faroese to “end the slaughter of innocent whales and dolphins”. There are many versions of the story; the most extreme one I have seen portrayed the practice as “manhood ordeal”, which young Faroese men undergo to prove their masculinity. Neither accurate nor objective, petitions like this nevertheless reach substantial support due to the graphic images of killed animals.

Sea mammal hunting on the Faroe Islands is a controversial topic, but do please allow me to put a few things straight. Firstly, dolphins as such are not hunted on the Faroe Islands. The animals targeted are pilot whales, which are not listed anywhere as endangered species. They are in fact the most common and most widely distributed sea mammals. The population of pilot whales (both long- and short-finned) exceeds one million. For the reference, not more than 1,000 species are hunted on the Faroes each year.

Secondly, I disagree with environmental activist groups that chase-hunting pods of whales (driving them into the shore, where they can be slain) is less inhumane than, say, slaughtering cattle in mass farms. The whales are (at least) claimed to be slaughtered “humanely”, i.e., with a single cut over the spine. There is unfortunately a lot of blood there – images of crimson-coloured ocean full of dead whales’ carcasses are a legion on the Internet.

Finally, the consumption of whale meat is currently on the decrease, owing to recently discovered excessive content of mercury and other toxic metals in whale meat and blubber. When consumed in small doses over long periods of time, whale meat can lead to neurological problems in children and increased incidence of Parkinson’s disease in adults. Pregnant women are especially vulnerable, and a number of expecting mothers on the Faroes are already known for withdrawing whale meat from their diet. As time goes by, whaling on the Faroes is likely to decrease further.

While on the Faroes, I did not have a chance to watch a traditional whale hunt (“grindadráp”, as it is called in Faroese). Perhaps I would have written all of the above differently if I had.

Time zone hopping. GMT+3: Tbilisi

(Continued from "GMT+2: Istanbul")

After a 2-hour flight, I was finally reaching Tbilisi. Passport control officers and taxi drivers alike greeted our large delegation in English – and switched to Russian at the first look at yours truly. Is my Russian origin written on my face? Some would call me lucky, I guess.

The drive from the airport to Marriott Hotel took around half an hour. The area around Tbilisi airport reminded me of home – Riga – with its tall residential structures typically associated with Soviet architecture. One building with glass walls and a funky flowing shape stood out in that grey background. It turned out to be the police department, with glass walls meant to symbolise – you guessed it – transparency. Don't ask.

The hotel receptionist addressed me in rather broken Russian. Georgians of my generation and older still remember the brilliant Russian they were taught in the olden days – the youngsters though tend to focus on English. Like everywhere else, I guess.

The time was approaching 7pm, and the minibuses were already waiting outside the hotel to take us to the restaurant for dinner. And what restaurant! Located in the historic part of Tbilisi near the Mtkvari River, Kopala specialises in traditional Georgian cuisine and offers glorious panoramic views over the city. The food – of truly unforgettable taste – was the first episode in the series of our 3-day long Georgian feast. Everything was simply presented and served in meze-size dishes. Flat lavash bread came with mixed tomato and cucumber salad, Georgian dumplings (khinkali), traditional sulguni cheese, mushrooms (soko kecze), mashed vegetable/walnut/spinach/beans pressed together (pxali nigvzit), lamb sausages wrapped in thin dough (qababi), bean stew in a pot (lobio qotanshi), Georgian sashlyk (mtsvadi), aubergines dashed with garlic (badrijani nivrit) and so on. Georgia was certainly not the country I would choose to lose weight!

With all my due respect to every item on the menu, there were two dishes I particularly appreciated. First, the khachapuri – the one and only khachapuri, a "Georgian pizza" as one of the locals popularly described. It is basically bread stuffed with cheese, with a resulting heavenly taste. After I loudly announced my utter agreement with the inclusion of khachapuri in the menu, a full (8-people-worth) serving appeared magically in front of me. I gathered I had to be careful expressing appreciation in Georgia! Pleasing the guests was taken very seriously there.

My second peak moment came with the appearance of the Tarhun drink. Those of you who have lived in the Soviet Union will remember the fizzy, sweet, bright green (children's) drink so popular back in the days – and so forgotten in certain corners of that long-since extinct country. It had been almost twenty years since I had my last Tarhun. It was my moment. I must have consumed at least a litre straight. Georgia was ranking high in my books within barely a few hours.

As the sun approached the horizon, the beauty of central Tbilisi gained intensity. The changing sunset colours, mixed with the haze of a day's heat, made a fantastic view.

