the life of anjči

2012: Just another year

2012-01-26T18:08:00.011Z

I started last year by planning a range of activities I dubbed "crazy" (Bracing for a crazy 2011). Those were my resolutions for the year to come: to dare myself to a few things I'd never tried before. 2011 was going to be a different year.

And it was. But only this much: for, by and large, I ended up repeating many things I had done already. Travel (Holiday addict) and foreign languages (A foreign language freak) are admittedly not new to this blog. 2011 might have featured a whole lot of new destinations (some more extreme than others) as well as foreign languages (please point me to someone else simultaneously perfecting Greek, Norwegian and Serbian – I'd like to have a wee word) – but different? That 2011 surely wasn't. My everyday life continued in a usual fashion: same job, same flat, same cycling trips to Greenwich – and, let's face it, same old romantic disappointments (Three less-than-perfect men).

In short, 2011 might have been “eventful” (2011 Newsletter) but brought with it nothing ground-breaking. And I won't lie: I have nothing revolutionary planned for the year to come, either. The good old travel-and-random-foreign-languages formula has served me well in the past and is worth sticking to in 2012, too.

HERE GOES THE PLAN

Here are just a few trips I have already planned for this year. Provided I soon get my act together and catch up on those long overdue posts from last year – on Canada, Oman and India, among others – all of the following destinations will be covered here in 2012.

(1) A long weekend in Bombay (March). That's right. I am going back to India! When I boarded my return flight in Delhi a few weeks ago, I already knew I was destined to return to India soon. And it is just too lucky that (a) the Indian High Commission in London gave me a multiple entry visa valid until May; (b) Avi, one of the nicest people I have ever met and a dear friend resides happily in Bombay and has been inviting me over for years; and (c) I was able to shuffle days around to free up some room for a repeat visit to India. Bingo!

As a side note, I wasn't actually able to free up that much. Which leaves only four full days for Bombay. I solemnly promise to use them to the full – you all know what that means.

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(2) Crossing the Green Line in Nicosia (March). Most of you will remember just how fascinated I am by controversial areas, for which pockets of land under territorial disputes most certainly qualify. Take Cyprus. A significant portion of the island is currently occupied by Turkish forces and proclaims itself an independent state. The partition zone between northern and southern Cyprus is controlled by the UN and commonly known as the Green Line. Crossings used to be heavily restricted; not now, however. An EU citizen like yours truly can cross from the Greek into the Turkish side and back, including in the city of Nicosia, the world's only capital to be divided by a border.

So there goes – I am flying to Cyprus for literally 36 hours to cross the notorious Green Line, take a wee peek at Nicosia's two ethnic groups, speak to locals (now THAT is where my semi-fluent Greek comes in handy for once) and add another magnet to my fridge. As you can see, all good reasons to fly.

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(3) A journey through Cuba (May). After flirting with the idea of visiting Cuba for years, I am finally being serious. One of the world’s few remaining communist leaders is soon approaching an age most respectable, and an egoist in me is rushing to visit the self-proclaimed territorio libre en America before its ideological guru saddens millions of hearts with his inevitable departure. I already missed a similar chance with North Korea and don't have any more time to waste.

What exactly will I be doing in Cuba? It remains to be decided. Let's just say that there will be lots of retro overnight trains involved. And that scores of vintage Havana cars will be mercilessly photographed. And that colourful local residents will likely see the same fate. And that a certain amateur photographer will have a time of her life. See you in Cuba, folks!

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(4) Take three at Greek island of Chios (June). Chios is a very special island. This is where my ex-boyfriend did his army service and where we were planning to explore together during my nonchalant residence in Greece a few years back. I got a job in London though, so our plans (and plane tickets) were sorrowfully cancelled. My later attempt to reschedule a visit (this time sans beau) bundled Izmir into the route and unluckily so: this time it was British Airways that ruined the sun feast, cancelling its flights out of Turkey's third largest city. And, while I found a decent weekend replacement – the Arctic archipelago of Svalbard, logically – Chios remained unvisited.

Well, the good news is that this summer I am giving Chios one last chance. Optional nearby destinations include the fellow Greek island of Samos and Çeşme in Turkey. All to be seen during the first week in June – so gracefully shortened for us courtesy of Her Majesty, whose Diamond Jubilee is celebrated this year with an extra UK bank holiday. Monarchy never had me more supportive.

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(5) Exploring the Greenland shores (July). My passion for the North is, well, legendary. Only in the last year did I visit each of Northern Norway, Svalbard, the Faroe Islands and Western Canada. And, while layers of Goretex are certainly wearing off their charm, I feel that a recent holiday in balmy Oman – and the upcoming ones in Cuba and Greece – will refuel my longing for the North in no time.

Enter Greenland – the world's largest island. Formally ruled by Denmark but enjoying substantial autonomy in all but foreign and financial affairs. Sandwiched between the Arctic and the Atlantic oceans. The least densely populated country (or dependency) in the world. With four weekly flights to Copenhagen and even fewer to Iceland, Greenland is decidedly not the easiest place to reach. Which, combined with its northerly location, makes up for a perfect destination. I plan to stick to the paved route (as paved as the wild Greenland can get, anyway) and explore the island's western side along the Arctic Circle. It might just end up being too great for words; but I’ll try to leave a written record here regardless. Stay tuned.

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(6) Sailing the Geiranger fjord, Norway (August). Few would accuse me of not dedicating enough blog space to Norway. In fact, the oil-rich Scandinavian country could almost qualify for a regular column in this blog, so frequently does its author travel there. As a brief snapshot: in the past year alone, I watched the Northern Lights in Tromsø twice (Tromsø: Land of the Northern Lights), explored the Arctic shores of Svalbard (Svalbard, an eerie Arctic land), hiked up the Preikestolen Rock (Wuthering heights: Ascending Norway’s Preikestolen Rock) and completed a marathon northward trip from Trondheim to Kirkenes via the Lofoten islands (Northern Norway: The land of the midnight sun in Part I and Part II). I spent a month's worth of time in Norway in the last 12 months, folks. No joke.

And yet, despite this hyper activity, I seem to have missed what is often regarded to be the jewel in Norway's crown. What else than Geiranger fjord, the country’s only UNESCO World Heritage Site in the Nature category? Located in the vicinity of Norway's celebrated Art Nouveau capital, Ålesund, Geiranger fjord attracts countless visitors. And it looks like I will be finally joining their ranks! Check back next August when I will be boarding the Hurtigruten coastal steamer for a sea voyage on the Geiranger fjord, with visits to the cities of Ålesund and Molde. It will be well worth it, I promise.

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(7) Reliving mama's memories in Uzbekistan (October). It was about two years ago that I listed 20 countries (and remote dependent territories) I wanted to visit most. While that list deserves a separate blog post, the gradual elimination of Svalbard, Canada, Oman and India meant that a certain ex-Number 5 country has steadily progressed all the way to the top. Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is...

…Uzbekistan! Yes, currently ranked 1st in my travel bucket list, Uzbekistan is a natural candidate for an imminent visit. I haven’t booked any tickets yet – but, with my holiday allowance running out in September, the trip is likely to happen later in the autumn. What makes Uzbekistan personally interesting is it being the only country where my mother has been and I have not. Quite unbelievably, my mum doesn't care one bit for travel but LOVES looking through my pictures and has even started Google-translating this very blog. The photos I will be bringing back from Uzbekistan will no doubt make mum relive the distant memories from her only ever long-haul trip. Wait for this, mum – I'm on a mission here.

DECISIONS, DECISIONS

And beyond October? I have no idea what I will be doing yet, but it is almost a tradition that I forfeit travel during the last two months of the year and hang around London instead. Before the winter break, of course; come Christmas, and all I will want will be to board some long-haul flight in snow-bewildered Heathrow, stick in those flimsy inflight entertainment headphones and zoom off swiftly into the night. So long, world.

I haven't yet decided where I will be holidaying next winter, either. I might stick to the master plan and travel halfway round the world to the distant shores of New Zealand. Or head the opposite direction to this steaming place called Argentina. Or even give in to my new passion – India – and direct my steps to its southern state of Kerala. Time will only tell. I rarely commit to New Year plans before March, anyway.

One thing for sure though: 2012 will not be special in any ground-breaking kind of way. And you know what? It may not be such a bad thing.

2011 Newsletter

2011-12-22T15:54:00.006Z

2011 is almost through. It seems I wrote my last year’s newsletter decades ago. So much has happened during 2011 that I simply don’t know where to begin.

Continuing on the tradition to tag every departing year with an appropriate adjective, I admittedly struggled this time. 2009 went off as the “quickest”, but, with approximately 1,569.5 activities to choose from, 2011 decidedly didn’t seem quick. It could easily qualify as “exciting” – but I had hastily assigned that very title to 2010 already. My thinking process continued until, this morning, I opened our corporate intranet page – the page carrying a thick “An eventful year” on top. The half-dormant bell at the back of my head rang out in joy. Eventful. Yes, 2011 has certainly been EVENTFUL.

Speaking of events, my friends positively impressed me with the number of weddings held and children born this year. Congratulations to all! Some have taken it to the next level with the second offspring while one or two unfortunately went through a divorce. I guess I am officially of that critical age (28, to be precise) when most start taking it easy with the travelling and focus on the family matters instead.

In which case I have most certainly disappointed them that created the rule. Even versus its predecessors, 2011 in the life of anjči has been marked by some unprecedented globetrotting. It seems like I barely set my foot in London, and rightly so: at the close of the year next week, I will have spent 128 days outside the UK in altogether 25 different countries – of which seven were first-timers. Now it’s just lucky I am not applying for British citizenship yet. Or indeed, for any other.

I rush to admit a certain degree of cheating on the country count: for the purposes of this post, Svalbard, Faroe Islands and Scotland are each counted separately and not within their respective kingdoms. This has partly to do with the remote setting of the former two (thus making them destinations in their own right), partly with the likely eventual independence of the latter (I just hope they get to keep the oil) – and ultimately with the author’s attempt to beautify the statistics. It is MY blog, after all.

Enough of this banter though – let’s proceed straight to the chronological recap of this year’s events.

2011 IN REVIEW: WINTER

My New Year “celebrations” a year ago would not win any prizes for creativity: the changing of the clock found me sound asleep on a moving Vietnamese train, crouched on the top berth of a 6-berth compartment where every other berth had at least two locals sharing. After 19 hours aboard, I was understandably thrilled to arrive in Danang at 4am on New Year’s Day. The check-in at my hotel and the shower that ensued – after 48 hours of bath-free tripping – closely compete to make my top 2011 highlight.

The first nine days of 2011 saw me continue that epic rail journey through Vietnam. Touristy Hoi An, windy Nha Trang, bustling Saigon and stretching Mekong delta all rushed in front of my eyes, leaving a distant memory of a myriad smells, faces and images. Vietnam was exactly what I had expected and more: the further south my journey took me, the more pronounced the contrast between the country’s communist and western influences became. Possibly thanks to the socialist mindset of the locals, I left Vietnam thinking I had never seen happier people anywhere else – putting to shame my own, sometimes excessive, desires in life.

The return to London brought some good and bad news. The good news was that I was given the first promotion of my career, discovering that, bar interns, I was no longer the most junior member of the team. The bad news – the complete failure of my beloved washing machine – seriously dampened my ardour though. I went on to use my friends’ laundry facilities for a full month before Her Majesty the Landlady finally emerged from the opposite end of the world and gracefully agreed to sort me out with a replacement. Apologies to all friends and neighbours for all the inconvenience caused in the meantime.

February came, bringing with it the fulfilment of a long-term dream: seeing the Northern Lights, for which I travelled all the way to Tromsø, Norway’s largest city inside the Arctic Circle. The unearthly sight will stay in my memory forever. Most fortunately, Tromsø also happened to host the Nordic Championship in reindeer ski-joring as part of the Saami National Day festivities that same weekend. It is not every day that one gets to watch numerous reindeer rush along Tromsø’s main street; my first visit to the Norwegian Arctic was overall a huge success.