Sunset Tbilisi

Sunset Tbilisi II

Sunset Tbilisi III

Most of the city's landmarks – the Metekhi Church, the Narikala Fortress and several bridges – were cleverly lit to stand out in the dark. I was not so sure about the TV tower, though. Sat atop the highest hill around Tbilisi, the tower looked rather modest during the day – but made quite a circus during the night. Lit in bright red, yellow, orange and blue (wait, it gets worse), it changed the pattern from blinking sparkles to white light rings spiralling upwards. The New Arbat in Moscow would have envied the amount of cheap neon involved! Much amused, we teased a French colleague that the comical structure was "better than the Eiffel Tower". To be fair, he didn't find it quite equally amusing.

Day 6: More Tbilisi

On Wednesday, the work meetings did not begin until 10am. My hands (or feet, rather) were itching to explore Tbilisi on my own. I got up at 6:30am and set off to the Eastern part of the city. Walking along the city's principal street – Rustaveli Avenue – I first reached the Freedom Square, crowned by a rather bright golden-plated statue of a saint on horseback (which later turned out to be St. George – the patron saint of Georgia). I continued towards the Old Town, hoping to reach the famous statue symbolic to Tbilisi – that of a woman holding a goblet of wine and a sword – the "Kartlis Deda", or “the Mother of Georgia”.

Freedom Square and St. George statue

The narrow streets were sprouting uphill, lined up by derelict-looking houses. Most looked like they were still inhabited. This striking poverty was most saddening. Life in Georgia could not be easy, and many people were surviving on very little indeed.

A house in the older part of Tbilisi

They don't come here often

Uphill towards the Mother of Georgia

After asking an Orthodox priest for directions (and getting my Georgian-flavoured answer in Russian), I finally reached the Kartlis Deda. The views over the morning Tbilisi were most spectacular.

The Mother of Georgia

Panoramic Tbilisi in the morning

The road led left towards Narikala Fortress, which I unfortunately did not have time to see. I walked downhill, jumping over endless unpaved segments of the streets and coming across more decaying structures. Atop one of them sat an advert in Georgian – otherwise unremarkable, it featured women in Latvian national costumes. It did not take me long to figure out that “რიგა” meant "Riga", and that the posters were promoting airbaltic – Latvian national airline. Indeed, airbaltic has neatly positioned itself as a decent carrier from Western Europe to the CIS countries. Who else would connect, say, London with the likes of Dushanbe or Tashkent? Hats off.

Narikala Fortress

Peace Bridge over the Mtkvari River

It was time for me to run to that day's meetings. Thankfully, they were anything but painful, and the working part of the day was over by 6pm. I even got to look around the Ministry of Energy of Georgia and meet the First Deputy Minister! I truly love my job.

At 6pm, I was desperately brushing my teeth and otherwise getting ready to go. Where? To see Dace, of course! My former course mate, she had gone a little wild in the past few years. First, she spent some time volunteering in the Balkans and working in places like Prishtina and Skopje. Then, just when I was about to accept the fact that I wasn't the only Balkans-obsessed-Latvian in the world, Dace surprised the entire audience by – you guessed it – moving to Georgia. A few months later, she had changed her surname to a Georgian -shvili one. And a couple of months later still, she gave birth to a lovely little Georgian-Latvian boy. And that little treasure I was going to meet – at last.

Little blue-eyed Nugo turned out to be a most precious boy indeed. Dace had barely changed since we last met four years before. Her husband looked serious about having a family (why don't I ever meet such guys in London?), and her mother-in-law was Heaven-sent. Where else in the world would a grandmother help young parents as much as in Georgia? Perhaps I'll find out one day!

Unfortunately, I had to rush back to join my colleagues for yet another feast – this time, in restaurant Kolkheti some 10km outside Tbilisi. The food was again top quality. The only problem was that most of us had massively overeaten at both the previous night's dinner and the lavish lunch. Eating in Georgia was not a light affair.

Day 7: Road trip to Paravani

On Thursday, I was rudely awakened by an exploding alarm. This time though, I had nothing in the sort of a walk in town before client meetings. Thursday was to be dedicated in full to site visits in the south-western part of the country near the Turkish border, mostly along the Paravani River.

We set off on our minibus. The highway led through Gori (the home town of Josef Stalin) and Borjomi (the town famous for its mineral springs and namesake bottled water brand) to a smaller road towards Akhaltskikhe. The surrounding countryside was modest, quiet and increasingly more mountainous the further we drove.

The concept of "the middle of nowhere" never seemed so clear

We finally reached the first major stopover of the journey – the Khertvisi fortress in the Meskheti region. The fortress sits at the confluence of the Mtkvari and Paravani rivers. Built in the 2nd century BC, it is one of the oldest fortresses in Georgia. And possibly the most renovated one.