Quick visits to Copenhagen, Madrid, Riga and Dubrovnik followed before spring – the highlight decidedly being wading 500 meters inside a half-flooded cave near Dubrovnik. I will not go into long explanations how the activity was related to my banking work; you’ll just have to take for granted that it was!

2011 IN REVIEW: SPRING

Come late March, and the first wedding of the year was on. My friends Fernanda and Federico were tying the knot in Rio de Janeiro, and most guests had planned their holidays in Brazil around the event. Not yours truly, though: since I couldn’t leave work for too long, the choice was really between (a) missing the wedding altogether or (b) coming to Rio – a 13-hour flight from London – for a long weekend.

Granted that most of you know me well, I will go no further. Let’s just say that the three days I spent in Rio turned out perfect – the wedding venue overlooked Rio’s much celebrated sights and the city itself deserved the most enthusiastic of accolades. Just to contrast it all, I managed a tour of Favela la Rocinha in the company of one of its residents. It was as fascinating as it was educational, and I can’t wait to discover more of Brazil.

After a weekend in Venice – my first visit to Italy’s much trumpeted city – I sat down to rethink Easter plans. In light of the political developments in the Middle East, the 10-day trip to Syria I had sketched did not exactly seem like a good idea anymore. That said, the alternative pastime on offer – sharing London with throngs of royal wedding tourists, to be precise – looked infinitely scarier in comparison. After some hesitation, I took off for Syria – having said all due goodbyes, cancelled all hotel reservations and prepared to flee the country in a flash should the riots escalate.

Amid the tense political situation, my visit to Syria wasn’t entirely worry-free. Increasingly terrifying news reports eventually led me to exit to Lebanon. While certainly not uninteresting, Lebanon reminded me of several places already visited – and Beirut’s reputation as a party capital did little to compensate for its mad traffic and widespread construction works. I can’t say I will be rushing back.

Back in London to my friends’ well rehearsed “Oh, you’re alive?” I was already longing to return to Syria. Be it for the locals’ hospitality, the country’s rich historic heritage, or the fascinating combination of its desert crossed by the stream of life – the mighty Euphrates River – Syria rooted deeply into my heart. I wish it every bit of strength in its struggle and hope to return to a different Syria one day. Inshallah.

Meanwhile, Japan was shaken by the nuclear crisis at Fukushima. Reminded of (admittedly very different) events at Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant 25 years ago, I was quick to blow all my hard-earned business air miles on a weekend trip to Kyiv and on to the Chernobyl disaster site. Perhaps the most moving experience was seeing children’s books scattered on the floor of a local kindergarten in Pripyat – the very books that accompanied me through my own childhood. I was three when the Chernobyl disaster happened; the town exactly preserved the mid-80's Soviet feel, as if the time there had not moved at all since.

After celebrating Azerbaijan’s Eurovision victory and Finland's reclaimed Ice Hockey World Champion's title (Santa heard me!), I embarked on my last springtime trip. Ironically, it had little to do with spring proper and took me to the Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard – an eerily remote destination set about halfway between the northern tip of Norway and the North Pole. Despite its extreme location, the main town Longyearbyen had a distinct Norwegian feel to it, while more Soviet memorabilia (excellently preserved Lenin busts included) awaited me in the Russian settlements of Barentsburg and Pyramiden. Other activities covered dog-sledding with a gun (in case a polar bear is around) and sailing through icebergs (past a walrus with a seal in its mouth). Visiting Svalbard was an unforgettable experience which I hope to repeat in the near future.

2011 IN REVIEW: SUMMER

It was on the way to Svalbard that I lost my luggage for the first time this year, arriving in subzero temperatures in merely a t-shirt. The first day of June brought a new embarrassment: I was heading to Serbia on business when my suitcase – including carefully ironed business attire – went missing somewhere en-route, forcing me to play it casual. At a meeting with the top management of the country’s second largest enterprise. Gulp.

The luggage mishap continued as I went on to visit Macedonia’s lakeside city of Ohrid. This time a regional airline simply couldn’t fit all luggage onto an ancient Dash plane (“autobus sa krilima”, as one passenger insightfully noted) and abandoned half of it in Belgrade. On my third luggage claim form in less than 10 days, I was dangerously close to missing the humorous side of things – when my fate finally reversed. At Ohrid airport, I made friends with a Macedonian family that practically adopted me for the weekend. The taste of their home-made ajvar is something I will be taking to grave with me! Oh, and the luggage was delivered the next day, too.

Following a short visit to Stockholm – worth every minute of flight time for one perfect photo I took there – my big holiday to Northern Norway came knocking on the door. Starting in the royal-inspired city of Trondheim, I crossed the Arctic Circle towards the wonderfully craggy Lofoten islands, later moving on to industrial Narvik, summery Tromsø, reindeer frequented Hammerfest and Nordkapp, Europe’s alleged “northernmost” point. While the latter soon proved a fake – set on an island, Nordkapp cannot be considered part of the continent to begin with – the views from the 300-meter cliff over the midnight sun lit ocean were indisputably spectacular.

July went on. Those who remember my last year’s trip to the Faroe Islands will know how much I looked forward to returning there for the Ólavsøka festival commemorating the archipelago’s patron saint. I was impressed by the traditional midnight singing and chain dancing on the streets of Tórshavn – even more so given how perfectly inebriated most of the locals were at that stage. The after-party was still going strong when I visited the Faroes’ southernmost and westernmost islands – Suðuroy and Mykines, respectively. Surrounded by more stunning Atlantic views, I vouched to return to the Faroes for the third time one day – and encourage you all to visit, too!

August was marked by two major reunions, as I travelled to Finland and Germany – two places where I used to live and still know many people. Rainer and Heidrun’s wedding in Frankfurt was wonderfully moving. Many thanks to everyone who found time to see me there as well as in Helsinki and Berlin – I am so lucky to know you all.

2011 IN REVIEW: AUTUMN

Starting September with another visit to Norway – with the total of six trips and almost a month’s worth of stay, 2011 was a Year of Norway, no less – I hiked to the top of Preikestolen, Norway’s best known free standing rock. From the heights of over 600 meters, the views over the surrounding Lysefjord would silence even the most sceptical. As well as dizzy out the most balanced characters – with some people swaying casually on the edge of the cliff, I could barely manage a single glance down in a prostrate position.

Following an unusually warm September – my other trips including Istanbul, Ankara, Copenhagen and Riga – I figured autumn was not rushing to Europe anytime soon and embarked on a mission to Western Canada. A reunion with old friends in sleepy Vancouver gave way to a memorable train journey through several of Canada’s national parks on to Jasper, and later to Banff. I found Canadian nature quite breathtakingly beautiful: the snow-covered peaks of the Rocky Mountains, the eerily cold Columbia Icefield, the multicolour forests reflected in turquoise blue waters of the glacial lakes – all came together to form a truly unforgettable sight. I look forward to visiting other parts of the wild, fascinating country that is Canada.

The rest of the month offered short trips to Oslo – my first visit to the Norwegian capital following the attacks of the 22nd July – as well as Edinburgh, where, despite a couple of cold showers and lack of central heating at my friends’ place, I generally had a blast in their company. Many thanks to everyone else who found time to meet me.

Come mid-November, and I needed another break from the mounting amount of work. My final pre-Christmas adventure of the year was a short but highly effective getaway to Oman. The frequently overlooked country grew on me instantly, not least for its fascinating history, well maintained traditions, excellent infrastructure and warm-hearted locals. Five days in Oman felt much longer than that – such refreshing contrast to my everyday surroundings the little Gulf state made.

A TRULY EVENTFUL YEAR

To cut a long story short, 2011 has been a great year in every aspect. With the promotion et al, work has been beautifully rewarding. Some of my photos have gone on sale with Getty Images and will hopefully start contributing towards my travel fares – which are decidedly not unsubstantial. This blog is seeing more popularity than ever before, having been referenced profusely by travel industry professionals and regular readers alike. My language skills are improving – slowly but surely – as I continue to attend Norwegian and Greek lessons, as well as practise Serbian with friends. The social side of life could not be better – many close friends have now moved or are intending to move to London, and the shrinking global scale means that the rest are easily reachable, too.

Not to mention that travel isn’t quite over for 2011: India will become my last adventure of the year when I arrive there this very Sunday. And, as far as the rest of 2012 is concerned, I am unlikely to get bored, either: visits to Cuba, Greek island of Chios, Geiranger fjord of Norway, Greenland, Uzbekistan and possibly New Zealand are all on the list. The life of anjči continues to be wonderful! Stay tuned for the recap of those and other trips in this blog and on Flickr.

I would like to thank every one of you for continued support, care and company this year – all the essential ingredients of your wonderful friendship. I am incredibly lucky to have seen so many of you in 2011. I hope that we can continue to meet regularly – or at least keep in touch – in the New Year.

Thanks a bunch. Have a good one!

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View my 2011: Year in Pictures post and Best of 2011 album on Flickr

2011: Year in Pictures

2011-12-19T13:24:00.036Z

2011 is soon coming to an end. Without exaggeration, it has been the most active travel year in the life of anjči yet. From Vietnam to Brazil, from Syria to Canada, from Svalbard to Faroe Islands, from Macedonia to Oman – it's been one exciting roller-coaster ride; one incredible year.

It has of course not all been about travel. I will always remember 2011 as the year of my first ever promotion at work; the year Getty Images noticed some of my humble Flickr photos; the year this blog got its more or less regular audience. Not even to mention the year in which I saw more of you, my much missed friends, than ever before in a single year – even if this meant travelling a little more than usual.

Ahead of my 2011 newsletter (coming out later this week), I hope you will enjoy this quick photographic journey through my travel highlights of 2011.

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1 January: I welcome 2011 on an old school Vietnamese train, squeezed into a top berth in a compartment carrying about twice its envisaged passenger capacity. The first day of 2011 doesn't feel particularly festive at all – Vietnam celebrates its New Year in February, as dictated by the Lunar calendar (Hoi An, Vietnam)

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6 January: The last stop of my Vietnamese adventure, Saigon (aka Ho Chi Minh City) overwhelms me with insane traffic, communist memorabilia and the hugely contrasting Western influence (Saigon, Vietnam)

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6 February: A long-term dream of mine is fulfilled as I catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights in Arctic Norway. Rather conveniently, the Saami celebrate their national day with some reindeer races in town that same weekend (Tromsø, Norway)

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19 March: Beating all my travel records, I fly to Rio de Janeiro for a long weekend to celebrate Fernanda and Federico's wedding. The occasion is a huge success, and I even squeeze in a favela visit and a quick tour of Rio's iconic sights (Rio de Janeiro, Brazil)

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9 April: Venice proves to be a perfect city to get lost in. I spend two days roaming its narrow streets on a mission to avoid the crowds – only really succeeding before 7am (Venice, Italy)

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22 April: Disregarding everyone's words of warning, I fly to Syria to find the country steadily progressing towards a revolution. While the Western news reports make the visit somewhat nerve-wrecking, I am infinitely grateful to make it to Syria before the political situation makes it a non-tourist destination (Damascus / Aleppo / Deir ez-Zor, Syria)

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29 April: Finally succumbing to my friends' concerns, I exit Syria for the arguably safer Lebanon. Perhaps it is because I expect so much from Beirut that the built-up, traffic overridden city actually disappoints (Beirut, Lebanon)

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7 May: On my third visit to Istanbul, I discover how little the city has changed in one year. Same fishermen are still fetching their daily catch from same bridges, and same tourists are still invading in great numbers – only to be further outnumbered by the locals (Istanbul, Turkey)

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21 May: In a rather quirky pursuit, I use up my air miles to fly to Kiev for a weekend and head straight to the Chernobyl disaster site – where time seems to have stood still ever since 1986 (Chernobyl, Ukraine)

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26 May: After years of planning, I finally make it to the eerily remote Norwegian archipelago of Svalbard (78 degrees North). At the risk of having me freeze to death, my luggage follows a day later (Longyearbyen, Svalbard)

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3 June: Luggage drama continues as I lose my possessions for the third time in 10 days en-route Macedonia's celebrated city of Ohrid. A spontaneous friendship is made at the airport where a local family practically adopts me. Oh, and the bag is delivered the next day (Ohrid, Macedonia)

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18 June: My fate is reversed as torrential rain spares some clear skies in Stockholm. I capture my dream shot in the Gröna Lund tivoli – which later goes on to score a front image on my employer’s Christmas card (Stockholm, Sweden)

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2 July: The highlight trip of the year unfolds as I reach the Norwegian Lofoten islands. Five days of brilliant blue skies, ceaseless midnight sun, breath-taking natural beauty – all that way into the Arctic Circle, too – are still proving difficult to forget (Lofoten, Norway)

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10 July: The northernmost tip of Europe turns out to be a fake. Why hasn't anyone told me Nordkapp is located on an island and therefore cannot actually hold the title? I still love the views, though (Nordkapp, Norway)

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29 July: Everything around seems to have molded together into a swaying mass of singing folk. It is my second visit to the Faroe Islands, and I have timed it with the archipelago's national festival, the Ólavsøka. More splendid windswept views await, too (Faroe Islands)

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27 August: At Rainer and Heidrun’s wedding in Frankfurt, I am once again reminded that finding the right person may take a long time – but is well worth waiting for. Spending two days with my wonderful Frankfurt friends makes me wonder why it has taken me so long to return (Frankfurt, Germany)

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3 September: My tolerance to heights is put to test atop Preikestolen – Norway's most famous free standing rock. Some people are nonchalant enough to attempt balancing off the edge at the height of over 600 meters. I do no better than crawling over on my stomach (Preikestolen, Norway)

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8 September: Back in Istanbul on my arguably coolest business trip of the year, I admire the city's eclectic skyline from the hotel room. Life has never seemed better! (Istanbul, Turkey)

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2 October: The discovery of the northern hemisphere brings me to Western Canada. The Rocky Mountains take my breath away, and seeing the long-missed friends in Vancouver is certainly worth every mile flown (British Columbia / Alberta, Canada)

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15 October: It is my first visit to Oslo since the 22 July attacks. On an unusually warm autumn day, the sun shines over the city that will never be the same again (Oslo, Norway)

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11 November: Poppies flood the green lawns around Scott Monument in Edinburgh. The nation remembers (Edinburgh, Scotland)

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16 November: As the year-end rush at work simply gets too much, I leave it all behind for the mysterious charm of Oman. An overnight flight later, I am transferred to a culture so wonderfully new that five days seem like to last a month (Muscat / Nizwa / Sur, Oman)

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10 December: Have I really seen much of London this year? As the year draws to a close, I get up early to photograph the sun rising over the Thames. The view from Tower Bridge accompanies me on the way to work every morning, but I never really find time to stop (London, England)

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25 December: My last stop of the year is in Rajasthan, one of India's most fascinating regions. The locals' love for the camera never fails to amaze me; needless to say that I am never heard complaining (Rajasthan, India)

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Thanks for scrolling through. Stay tuned for the 2011 Newsletter!

And Happy New Year to you all!

Two dates in one night? Not a good idea.

2011-11-30T16:47:00.002Z

I glanced at my phone again. Friday. 8:30pm. I was going to be seriously late.

I looked up. My date across the table was saying something terribly intelligent about German literature. Not sure I was quite following at that stage, but it didn’t matter. Bless his heart.

"Excuse me for a second", I smiled apologetically, parked Pint Number Two of my favourite cider on the table and ran up the stairs, heading for the exit – the precious exit guarding behind it the wonderful thing that is the mobile network reception. Wake up, phone.

One by one, four semi-identical text messages and a voicemail – all from the same number – flashed in front of my eyes. I had been cut off for too long. Let's call him back.

"Hi there, sorry, still at the farewell drinks for one of my colleagues, will be a few minutes late," I stopped to catch my breath, pressing the phone to my ear not to miss a word of his response. I'm a terrible liar. I blush and I mumble. My East European accent gets shamelessly worse. Sure he'll figure things out in no time.

But – relief – the guy at the other end seemed cool. No problem. He'd wait for me. Later.

Now let's make a dignified walkout from that pub date.

Back to my Goethe enthusiast, and it's time for another apologetic smile. "One of my colleagues is having leaving drinks. Close friends only. Won't be seeing him for a while. Got to go say goodbye."

I emptied the glass in front of me. I wasn’t leaving a sip behind.

"And hey, thanks for the cider."

An unnecessary double cheek kiss (whoever invented those?), a good evening’s wish, half-hearted regret we had to part – and I'm out again. On my bicycle in the streets of Friday-festive London – and heading for the second date of the night.

So young and so free.

Excuses, excuses

You can all see what was happening. Of course none of my colleagues were leaving their cosy jobs. Of course there were no associated drinks. And yes, I had just told a lie. To two people. At least it was the same lie every time, just told twice.

I know – poor excuse.

A strange feeling of shame swirled up in my stomach. Telling lies to anyone – let alone to two perfectly decent men within a short timeframe – was not a nice thing to do, and certainly not something I’d happily tolerate in others. The problem was that the truth was not likely to be appreciated by either of my two dates. Because, of course, I had more than one date planned on that starry Friday night in London.

Now, clearly, I shouldn't have allowed that to happen.

Or should I? – I insisted, squeezing hard the brakes of my bike at the traffic lights. Weren’t such the rules of the game? Wasn’t everyone doing the same – especially the popular girls? Surely they weren't expected to save their entire steam for a single Friday night do. Spread the love, baby. Cancel dates? God forbid. Plan multiple dates and navigate carefully through? Absolutely.

Hence my hypothetical colleague had all the right in the world to get shamelessly inebriated at his "leaving do" that Friday night.

Having said that...

Now, ranking me at par with the "popular" girls would certainly entertain a few people. The truth is, my Friday nights are decidedly uncool. More often than not, the top activity on offer involves staring at some airport announcement screen in silent hope that, for once, my flight will depart on time.

A scenario even less glamorous has me prostrate on the couch in anticipation of imminent sleep – never ceasing to wonder why people bother dragging themselves out on a Friday when (a much better in every respect) Saturday night is only 24 hours away.

And yet

And yet that particular Friday I found myself caught inside not one but two important evening occasions. Two dates, in fact. Two dates with two perfectly eligible men. Both of whom I was adamant about honouring with my presence.

It escapes me now how this whole arrangement came together. Perhaps I had simply forgotten about the first date when the other came about. Or I was way too eager to wear a popular girl’s hat, for a change. Or the airport screens suddenly lost part of their appeal. Heaven only knows.

The result, however, was clear: I was meeting this cute (if somewhat nerdy) German guy for a drink at 6pm. And at 8:30pm, I'd have dinner with that other guy – a smart (but thankfully not nerdy) Lithuanian.

You heard me. It was not going to be just another Friday night in front of some airport screen. No, I was actually going to make this one memorable.

My best planning skills were put to use. Nerdy Germans are about the last curse one would inflict onto themselves – especially on a Friday night – and could not receive more than a casual drink’s allocation. On the contrary, smart Lithuanian guys typically make for candidates infinitely more promising and, as such, qualify for dinner material.

And so it was. Drinks and dinner. 6pm and 8:30pm. German and Lithuanian. On a Friday night.

I was such a genius.

But life is full of surprises

You can probably see where this is all heading. Not everything in life goes according to plan. In a manner most miraculous, the nerdy German rose out of the ashes to defy every cultural stereotype. He wasn't nerdy. At all. In fact, he was quite the opposite, cracking joke after joke in a near ecstatic inspiration and certainly not failing to entertain. My people reading skills had been shattered.

The carefully allocated slot flew by in a flash. I laughed so hard I completely lost the sense of time, flirted with the idea of cancelling the second rendezvous altogether, in the end decided to stick to it but never made it to the venue before 9pm. Enter the smart Lithuanian.

The smart Lithuanian. The one who not only swiftly went for gold in the World Nerds Championship but also punished somebody’s late arrival by ordering a "special" drink (one of those über-fizzy champagne concoctions all guys think girls like and I, anjči, cannot stand) and making me pay for half of it in the end. By suggesting we famously split the bill, of course.

But not before we've mumbled through a conversation most ungratifyingly unmemorable. Frankly, I was happy to pay my way out, if only to make sure that the date was finally over.

Looking to the future

The experience taught me a few lessons in dating best practices. First, never schedule dates too closely together. Spread them around. Every candidate deserves a few minutes of extra time to score that decisive goal. Don’t rush; give everyone an equal chance, and you may be pleasantly surprised. And even get a moment to go home and change horses (I mean clothes) inbetween.

Second, don’t judge your potentials too early. Avoid pre-packing them into neat little character boxes and allocating time on that basis. Germans are not always boring. Not all Southern Europeans are annoyingly loud. And an odd Finn may even get chatty on occasion. Unless your date is someone you grew up with – in other words, if there is a slightest chance you don’t know them very well – give plenty of the benefit of the doubt. Come with an open mind, and you won’t be disappointed.

Or you will still be, but hopefully slightly less.

Furthermore, do come up with a legitimate excuse if you need to rush to your next soiree. Learn from my mistakes – leaving drinks are fine in principle but raise serious suspicions if had on a weekly basis (unless you are running a temp agency) and may even signal a drinking problem. Lying is not a virtue but – if you really must – think of something plausible that your counterpart will have no idea about. Say you have to submit a 3,000-word blog post to an Australian e-zine by morning their time. Or that you have thousands of photos at home pending publication and in need of serious processing. Or that your Norwegian class has been rescheduled inconveniently. Things happen, you know.

Having said that, you may just find that careful manoeuvring associated with dating several people at the same time (even if for one night only) simply isn’t worth the effort. And the feeling of guilt and wrongdoing resulting from the whole multi-staged mating dance leads me to a boring but inevitable conclusion: date not more than one person at a time.

Even if, God forbid, they happen to be nerds. Or German.

Wuthering heights: Ascending Norway’s Preikestolen Rock

2011-11-11T13:45:00.010Z

Ask one to name three Norwegian landmarks that first spring to mind, and the answer will likely include Flåm railway, Geiranger fjord and Preikestolen.

Never heard of the last one? Worry not; without even realising, you have likely seen the signature images of Preikestolen – a massive rock plunging vertically into the hazily blue Lysefjord from the height of over 600m.

And it is for Preikestolen that I find myself in the city of Stavanger in Western Norway one chilly September morning. It is 7am on a Saturday – an hour most ungodly – and not more than a handful of foreign looking folk wait with me, red-eyed, on Stavanger’s central quay. The first leg of our journey will take us to Tau, a port conveniently linking Stavanger with the rest of mainland Norway. From there, buses depart regularly for the Preikestolen path.

As our boat speeds on, Stavanger turns into a watercolour line on the horizon. It is raining – making my imminent ascent to Preikestolen a potentially risky affair – but I am hoping for the better. I reach Tau in just under an hour and continue overland. By the time I reach Preikestolhytta – an overnight stop and restaurant in one – the rain has magically turned into a drizzle that is indeed quite a minor disturbance in comparison. Without wasting any time, I embark on the world famous trail towards Preikestolen.

The only way is up

One of the reasons I am doing this hike in rainy September is to avoid throngs that hit the trail in the high season – decidedly, the summer months. It can get quite crowded indeed: Stavanger Turistforening, a regional tourist body, estimates that 125,000 people completed the trail in 2010. The number was expected to be even larger in 2011.