Khertvisi Fortress

Our group then continued visiting the admittedly non-touristy sites along the Paravani River. Georgia is a country well blessed with abundant rivers and the resulting hydroelectric power potential. One day, a new hydro power plant will stand right there, on the Paravani.

A local in Khertvisi

Paravani River valley

My foxy-looking new friend near Khertvisi

Paravani River

A bird view

After the work part of the trip was over, the majority of us voted in favour of combining the utility with pleasure and visiting the Cave City of Vardzia. Vardzia is a cave monastery dug into the side of the Erusheli mountain on the left bank of the Mtkvari River. It was founded by Queen Tamar as far back as 1185 and is maintained these days by only a handful of monks. Definitely not a site to miss.

We travelled towards Vardzia in almost unbearable, dusty heat. The road was in the process of becoming a major tourist route – but presently unconstrained by any kind of pavement. Up and down we jumped inside our minibus like potatoes, reacting promptly to every curve of the dirt road.

Vardzia was worth (almost) every bump though. It opened up to us, in all glory, glancing curiously with its many black openings, the ancient caves. As we came closer, we noticed some fellow enthusiasts camping by the river. Not sure how they were surviving in THAT heat and without decent food supplies around (a single stall nearby was selling a modest selection of ice-cream, beer and soda drinks).

Vardzia Cave City I

Vardzia Cave City II

Vardzia Cave City III

Vardzia Cave City IV

A kind of a "city" built in rock, Vardzia reminded me slightly of Petra in Jordan – and was referred to as a "poor man's Cappadocia" by a tourist nearby. The cave city's major drawback was its visitor unfriendliness. I slipped in one of Vardzia's endless, steep tunnels and hit my arm on the wall. Watching the upper part of my elbow turning blue, I wished that the Georgian authorities would install some handrails and warning signs on the site, or something. For one of the country's major historic heritage sites, Vardzia looked somewhat neglected.

By the end of our exploration, we were happy bunnies, though tired and visibly starved. For about an hour's drive to the Romantica restaurant in Akhaltskikhe, our conversations mostly focused on food.

It was shortly before dark that we hit the road back to Tbilisi (view the full photo set for the road trip to Paravani). I was exhausted from a day's worth of wandering around historic monuments and sites of future hydroelectric power plants alike. My last memories from that night were mostly of endless road signs emerging from and disappearing into the dark – “Yerevan”, “Baku” and “Tehran”, all blending together.

Around 11pm, we finally reached the hotel. Unbelievably, I still found the strength to have a drink with the colleagues (hot chocolate for me, emphatically) before going to sleep. But when I hit the bed, I did it for real.

Day 8: Last day in Georgia

On my last day in Georgia, I did not even have two hours in the morning for a final look around the city. This time, I headed west along the Rustaveli Avenue towards the Rose Revolution Square. Cars were zooming by noisily; local boys were diving into the fountain on the square, to vocal approval of elderly observers; beggars were silently stretching out hands. Tbilisi was waking up to a new day.

I walked past the Rustaveli Monument and the McDonalds at the corner, towards that famous TV Tower on top of the Bombora hill. I had no time to climb the hill, and wandered around the steep streets around it instead. Locals were selling fruit and vegetables out of old, crumbling houses. Despite the obvious poverty, the people did not seem hostile or depressed; my awkward foreigner’s behaviour and inability to halt the photographic activity at any time attracted quite a few smiles.

A morning scene in Tbilisi

Street merchandise

Just off Rustaveli Avenue

My final stop that morning was the small souvenir bazaar stretched along the steps of a Stalin-style building opposite the McDonalds. One ceramic stall was presided over by a middle-aged woman who addressed me in Russian. We started talking; my new acquaintance had a degree in Economics from Moscow, spoke four languages but could only resort to selling souvenirs in the streets. She sounded deeply disappointed with life, loudly complaining that her husband would resist leaving Georgia. I was told there were hardly any jobs left, especially for older generations.

It was time to leave; the souvenir lady hugged me and gave me a kiss on the cheek (view my full photo set from Tbilisi). In a few hours, I was once again boarding a plane – this time to take me three time zones back, all the way to London. I was feeling like I had been away for months. Was I even in Italy in the beginning? Did our Istanbul visit really happen as recently as a couple of days ago? And did I finally manage to set my foot in the Caucasus? It had been one active week. I am extremely grateful for the unexpected (and at that even more amazing) travel experiences I had been given! Stay tuned for the recap of the next one.

Goodbye, Georgia!