The ascent wouldn’t exactly impress tested climbers: the elevation differential between the trailhead and Preikestolen barely reaches 334m. However, the walking distance to the rock is more than tenfold (3.8km one way) and can take as long as two hours, photo stops and fitness level permitting.

Mere four hours of sleep the night before is not enough to dampen my energy. For a split second, I dream of being the first to reach Preikestolen that cloudy morning. And it is with slight disappointment that I greet a group of hikers walking towards me – obviously having conquered the rock already and casually strolling back, in a manner giving away a habit more than a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Hoping at least to make it to Preikestolen before too many fellow amateurs, I hasten my pace.

The path runs up and down over a varied terrain. The trickiest of patches have visibly been made tourist friendly: here and there, flat rocks pave the way and bridges have been erected to enable safer stream crossings. Several signs – both man-made and traditional stone structures – point the hikers to the track. Broken rocks, sloping bushy areas and stretching marshes succeed each other before giving way to the final leg of the trail, massive granite slabs.

Approaching the rock

Another bend of the path, and the magnificent Lysefjord emerges out of the hanging pre-noon haze. With its perfectly reflective granite surfaces, the Light Fjord fully justifies its name. Even on an overcast day like this, its ambient glow is so intense that it seems surreal. I almost prefer its washed look of mystery to a bright sunny day.

As I near the end of the trail, the terrain becomes rockier. A zipping crevice appears on my left, and a nonchalant glance through is not a good idea – Lysefjord’s menacing glare beneath my feet is none the weaker at a 600-meter height. My stomach nearly dips through the crack; one spastic gulp, and I brave the last few meters towards Preikestolen.

Norway’s most famous rock finally rises ahead. I note to myself how well its Norwegian name summarises its essence: for it is exactly like a pulpit that the Pulpit Rock towers over the surrounding waters – a silent monument to the powers of nature.

The next moment my heart freezes uncomfortably again as I realise that I am not alone – and that my only counterpart is busy practising his sense of balance right on the rim of the cliff. He opens his arms wide, lifts one foot off the ground in a manner most death-defying and signals “Go!” to a distant friend with a camera. All that within mere millimetres off the edge – the edge to which I only dare to crawl on my stomach, stopping cowardly to catch my breath. Preikestolen’s vertigo-inducing heights are most certainly not for the faint-hearted.

Safe distance from the edge, I spend around an hour gazing down the magnificent Lysefjord. The wind stands ready to swirl every unsecured possession into the abyss below. Lysefjord may be rather shallow where it meets the sea – as fjords tend to be – but its waters around Preikestolen reach the depths of 400m, making the way down a very long one indeed.

Back on the ground

Meanwhile, visitors continue to arrive – wasn’t it supposed to be low season? – and I escape further uphill. An elusive mountain path heads onto a plain full of mini lakes, scattered boulders and wild mountain flowers. More astonishingly beautiful fjord views unfold all around, and, at one point, I am almost convinced I can see all the way to Stavanger.

Stavanger! The passing thought reminds me how far I have come from my starting point. I return to Preikestolen – now even busier with visitors – cast one last glance at its mesmerising forms and begin my descent to the trailhead.

Three hours later, I sit down at the Tau quay to wait for my return boat. It is raining – this time without much hope of stopping soon – and I suddenly feel grateful for not having had to battle the weather on my onward journey to Preikestolen. I close my eyes and think how I will repeat the hike one day.

And who knows? I might even venture a risky pose on the edge next time.

View my photos from Preikestolen on Flickr.

My next visit to Norway will be in January 2012, marking the end of "mørketid", the International Film Festival – and, hopefully, more images of the Northern Lights! – where else but in the northern city of Tromsø. Stay tuned!

Northern Norway: The land of the midnight sun (II)

2011-10-27T16:51:00.039+01:00

Continued from Northern Norway: The land of the midnight sun (I)

Narvik

The call of the oystercatcher still echoes in my ears as I travel to my next destination – the city of Narvik. Better known as the ice-free port for the iron ore deposits in Kiruna on the Swedish side of the border, Narvik is not exactly a magnet for travellers. Indeed, most backpackers on the bus are heading there merely to catch the connecting train to Sweden. It seems for a moment that I may be the only visitor staying in Narvik overnight.

Luckily, the first impression soon proves me wrong. Narvik’s architecture will certainly not win any prizes: completely destroyed during the WWII, the city has since been rebuilt hastily in a functionalist style. However, its location aside the vast Ofotfjorden compensates for the apparent lack of design, and the century-old railway cutting Narvik in half – to this day used to transport the famous iron ore – is charming in its special kind of way.

Even my foreign origin is not entirely out of place in quiet Narvik. Ten minutes after arriving, I am yet to meet a Norwegian person; on the contrary, Russian, Polish and Thai seem to be widely spoken by many overseas workers permanently living here.

The evening is approaching and one couldn't possibly miss Narvik’s best midnight sun viewing spot – Narvikfjellet, a 1,200 m high mountain towering over the city. A cable car drops me halfway up, near a restaurant built so close to the edge that I dare not think of food. Past patches of unmelted snow and red skiing poles, I climb further up, settle on a flat rock and just watch. Orange rays of the glowing sun push their way through the clouds, reflecting off every surface around. It doesn’t take long before the midnight hour has passed and the new day is dawning – with not even a second in-between.

To the Swedish border and back

On my eighth morning in Norway, I wake up early to catch a train from Narvik to the Swedish border – the station appropriately named Riksgränsen (literally the Royal Border). For a 43 km journey, the Ofoten railway (Ofotbanen) that I embark on has a lot to offer. Parallel to the tracks runs a walking trail today popular with hikers but originally used by the navvies who built the line over a century ago. Nearly 50 tunnels and snow sheds dot the way from Narvik to the Swedish border; in fact, the border itself cryptically sits inside a tunnel, too.

Stunning views from the heights of over 400 meters is what the Ofoten railway owes its fame to. As yet another tunnel spits our train back into daylight, the Ofotfjorden reappears majestically on our left. On an overcast day, its blue – even more intense than what promotional images suggested – blends harmoniously with the rich green of the forests surrounding the tracks.

There is little to do in Riksgränsen, an off-season ski resort, and I return to Narvik to catch a bus to Tromsø. It is my second visit to Arctic Norway's largest city after a Northern Lights pilgrimage earlier this year. In February, I found Tromsø generously covered in snow and barely lit by the low hanging sun. Thankfully, a spectacular Northern Lights display duly compensated for the lack of daylight.

This time it is the diametrically opposite natural phenomenon that awaits. From atop the Storsteinen mountain, I watch the midnight sun roll slowly along the horizon – as if hesitantly – before ultimately giving in and rising again. The new light is soon bathing splendidly in the Tromsøy Strait, a fisherman is grilling fresh salmon in the harbour, and hundreds of locals are toasting Tromsø’s celebrated nightlife in an outdoor bar. Never mind that it is exactly 1am and there is not a sign of darkness outside.

Hammerfest, the world’s northernmost "city"

Having travelled by ground transport and sea for over a week, I change the tactic and take one of the many short-distance flights connecting Northern Norway's coastal towns. It is yet another beautiful day, and the stunning blue of the Arctic Ocean below drifts past in a flash. Forty minutes later, I reach Hammerfest – the town best known for claiming the title of the world’s northernmost despite its population of barely seven thousand.

Hammerfest's tiny airport boasts a couple of meters of luggage belt and is indeed so central that I do not bother taking a taxi. Just outside the entrance, a reindeer is chewing on the grass phlegmatically in somebody’s backyard. I remember stories about these animals roaming freely around town in search of food and – while totally adored by the visitors – decidedly causing more of a nuisance to the locals.

The small Arctic town I had imagined deserted, Hammerfest looks surprisingly lively that Saturday. It turns out that my arrival is well timed with that of Hurtigruten; all of a sudden, German takes over as the dominant local language and the settlement's only Narvesen is making its daily turnover on ice cream sales alone.

The buzz continues even after Hurtigruten is gone. Temperatures are soaring in the high +20s, and seeing the locals stretch out in the sun is a surreal experience. Nobody at home will ever believe this could happen at 70° north.

Besides taking in the weekend vibe of a provincial northern town, there is not much to do in Hammerfest; but I do not mind taking it easy. The Fuglenes peninsula at the other end of the bay – where several barbequing locals park themselves for a good couple of hours – is a great resting spot overlooking both the town centre and the faraway Melkøya island. Crowned by an oversized torch blowing gas-fired flames, Melkøya marks Hammerfest's proximity to some of Norway's largest offshore gas fields. An LNG terminal is being built there – humorously named Snow White (Snøhvit), it may just become the settlement's best known landmark once completed.

Nordkapp: Europe's "extreme" point?

The end of my journey is near but another highlight is looming ahead: for I still haven't reached Nordkapp, the alleged northernmost point of the European continent and the top attraction in this part of Norway.

It cannot be for nothing, however, that Nordkapp is also known as Europe's northernmost rip-off. I pay a non-nominal fee to access the area adjacent to the edge of the world famous cape. The place is supposed to be well discovered by tourists – judging by the number of buses parked by the entrance, anyway – and I expect a major disappointment.

To add to my fears, the fog is so thick that I barely see beyond a stretched limb – let alone the much trumpeted sea view from Nordkapp’s 300m high cliff. It seems like we may never witness the beauty concealed by the shiver inducing mist covering every surface around.

I stare longingly into the white cloud where the sea is supposed to be. Did I just notice a change? A trembling path of sunlight emerges from the wall of fog, and our hopes are pleasantly revived. In just a matter of minutes the fog retreats, revealing generous blue overhead. The moment is so moving – and we observers so incredibly fortunate – that the air is soon filled by the sound of a spontaneous applause of the many hands whose midnight sun hopes had come true.

Now shining in its full glory, the view from Nordkapp defies any description. Some misty clouds continue to linger around; as one to my left clears away, I notice a stretch of land obviously further north than our viewing spot. It is Knivskjellodden: set in a location far less accessible than Nordkapp, it receives a mere fraction of its counterpart's fame – despite, as it turns out, indeed being several degrees closer to the North Pole.

Final voyage to Kirkenes

The last leg of my journey is by sea. At the port of Honningsvåg, I board Vesterålen – another Hurtigruten ship – for a voyage to the line's ultimate destination, the city of Kirkenes.

The next 19 hours onboard Vesterålen are an eerie experience. Every landmark we pass seems to carry a "northernmost something" title. The small village of Mehamn proudly proclaims itself Hurtigruten's most northerly port - and an unassuming rock rising lonesomely out of the ocean turns out to be Nordkinn, yet another cape disputing the title of Europe's northernmost. We are told to forget Nordkapp and Knivskjellodden: since the two sit on an island, neither can rightfully top mainland Europe, leaving Nordkinn the most legitimate candidate.

Hourlong, the rugged shores of northern Finnmark drift past. The hill sides are bare, the surrounding waters look bitterly cold and thousands of seabirds zoom noisily under the low hanging clouds. The climate in these latitudes is anything but balmy. It has been almost a fortnight since I said goodbye to the mildness of the British summer, and, with all my love for the North, I suddenly start longing for more reasonable temperatures.

Luckily, the end is near. Through ceaseless rain, our Vesterålen passes the ports of Vardø and Vadsø – both further east than even Istanbul itself – and embarks on the finishing line towards Kirkenes. A rusty vessel carrying a Russian flag is docked in the harbour (Norway's large neighbour is just a few kilometers away), and, in an emotionless voice, the Hurtigruten announces an imminent end to our journey.

Five hours and a stopover in Oslo later, I will be back in London – continuing to sport Norwegian phrases, hearing seagulls everywhere, wondering why the nights are suddenly dark again – but, above all, counting the days until my next sunrise in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

View the photos from my trip to Northern Norway on Flickr: Narvik and Ofotbanen, Tromsø, Hammerfest, Honningsvåg and Nordkapp, as well as the sea voyage to Kirkenes.

Read the first half of this 2-part story in Northern Norway: The Land of the Midnight Sun (I), covering visits to Trondheim, Bodø and the Lofoten islands.

Stay tuned for the recap of my subsequent trips to Norway: the cities of Stavanger and Haugesund as well as the Preikestolen cliff.

Northern Norway: The land of the midnight sun (I)

2011-09-19T17:30:00.001+01:00

It started with a doodle. At an unexciting work meeting last summer, my mind wandered away from the heat of central London to the mysterious lands of the Norwegian Arctic. My hand swiftly followed, mapping a 2-week travel route between Trondheim and Kirkenes – a daydream with a chance of coming true.

And, exactly one year later, I find myself in Norway preparing for a trip of a lifetime: a journey of over 2,500 km north by a combination of air, sea and ground transport, and encompassing some of Northern Norway's most famous landmarks.

Trondheim, the royal city

I begin my journey in Trondheim – a buzzing student city known as Norway's religious and royal capital. My first stop is a local photography hotspot, the Bakke Bridge overlooking the Wharves (Bryggene), old timber houses built on stilts into the Nidelva river – unmistakably the face of Trondheim.

I continue to the island of Munkholmen. Trondheim’s former prison and execution ground, the island now houses a restaurant, a crafts gallery and a fort – all decidedly peaceful, they make Munkholmen a popular destination for locals and tourists alike. Hundreds of birds rise up hastily as I venture onto a narrow man-made pier outside the stone walls. They are the true locals of the place.

Two days I spend in Trondheim are enough to take in other famous sights. Rising over the city on top of a hill, the Kristiansen fortress offers a wonderful viewing platform. And if urban life gets a little too much, the foresty area of Lian in Bymarka – the “lungs” of the city – is reachable by an old-style Gråkallbanen, the northernmost tramline in the world. It is raining, and the only living creatures on my way are squirrels, ducks and the ubiquitous seagulls.

Of course no visit to Trondheim is complete without the Nidaros Cathedral (Nidarosdomen). The cathedral is really what makes Trondheim the religious capital: for it is there that the remains of St. Olaf – the patron saint of Norway – are believed to rest. St. Olaf’s death is widely commemorated in Norway every July, when Trondheim becomes the centre of numerous festivities. Many pilgrims from Northern Europe make their way to Trondheim to pay tribute to the former king.

The less pious won’t walk away disappointed, either: the bell tower offers great panoramic views of the river-embraced city. While coronations are no longer a constitutional requirement in Norway (Trondheim used to be their sole host city at some point in the past), the Royal Regalia of Norway are on display in the Nidaros Cathedral. My train up north is not until midnight, and I linger at every exhibit.

Across the Arctic Circle

Perhaps the most inspiring episode of Joanna Lumley’s In the Land of the Northern Lights series is when she boards an old fashioned train in Trondheim, preparing to find herself on the other side of the Arctic Circle – in Bodø – some 729 km later. The Nordland train line (Nordlandsbanen) is Norway’s longest and indeed the only one to cross the Arctic Circle. It is among the most picturesque railway journeys of Norway, even if somewhat unfairly overshadowed by the country’s other famous rail routes.

Our overnight train leaves Trondheim in blazingly scarlet sunset; but no darkness awaits. To the unmistakeable whistle only vintage trains pull off properly, we begin our exodus from twilight. With every kilometer won against the polar frontier, the morning colours become more intense – until the splendidly pink horizon explodes in eternal sunshine. We have reached the land of the midnight sun: the place where, for a good part of the summer, the sun refuses to set altogether.

It is not long till Bodø, and, watching the beauty of coastal Norway unwind at my feet, I realise I haven’t slept at all that night. I lie back in my pleasantly wide window seat – they surely knew how to travel in style back in the days – and put on my eye mask. Covering the eyes away from the incredible landscapes in front of me might just be the way of getting some rest onboard the Nordlandsbanen.

Off to the Lofoten

On a Saturday morning, Bodø deafens with silence. It looks like most of the city’s 50,000 residents are still asleep as the tiny trickle of new arrivals make their way to the city centre. In vain I search for a hot pølse (not even the fallback option of a Narvesen is open at this early hour) – until three boatmen selling shrimps emerge on the central quay. Hanging my feet off the jetty, I let a large shrimp melt in my mouth. So fresh is the unmistakeable taste of the Norwegian Sea; who’d need a pølse after that?

Bodø is soon transformed almost unrecognisably into a busy provincial town on a weekend day. The Narvesen opens and the streets fill up with people. I visit the Bodin kirke – a stone church dating back to the 13th century and one of the few surviving pre-war buildings in Bodø – and stroll down to the pleasant little marina. Bodø officially presents itself as the “town with the world’s most beautiful shoreline”, owing perhaps to the dramatic distant peaks and a dense population of sea eagles on the outlying skerries. A respective boat tour is about to depart; I am tempted to hop on but there is little time to spare. My Hurtigruten boat to the Lofoten islands is already waiting.

Hurtigruten is as quintessentially Norwegian as the fjords it sails. Established over a hundred years ago, the famous passenger and freight line begins its journey in Bergen on Norway’s western coast. Literally translated as Express Route, Hurtigruten is admittedly a bit of a misnomer. It will be 11 days until the boat is seen in Bergen again – exactly the time it takes to make a return voyage to Kirkenes in the far north-eastern corner of the country.

There is no need to set off for the entire 11 days though. The World's Most Beautiful Sea Voyage, as the Hurtigruten is lovingly known, brings with it the convenience of port-to-port service to 35 coastal locations. Of which the Lofoten islands – my next destination – are the near undisputed highlight.

Lofoten

Our Nordlys is one of 13 ships making up the fleet of Hurtigruten. Her name, Norwegian for Northern Lights, honours the country’s well known natural phenomenon. It is early July, and we have little hope of seeing the stunning aurora borealis; luckily though, another Hurtigruten ship is soon seen heading towards us. By almost unbelievable chance, Midnatsol (Midnight Sun) is shining on her side. She blasts out three long signals, which our ship duly returns as we wave energetically at the passengers across the water. The Northern Lights meets the Midnight Sun – what else could I wish for on my first ever journey through Northern Norway?

A few hours later, the Lofoten Wall (Lofotveggen), a seemingly uninterrupted stretch of pointed peaks of the namesake archipelago, begins to loom on the horizon. The islands are celebrated for their natural beauty – the beauty where craggy mountains soon seem as normal as the snow covering them year-round, sandy beaches look like snapshots from an exclusive Mediterranean resort and cute fishing villages – like a postcard sent from a fairytale.

We are not in the Mediterranean though, and, naturally, I wonder what weather awaits us along the 68th parallel. I need not worry: the sky grows clearer and the air warmer the closer we are to the Lofoten. The archipelago’s climate may not always guarantee a suntan but is still the most striking positive temperature anomaly in the world. In fact, temperatures on two outlying Lofoten islands stay above zero throughout the year.

But it isn’t only the climate this time; I am exceptionally lucky with the weather. Every day of the five I spend on the Lofoten brings brilliant sunshine and warmth of over 20C degrees. If it wasn’t for the patches of snow resting on the slopes of the highest peaks – and for the sea water of temperatures decidedly defying its tropical disguise – one would have a hard time believing they were in the Arctic latitudes.

From the Lofoten’s administrative centre, Svolvær, I explore the narrow Trollfjord on one of the local excursion boats. The water is magically full of codfish. We catch a few in barely 10 minutes, throw one up in the air, and – before you know it – a sea eagle emerges out of nowhere, plunges down and soars up again, the cod hanging from its claws. The Lofoten islands are literally swarming with wildlife, with millions of sea birds populating the archipelago year-round, the surrounding seas covering the world's largest deep water coral reef, and mass-scale cod migration from the Barents Sea taking place during the winter months.

The cod is indeed king here: its populations may have dwindled over time (blame the persistent over-fishing) but the annual catch still reaches around 50 thousand tonnes. Every self-respecting village on the Lofoten sports the distinct A-shaped wooden racks for cod drying that get decidedly covered up towards late spring, the end of the fishing season.

Cod aside, the Lofoten’s steep grass-covered slopes create a perfect environment for sheep grazing. I first discover the fact as I edge along a popular hike separating Eggum and Unstad, the villages in Vestvågøy island’s northwest. The seascapes around me are nothing short of breath-taking and a lone lighthouse is looming ahead promisingly in a haze of the afternoon sun. But the slope is so steep that I dare not look down; doing my best to avoid the sheep dip generously deposited under my feet in multiple patches of the trail, I finally reach Unstad. A 9 km hike seems to have lasted a lifetime – and cost me a few nerve cells – but so will also the memories of the superb views along the way.

Many choose to explore the Lofoten on bicycle. I rent mine for a day. After an early morning visit to the fishing village of Henningsvær – possibly the world’s prettiest – I rush back to Svolvær where a bigger adventure awaits. Past vast marshes, lakes and stretched mini fjords, the ride takes me to a quiet fishing village of Laukvik. After a brief stop, I continue to Fiskebøl (known for little more than its ferry connection to the Vesterålen archipelago) and eventually rejoin the E10 back to Svolvær. The return journey of just over 100 km has been exhausting but rewarding to say the least.

My final stop on the Lofoten conveniently shares its name with the last letter of the Norwegian alphabet. Å (often referred to as Å i Lofoten) sits at the southern end of the Moskenesøy island. With its adorable rorbuer (fishermen’s homes turned tourist lodges) and stunning displays of the midnight sun amid the dramatic peaks, it neatly summarises the essence of the Lofoten.

I venture to the far less secluded Reine for that must-have postcard shot – the village was once voted Norway’s most beautiful – and further north on Moskenesøy. The Nusfjord village somewhat disappoints with its busloads of tourists. I head to Ramberg instead; boasting a spectacular setting around a sandy beach, the village is unexpectedly tourist-free. A closer look reveals why: the wind from the Atlantic is so strong (and decidedly cold) that venturing near the water – let alone dipping in – takes a hard mind to tackle.

Midnight falls onto the Lofoten. It is my last night here, and, naturally, I am still awake. For it is that fraction of a moment when the lingering sunset turns into sunrise – a new day – that cannot be missed. In front of me, the mighty Atlantic moves gently as the Bodø ferry makes its way to Moskenes. Thousands of seagulls dot the distant skerries, and several oystercatchers hurry away on their funny long feet as I approach.

Goodbye, Lofoten – the magic land of the midnight sun.

~~~~
See my photos from Trondheim, Bodø and the Lofoten islands on Flickr.

Follow the rest of my journey north – including Narvik, Tromsø, Hammerfest, Honningsvåg, Nordkapp and the sea voyage to Kirkenes – in Northern Norway: The land of the midnight sun (II).

I can still recall: Last summer's highlights

2011-09-15T22:39:00.008+01:00

The summer is over. At least such is the message the UK media have been force-feeding us for the past couple of weeks, as if taking special pleasure in going over the topic over and over again. And assuming – rather wrongly so – that there ever was a summer in the first place.

Weather complaints aside, 2011 by all means brought a decent summer. Work was productive. Several good friends have visited in London. And I have revisited not one or two but three places I call home: Riga, Frankfurt and Helsinki. Which of course meant reunions with many friends for life.

Moreover, following the mistakes I made in the previous two years – first, that of spending the entire summer in the UK in 2009 and, second, travelling abroad on almost EVERY weekend in the summer of 2010 – this year has undoubtedly seen a better balance. At its most extreme, this July I spent as many as two consecutive weekends in the comfort of my London home. Ignore the idyllic side though; the end of second such weekend had me nearly climbing the wall with boredom. The magic balance had been found: alternating travel weekends might well be the perfect solution for the summers to come.

As we are already in September, it is a good time to recap some of the most memorable moments of the summer departed. Looking back, I see three distinct occasions on which I found myself literally bursting with excitement. Of course all three happened during my travels; as goes below.

Highlight Number 3: Sissa meg! Tá eg vil liva

Most of you are sick and tired of reading about the Faroe Islands in this blog. Please have your understanding at the ready – for I ain't finished here quite yet.

I recently wrote about my second visit to the Faroes. The trip was timed with the archipelago's largest national festival, the Ólavsøka. The culmination of which was the midnight singing on Tórshavn’s central square. Over ten thousand people gathered for the occasion, opened the lyrics sheets they'd been thoughtfully handed out (yes, that makes over ten thousand copies) and took a deep breath.

After which the singing began. Countless voices instantly filled up the atmosphere; shivers ran down my spine. I will not lie that I had never heard anything similar before: my homeland, Latvia, is huge on public singing and gathers choirs from all over the country to perform together at the Song and Dance Festival every five years. That makes tens of thousands of professional singers all chanting in unison for a week. At a venue minutes away from my parental home. No joke.

And yet the Faroese midnight singing hypnotised me from the first sounds. Every song was catchy in its special way, but it was Aldan, the remake of Annika Hoydal's 1977 classic, that ignited me instantly. Come the chorus, and the entire square nearly exploded in a passionate poetic outburst. Sissa meg! (Calm me down!), echoed all around, as if to defy its literal meaning. I climbed the fence overlooking the square and joined in the thousand-fold choir, shaking fists in the air for a fuller effect. It felt like I was going to war to save the world. It was powerful. It was the highlight of the night. It was the highlight of my summer.

Or I'd simply had too much beer.

Highlight Number 2: We swing by night!

My passion for photography is not a secret to anyone. Even before I'd first touched my Nikon, however – in the depths of the dark age – I dreamt of taking one particular shot. Every detail was framed neatly in my mind. The composition would feature a merry-go-round swing. The sun setting in the background would light up the skies with that soft glowing light. People would be sitting in the chairs; but, against this magnificent backdrop, only their flying silhouettes would show.

Such was my dream photo. It wasn't entirely unrealistic: about a year ago, I came across an image somewhat similar to the one I had in mind. The author, TJ Scott, has disabled reproduction of his work on other websites, so I cannot display it here. If you care, have a look on the author’s Flickr page instead, and you will no doubt agree with me. The work of genius. The timeless inspiration. My dream photo come true – except, of course, that it wasn't mine.

Sadly, there aren't many sunset-facing swings in London, and my dream picture seemed to have no chance of coming to life – until, last June, friends invited me to visit them Stockholm. It was my seventh visit to the Swedish capital and I had by then covered most of the serious, educational sights.

Enter Gröna Lund – Stockholm's best known tivoli packed with attractions for every age and adrenalin threshold. Before embarking on a ride, I headed to the waterfront – Stockholm is built on 14 islands and water is literally everywhere – to admire the city’s evening skyline. A cruise ship was departing for the big seas in front of me. I followed it with my eyes for a while – after which I glanced lazily towards the city.

My heart jumped, froze briefly in its position and plummeted again. In front of my eyes was this:

Swirling swings, check. Blazing sunset, check. Silhouettes of people in chairs, check. The added bonus of Stockholm's skyline in the background – and Baltic Sea breathing gently below! My dream picture suddenly got animated. I dropped everything I was holding, clutched Nikie and snapped away. The rest of the world didn't exist anymore.

Perhaps attracted by my speechlessly overflowing excitement, other passers-by soon gathered around with their cameras. Some took pictures of me and Nikie. But we barely noticed them. All we could focus on were the black human silhouettes against the last accords of a magnificent pink sunset.

Just like in that dream photo in my head.

Highlight Number 1: Nordlys meets Midnatsol

My long summer holiday this year was to the northern latitudes of Norway. On a chilly July morning, I reached the Arctic Circle and headed steadily to the place where I had dreamt of visiting for years – the Lofoten islands.

Out comes Hurtigruten. The sea line connecting coastal Norwegian cities between Bergen and Kirkenes, Hurtigruten is more than just another means of getting from A to B. A voyage onboard one of its ships is nothing short of an exploratory adventure; a platform for admiring the unique natural beauty of Norwegian seascapes. It is not for nothing, after all, that Hurtigruten is often described as the World's Most Beautiful Sea Voyage. And the Lofoten islands are among the journey’s undisputed highlights.

Out of the 13 ships making up the Hurtigruten fleet, ours happened to be named after one of Norway's most stunning natural phenomena – Nordlys, for the Northern Lights. But there was little hope of spotting the dazzling aurora borealis in July. A brisk thought passed my mind that Midnight Sun would have made a more appropriate name for our ship.

As if by magic – not even a minute had passed before a little dot appeared on the horizon, growing as the distance between us gave way. Another Hurtigruten ship was emerging, magically and unexpectedly, from the dramatic rugged wall made up by the Lofoten peaks. So majestic was the sight of a large coastal ship sliding along the dimly troubled waters of the Norwegian Sea that I momentarily lost the ability to speak. My eyes slid down and stopped by the ship's name.

It was Midnatsol. As if someone had heard my earlier wish and happily obliged: the real Midnight Sun was heading towards us. The Northern Lights and the Midnight Sun were approaching each other.

And, just in case the observers had any doubts about the solemnity of the moment – and indeed the surrounding scenery – the next minute sorted it all out. Abiding by the Hurtigruten signalling convention, Midnatsol went on to blast three long signals, which our ship duly echoed. The air suddenly became almost solid with sound. We stared at each other for a fraction of a second in a shocked sensation – after which, without an invitation, rushed to the port of the ship and energetically waved at our fellow passengers across the water. They were doing the same on the other side. I could almost hear the many hearts pumping around me. It was a beautiful, unforgettable moment.

The summer may be over. But its best memories live on. And, more importantly, we have a wonderful autumn to look forward to. Have a good one!

Three less-than-perfect men

2011-08-30T22:11:00.003+01:00

The topic of infidelity in relationships popped up unexpectedly. What started as an innocent joke at a friend's party last weekend eventually escalated to a full round-the-table survey. Each guest present was asked if he or she had ever cheated on a girlfriend or a boyfriend.

The results were thought provoking. Not counting myself (whose answer those of you knowing me in person will guess, anyway), all but one girl confessed to have systematically cheated on a partner. She, too, stumbled somewhat on the definition of cheating at first – but, after the majority had settled on having slept with someone while in a relationship with someone else, she reiterated her stance: "If kissing doesn't count, then no, I've never cheated".

I am not known as a hardcore conservative in romantic matters. Yet the results were nothing short of a revelation. Was the whole world regularly cheating on their partners? Confused, I asked the party’s loudest propagator of infidelity how it was possible to sleep with someone if you were in love with another person. Sleeping aside, how was it comprehensible to even let the idea of another person crawl into your head when it was – presumably – occupied by someone already?

The explanation did not make itself wait. "Simple", he said. "You just don’t mix love and sex".

No alarms, no surprises

On my journey home, I gave the matter a deeper thought. It occurred to me that I should not have been surprised by the results at all. Cheating was not as uncommon as I, in my denial, was trying to present it.

Some recent memories came crawling in. During the past couple of years, I have met three interesting men. Three men with decent credentials: diverse backgrounds, interesting lifestyles, cool hobbies and satisfactory ability to keep an entertaining conversation for at least an hour (very few score highly on this one, hence the emphasis). I won't even mention cute. They were three interesting packages, each in his own right: three nearly perfect men.

Nearly perfect except for one thing. One tiny detail they all had forgotten about at some point of their lives. All three had girlfriends. Surely it would be too much to expect three perfectly eligible men NOT to have girlfriends. In fact, I would have been unpleasantly alarmed had they been single. In a natural course of things, the older I get, the more men around me are taken; and the best candidates get snatched first.

Let us proceed in order though, starting with Guy Number One – a highly intelligent individual, rising banking star and tolerable conversationalist. After we had shared several chats of escalating intimacy, he reluctantly confessed he was in fact not single. Quite the contrary: he was living with his girlfriend of seven years and felt the pressure to propose from every angle. Family and friends' Christmas messages had long stopped focusing on Christmas proper and instead wished them to "finally get married next year". Hint, hint.

My first reaction was a sorry feeling. The situation was frankly looking dire for Number One. Dire because he had no intention to marry his girlfriend of seven years. Dire because all their friends were expecting them to. Dire because the girl had left her home and followed him to a different country. Simply kicking her out was not really on the table.

But behold; things were looking even worse for the girlfriend. In a streak of landslide sincerity, Number One went on to admit that he had cheated on her eight times. EIGHT times in seven years, with eight different women. Things weren't going great between them, you see. He couldn't face splitting up from someone who loved him so much though, so he cheated on her behind her back instead. Impeccable logic.

At this point, I excused myself and left. Perhaps more cheating buddies came after the eighth, but I didn't follow up.

“Yes and no”

Enter Guy Number Two. A passionate traveller / photographer residing outside London with whom we quickly developed regular correspondence and more or less regular face-to-face contact. He had finally asked me to join him on a 10-day holiday. Sadly, the dates weren’t convenient; I declined and suggested to visit him in a month’s time instead, which he welcomed. The necessary arrangements had been made, and things were heading steadily to a happy end.

Except I suddenly had second thoughts. A female Facebook user left some public comments which made me doubt Number Two’s single status. The not-quite-just-friendly-anymore correspondence we had developed, the visible side of his everyday life and the joint holiday offer had all led me to make certain conclusions about Number Two’s availability. The time had come to question it though and, without further ado, I put the question straight: was the Facebook person his girlfriend?

He could have said yes. He could have said no. He could have said I was talking nonsense. He could have said he didn't know what I was talking about. He could have said anything – except for what he actually ended up saying.

Yes and no.

Yes and no, he said. Things were apparently not going great (recognise that classic phrase?) and the two of them were taking a relationship break. They were sort of together but sort of not at the same time. It's like they were allowed to see other people but hadn't officially split up. It was moreover a long distance relationship. It was complicated. I was promised more details when I would come to visit in one month.

Except I didn't come to visit in one month. I mean, seriously – would you, in my place?

A "splitting" request?

Finally, Guy Number Three. A sweet, not overly talkative guy blessed with a pair of wonderful blue eyes. A friend who'd leave funny comments on my Facebook; a friend because I knew he was a lost case. For he, too, had a girlfriend, who moreover looked like a supermodel on my background. I was not going to waste my time with Number Three at all. I just resorted looking at a photographed version of those blue eyes before going to sleep sometimes. Dreaming, after all, is not a crime, especially for a single girl.

The guy must have had telepathic abilities, however. After several rounds of drinks with friends one night, he opened up a bit about his official relationship. Like a lightning on a clear day, he announced that he was planning to split up with his girlfriend in October. For, due to some administrative matters, she'd have to leave the country then, never to return. The poor thing was not blessed with an EU passport, you see, and could not hang around the UK at mind's delight.

I would expect anyone splitting from a serious partner to be at least marginally sad about the fact, devising plans to reverse the inevitable. Yet the issue seemed settled. Number Three and his other half were splitting up in October, not a day earlier, not a day later (I was tempted to ask for the exact timing but bit my tongue). Things were not going great (of course they weren't) and he was looking for an excuse to end the relationship.

I will not bother telling you what happened later. It suffices to say that Number Three made it unmistakably clear where his true preferences were. And the girlfriend? It is not even September yet, so they are still together. Inshallah, if I waited just another month, the blue eyes would finally be mine. Not sure what you think, but something inside is giving me a feeling that I won't.

Having said that…

The three guys in question did not have much in common. In fact, they were different in quite a number of ways. They came from different countries, spoke different languages and worked in different fields. I met them under three completely different sets of circumstances. Even their eyes were of different colour. No, despite the common perception, I do not always go for blue-eyed men.

The only thing the three did have in common was the lack of guts to split up with the girlfriends they did not love and were not intending to marry. In the meantime, they had guts enough to fool around with other women. My personal definition of cheating does not only focus on sex; the closest I could describe it would be a romantic physical experience with someone who is not your existing partner. Romantic physical experience can be kissing, holding hands or even sharing an intimate drink. If you think this sounds harsh, just imagine your partner having a giggly drink together with a cute colleague. You get the idea.

Even with this in mind, I will not go as far as labelling any of the three as cheaters. Who am I to stigmatise? I will not even bother judging the guys; if anyone, I should be judging myself for not seeing through them quicker and – especially – for not learning properly from my early mistakes.

After three mishaps, the lessons are indeed a legion. Thy shalt not waste a second on a taken individual goes without saying. The less obvious lesson – yet none the less useful for that – is never believe a potential romantic candidate who suddenly proclaims things are "not going great" with their second half. Tell them to discuss the matter with their mother instead. Noble feelings like compassion from your side are better invested elsewhere.

If, moreover, the person in question goes on to present exuberant excuses why they drag on a painful relationship despite dancing on the verge of separation (expiring visas, job situation, compassion for the other, peer pressure, long distance, relationship breaks all fit the bill) – run for your life. Don't fool yourself; you won't be helping the poor darlings to solve their life problems. For these are mere excuses for their own lack of guts to make a responsible move.

And for all you hot-and-cold individuals unable to break up with the partners you have no serious plans for, I have another message. Surprise – engaging a third romantically minded party in your tête-à-tête will not straighten your ailing relationships. Cheating is seeking elsewhere the thrill long gone from your existing lives. It doesn’t address any of the issues you and your partner have been having. It is running away from your problems – not solving them – while creating more problems for others.

As a final word, I wish we would all SPEAK more. Discuss the existing problems openly with our partners instead of letting the mess escalate in silence. Open up to our best friends and closest relatives if we need help. Involve a professional. Work together on the bits we can still save. Break up if we do not see a future together.

And if we end up looking for a passing thrill – nothing more than a mindless escape – first make this clear to whomever we are engaging. For, God forbid, the other party might just end up falling in love – and, before we know it, there is not one but two people seeking explanation to our ever changing behaviour. A parenthesis desperately trying to make it to the table of contents; isn’t that just sad? The things are not going great sounds like peanuts in comparison.

Before I forget though

A former colleague invited me for coffee the other day. Amid the usual inquiries about our common buddies, I asked my counterpart how his girlfriend was doing. I remembered they had been together for 12 years and felt obliged to show some interest.

His reaction would defy any description. A combination of disappointment, resentment and physical pain ran across his face. In my head, I desperately drafted an apology: for something terrible must have happened to the girlfriend. At the very minimum, she must have contracted a terminal illness and was nearing her final days. I bit my tongue over and over again. How insensitive was it of me to ask questions like this?

Finally the former colleague took a deep breath and composed himself enough to speak: “I do not have a girlfriend, Anna. I have a wife now. But…”

Whirlpool memories flashed through my brain. I could barely control laughter. But? “Things are not going great?” I helpfully suggested.

He nodded.

And, to my (now perfectly uncontrolled) laughter, the curtain fell.

The Faroe Islands: Second time around

2011-08-10T20:30:00.002+01:00

This time last year, I unexpectedly found myself in the centre of attention. This blog received thousands of views, a number most unusual for a humble affair of its sort. The mother-in-law of the Danish Prime Minister sent me a message. The life of anjči rose to fame literally overnight, living the dream of many professional and amateur travel bloggers alike.

Why? Some of you might remember my last year's visit to the Faroe Islands: a short stay with lasting impressions and resonating consequences. Back in London, I wrote a story about my trip, not expecting it to score beyond moderately versus my posts on popular destinations like Venice or Rio de Janeiro. After all, very few people in my wider circles knew what the Faroe Islands were – with about half later admitting to have mistaken the Faroes for the Portuguese Faro, anyway.

I don't blame them: the Faroes' location is best described as remote. Composed of 18 islands varied in size, the archipelago sits in the North Atlantic Ocean at the latitude of 62°00'N, away from Europe's mainstream travel routes. Its closest mainland territories are Iceland to the northwest and Scotland to the south – or, strictly speaking, not really mainland at all.

Discovering my Faroese side

Life does occasionally bring pleasant surprises. Within minutes, the Faroes blog became my all-time most popular. Thanks to Sámal Bláhamar, a Faroese tour guide, the link to the story appeared on a local news portal and took a phoenix flight through the internet. The Faroese Tourism Board listed the post in its recommended readings. The Faroes' enthusiasts from all over the world suddenly seemed to know me. Even the Danish Embassy in London (and their grandmother) got in touch. It was like everyone remotely involved had read that story.

Most importantly, the blog was picked up by the Faroese Society in London, marking the beginning of our very special relationship. In the past year, I have met the Head of the Faroese Representation in the UK, sampled local delicacies at a Faroese Christmas gathering and celebrated the Faroese Flag Day with members of the Faroese government. In a nutshell, I have strangely become part of a rather exclusive community in London – that of the Faroe Islands.

It is not a surprise therefore that my second visit to the Faroes had to be planned soon. When to go? Atlantic Airways, the Faroese flag carrier, fly direct to London only in the summer, Copenhagen being the sole gateway to the islands for the rest of the year. As tempting as the Faroes are in the winter with their occasional glimpse of the Northern Lights, it is the summer when the weather is decent enough for large public events. Unsurprisingly, most festivals take place between early June and mid-August. Including Ólavsøka – the largest Faroese celebration and certainly a good time for a visit.

Ólavsøka Eve

Celebrated on 29 July, Ólavsøka (literally Olaf's Wake) takes its name from St. Olaf – formerly a king and now the patron saint of Norway. Almost a thousand years ago, the Faroe Islands were one of Norway's tributary territories. The archipelago has since drifted under the Danish Realm where it has an autonomous status and Denmark maintains control of matters like foreign affairs and justice. But the Faroe Islands' historic links with Norway are revived every year on Ólavsøka, commemorating what is believed to be the day of St. Olaf's death.

Numerous festivities take place in the capital city of Tórshavn. It all begins on 28 July – the so-called Ólavsøka Eve – with a big parade followed by the national rowboat racing competition. An old saying that every Faroese is born with an oar in hand gets put to the test as hundreds of men and women compete in boats of various sizes to the cheering of thousands of viewers flocking to Tórshavn for the occasion. The Faroes' population just undershoots 50 thousand, and about half as many islanders study and work in larger countries. A fair share of those expats travel home for Ólavsøka – which, similarly to Christmas, is seen as a good time to catch up with family and friends.

My flight landed late and I only caught the closing moments of the competition. Sámal Bláhamar picked me up in Tórshavn. Through the capital's busy streets, we walked towards the Parliament building from where I continued on my own. "By the way", I heard Sámal say behind me, "Good luck tonight. Many are known to find a girlfriend or a boyfriend on Ólavsøka".

I shrugged sceptically and pretended to be entirely preoccupied with my phone. Sadly, not even that was on my side: in a series of welcome messages from my Faroese friends, one sounded strangely familiar. "Be careful", it read. "Cupid often works overtime during Ólavsøka".

What was the whole world going on about? Rather entertained by the shameless local superstitiousness, I turned my attention to Tórshavn's people. Most locals were wearing the Faroese national costumes – including the children who decidedly made for the cutest participants of the festival. Their ability to run around in long skirts and thick waistcoats without making too much mess positively impressed, too.

As the night drew near, fewer and fewer children remained in the streets. Their place had been taken by an older – if only slightly – crowd of teenagers emerging outside from the various house parties. In the best traditions of the Faroese hospitality, strangers greeted each other by offering a sip of their drink. The men's national costume is apparently designed to honour that old custom. A closer look reveals a wider gap between the waistcoat's two top buttons: just enough to slip that flask of liquor through.

Come midnight and Niels Finsens gøta, Tórshavn's central street, was full of festive looking folk, most with beer in hand. It wasn't always like that: just years ago, sales of alcohol during Ólavsøka were heavily regulated. The Faroe Islands are known as a conservative society where strict public norms take time to loosen.

Public norms aside, I hear you say: what about the famous Ólavsøka cupid? To keep this blog short and sweet, I suggest we do not dwell on the rest of the night and fast forward to 29 July. As a final word of advice though, not even the fiercest of cynics should underestimate the romantic powers of Ólavsøka.

Ólavsøka

With some consideration for the party diehards of the night before, the formal part of Ólavsøka does not begin until after 10am. The members of the Faroese Parliament, clergy and major civil servants proceed from the Parliament building to Tórshavn Cathedral (Dómkirkjan), where a service is held to symbolise the close links between church and state. The small cathedral is tightly packed during the Ólavsøka service, which the national television broadcasts live across the archipelago.

I never imagined Tórshavn so crowded: thousands of locals and visitors literally flooded the streets of the world's smallest capital. Fronted by Bishop Jógvan Fríðriksson and Prime Minister Kaj Leo Johannesen, top officials soon emerged from the church and made their way back to the Parliament. After stopping to take in some al-fresco choir singing, they settled in the Parliament building, where the Prime Minister's speech officially kicked off a new parliamentary year. The ceremonious part of Ólavsøka was over.

It is estimated that around 10 thousand people, or 20 per cent of the Faroese population, travel to Tórshavn for the Ólavsøka festivities. This means that the number of people in the capital shoots up to at least 30 thousand for two days, leaving the rest of the archipelago somewhat deserted. My quick trip to Vestmanna was a spooky experience: the town I remembered so full of visitors to the world famous bird cliffs barely came across as inhabited. Tórshavn was certainly the one place to be during Ólavsøka.

As every year, the culmination of St. Olaf's festivities fell on midnight, when a thousand-fold crowd descended onto Tórshavn's central square to perform a joint a-capella recital of precisely 20 Faroese songs. Starting with the national anthem, the songs varied in length and cheer; my favourites were Aldan (The Wave), a powerful version of Annika Hoydal's 1979 classic, and, unexpectedly, the Scottish Auld Lang Syne relayed to Faroese lyrics (Hvør skuldi gamlar gøtur gloymt). Had it not been for the humid +11C weather and the curly ð's scattering the verses, the occasion could easily have fit a New Year's party.

The singing took around an hour, but the main fun had not yet started: for it is the midnight dancing that really makes Ólavsøka. The Faroese chain dance is a direct descendant of the medieval ring dancing performed by a group of people hand-in-hand behind a leader who sings the verse (skiparin in Faroese). Over the centuries, medieval ring dances have all but disappeared from Europe as the church saw a threat in their pagan origins – and today survive only on the Faroe Islands.

I quickly felt dizzy from watching the dancers: crowds of people below my viewing spot on top of a fence turned into a mass of moving heads and hands, all swirling rhythmically to the narrative. The steps were simple (two forward and one back, as one heavily inebriated local next to me popularly explained), but the mood of the dance varied with each story: softer for sad lyrics, merrier otherwise.

On and on the dancing went, intensifying with each verse. The atmosphere was wonderfully festive. I smiled and thought it was lucky that the space between the dancers was so tight: most people around me had visibly spent most of the day drinking. Like true survivors, they were determined to last until the wee hours of the morning. My Ólavsøka was however over. Till next year, at least!

Suðuroy, the southernmost island

Imagine my utter admiration when, around 7am the morning after, I found the streets of Tórshavn still not entirely deserted as dozens of party animals were fighting their last battles. A familiar face or two blinked out of the fading crowd, but there was no time for tearful reunions: my ferry to Suðuroy was already leaving.

Literally translated as South Island, Suðuroy is indeed the southernmost of the Faroes. It is also the archipelago's most remote island and takes a 2-hour ferry journey from Tórshavn to reach. Most passengers that morning were the natives of Suðuroy conveniently returning home from Ólavsøka. Needless to say that all of us slept soundly during the entire voyage.

In hindsight, one day for Suðuroy is perhaps ambitious but good enough for a taster of the island. From the port, I headed to the village of Sumba – a gateway to Cape Akraberg, the Faroes' southernmost point. After making my way through dissolving mist past dozens of freely wandering sheep, I hitched a ride to Suðuroy's second largest settlement, Vágur. Strangely dubbed lacklustre by a certain guide book, the cosy Vágur marks the start of some excellent hiking trails.

With hours to spare until my ferry, I continued from Vágur to the village of Fámjin. The 2-hour walk covered some dramatic scenery past Suðuroy's high peaks (Borgarknappur and Borgin), mountain lakes and ubiquitous sheep. Mist was king at the heights of over 500 meters, making the elusive mountain path nearly impossible to follow. Rather timely, a helpful local emerged out of the fog – as if by magic – to put me back on track. Warmth and hospitality of Suðuroy's people has become the island's unofficial trademark and is legendary around the Faroes.

As if to confirm this reputation, another local wholeheartedly drove me from Fámjin to Suðuroy's northern villages. We picked up his sister in Hvalba, waved to his nieces by the roadside in Tvøroyri and greeted his wife and children in Krambatangi. Within barely 20 minutes, my driver met six of his family members in three different parts of the island – nothing unusual for a small community like that of Suðuroy.

Mykines, the seabirds' paradise

The last day of my trip brought a visit to the most westerly of the Faroe Islands. Most birdwatchers will know of Mykines. The rocky island may have the year-round population of only 11 people, but is home to thousands of birds – above all, the puffins. Their burrows densely cover the western side of Mykines, making the catching of the birds – which the locals say are extremely delicious to eat – a relatively easy task.

If Suðuroy is the Faroes' most remote island, then Mykines certainly ranks among the least accessible. In the winter, it is only a 3-weekly helicopter that connects Mykines with the rest of the Faroes; and the summer boat services are entirely reliant on weather, itself highly uncooperative.

As if there were any doubts about the perilous nature of the surrounding ocean, a monument to drowned sailors loomed solemnly on an elevated patch of land facing Mykines's namesake village. The plaque bore the names of other departed locals, most of whom found their deaths falling off the cliffs while catching birds or gathering sheep.

The main attraction of the island is a small islet of Mykineshólmur separated from Mykines by a 35 metre deep gorge. A sturdy steel structure enabling the crossing is believed to be the world's only bridge across the Atlantic Ocean. Thousands of seabirds find their homes in the steep cliffs surrounding the lighthouse at the far end of the islet – the first sight of many boats approaching Europe from the west.

My second visit to the Faroes came to a cosy end in Kollafjørður with a wonderful dinner in a family setting. Environmentalists are kindly requested to skip the rest of this paragraph: the most controversial of the Faroese delicacies, pilot whale meat (tvøst) and blubber (spik), were both duly supplied. While the latter is certainly an acquired taste, I recommend slipping a piece of potato between thin slices of each for an authentic Faroese "sandwich". Skerpikjøt (dried mutton) is also worth trying; keeping your eyes firmly fixed on the person across the table makes the experience somewhat easier to, well, digest.

As the Faroes' famously rugged contours were disappearing in the mist below, I momentarily wished that I, too, had a family to visit there every year. Be it the archipelago's eerie isolation, the sheer unpredictability of its weather or the landscapes – so splendidly windswept in a dramatic North Atlantic setting – one thing holds true. There is something irresistibly enticing about the Faroes, which draws back even a seasoned traveller.

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

Read my last year's blog story, The Faroe Islands: Europe's best-kept secret.

VisitFaroeIslands.com.

I am 28

2011-07-20T23:11:00.014+01:00

Sometimes I wish my weekday mornings were different. That I would not have to cycle madly through the streets of awakening London and hit the crowded pool amid the morning jam. That I could, for once, scrap my daily 2km of laps and sit in the jacuzzi for an hour instead. Or at least splash out on a nice cup of Starbucks coffee before work. I'd carry it into the office with dignity, sending hellos in every direction and generously exchanging smiles with my favourite colleagues. My life would surely be very different then.

Today, all these dreams magically came true. My alarm went off 30 minutes later than usual. I took a scenic route to the City, shamelessly got away with a 500-meter leisurely swim and soaked in the jacuzzi for the rest of the time. I put on a dress more casual than my normal set of uptight business attire and completed it with a Turkish bracelet, a Greek necklace and Bosnian earrings – my favourite (and decidedly unprofessional) combination.

Most importantly, after leaving the bliss of the jacuzzi behind, I marched into the nearest Starbucks and demanded my favourite drink in the world: the grande soya extra-hot no cream white (try pronouncing this in one breath and you’ll get the idea) mocha. Some of you will not even call it coffee, but every epoch has its heretics.

Carrying the coffee cup like a torch, I proceeded to the office and was greeted by my favourite colleague, who’d flown in all the way from Istanbul. And his first words – "Happy birthday, my dear!" – finally explained the mystery of such a perfect start to this day. Yes, folks. Today was my birthday! I officially stopped being 27 and crossed the "late twenties" mark.

When you're 27, going on 28...

Getting older has its positive sides. In many ways, 27 was the best year in the life of anjči to date. On my birthday last year, I wrote about finally being free to do what I liked; the age of 27 was spent exploiting that freedom. My travel schedule has beaten all past records. In a single year, I visited the three places I had dreamt about since childhood: the Faroe Islands, the Lofoten islands and Svalbard. I spent two weeks in each of Mexico, Vietnam, Syria and Norway. I watched the Northern Lights in Northern Norway in the winter and the Midnight Sun in the same location a few months later. I danced at a wonderful wedding and explored the slum areas in Rio de Janeiro. I made leisurely weekend trips to Venice, Madrid, Copenhagen and Stockholm - and rushed to Chernobyl on a tailwind. I had an eerie time zooming around the world’s most contrasting destinations. Thank you all so very much for being part of my travels, influencing my travel choices and supporting me along the way!

27 was also a memorable year professionally. I saw the signing of a series of my projects and was promoted for the first time. Business trips are, predictably, the favourite part of my work, and last year brought many of these. I visited the depths of rural Georgia, the ever lively Istanbul, the off-season Dubrovnik and the summery Belgrade. Many thanks to the colleagues who have accompanied me and the local friends who have gracefully changed plans to meet me on the road. I am fortunate to have you. And, looking around, I realise I may well be among the few people in London who love their jobs. It is just too lucky I enjoy mine – and get money for doing it, too!

Finally, 27 in the life of anjči was a great year emotionally as it was completely free of the curse of several of its predecessors: miserable relationships. In case you haven't tried, being single is a refreshingly wonderful, liberating experience. As they say in Spanish, "mejor sola que mal acompañada"; I am determined to make it last!

К сожаленью, день рождения только раз в году

With a rock start, today went on to be a fabulous day. Many special people have sent greetings, some of them brilliant bordering on genius. Clearly knowing me very well, one friend wished anjči “many more air miles”. Another aptly posted a Russian children’s song about a rainy birthday (spot-on for this London weather). Better still, a former coursemate wished me even more Starbucks next year. Seriously, guys, you’re the best. Miles, songs and Starbucks – I couldn’t wish for more in my 28th year of life!

Or could I? Many of you insisted that I kept up the writing of this blog, so that even the least mobile could see the world through my eyes. I can assure you that, as long as you continue reading, my fingers will also continue tapping on this keyboard, sharing more stories, describing more experiences and editing new pictures. I hope that you will keep on viewing this page to leave a comment (or two) on my latest posts. Or even become a follower. This would really be my best present.

Thanks again to all who care – hope you follow another year in the life of anjči!

Svalbard, an eerie Arctic land

2011-06-28T22:32:00.025+01:00

I was naive to think my long weekend was sorted. The original plan was to travel from the Greek island of Chios in Greece to Izmir in Turkey – when British Airways viciously cancelled my flight. Left grounded on a bank holiday, I desperately searched for an alternative sunny destination.

The task was easier than one could imagine. Following a momentary glimpse of genius, I found a perfect replacement. It was a very sunny destination indeed. A destination so sunny the sun didn't set there for the entire summer! You may have guessed it already. I was going to Svalbard.

Svalbard is an Arctic archipelago halfway between the northernmost tip of Norway and the North Pole. It comprises all islands between latitudes 74° and 81° North, the principal ones being Spitsbergen, Nordaustlandet, Barentsøya and Edgeøya. Spitsbergen was the archipelago's original name under which Svalbard is still best known in the Russian speaking world.

Norway holds sovereignty over the islands but with a few restrictions, such as that it cannot deny anyone the right to exploit local natural resources or conduct research. Military activities are out of question; as written in the Svalbard Act of 1925, the archipelago is to remain a fully demilitarised zone.

The climate on Svalbard is that of typical Arctic tundra, but thanks to Gulf Stream, is somewhat milder that elsewhere at similar latitudes. Due to the archipelago's extreme location less than 1,000 km away from the North Pole, the sun doesn't quite make it over the horizon for four months (mid-October til mid-February). Fortunately, the locals are duly compensated for the lack of light in winter during the summers – midnight sun, or round-the-clock daylight, can be observed on Svalbard from late April til late August. Minus the frequent fog, this indeed makes Svalbard a "sunny" destination – even if in its own special kind of way.

An unglamorous arrival

I took the preparations for my Svalbard adventure very seriously and soon accumulated a collection of top quality winter gear worthy of any self-respecting Arctic explorer. Feeling good about myself, I duly piled it all into a large backpack and set off on the first leg of my journey – a flight to Oslo.

Reading some nameless paper during the flight, I came across an article positively amusing. It told a story of a hapless traveller unlucky enough to lose his luggage on the way somewhere really cold. There he finally stood, in the extreme northern latitudes – in his flip-flops and Bermudas – feeling uncontrolled rage towards his airline and plenty of sympathy for himself. I smiled, put the paper away and thanked the skies for having a whole backpack full of ultra insulated Arctic gear. Which I was also going to use as a cushion for overnighting at Oslo airport before my morning flight to Longyearbyen.

Two hours later, I was stretching out on a passenger bench at Gardermoen, with little more than my camera as a surrogate pillow. My luggage – my hypervent, waterproof, ultra thin layer, Northern explorer luggage – was still in London! And of course it would not make it to Oslo in time for my morning flight, meaning that the hapless traveller from the article suddenly turned out to be me. Wearing flimsy canvas shoes and a short-sleeved t-shirt, I was a promising candidate to make a comical sight in Longyearbyen the next day. Where, just for the record, late May temperatures typically averaged at 2-4C degrees. Below zero, of course.

I sighed and tried to focus on the positive side; at least SAS wiped away my tears, gave me an overnight bag full of cute mini toiletries and said that 90 per cent of all missing (or "delayed" as they optimistically dubbed it) luggage was found within 36 hours. And there were surely worse things in life than freezing for 36 hours in breathtakingly beautiful Arctic latitudes.

Winter wonderland

All's well that ends well. Soon upon landing at Longyear airport – Svalbard's main gateway to the outside world – I was relieved to hear that my winter stuff had landed at Oslo and was travelling to the archipelago later that night. In the meantime, SAS splashed out on yet another overnight bag (kudos!) and lent me some winter gear from their secret storage room in the airport. They were clearly used to misplacing their passengers' luggage and covering (or not) the extensive outdoor clothing bills afterwards. Most of the borrowed stuff didn't fit me perfectly but it kept me warm enough – and hey, beggars certainly can't be choosers.

After sorting out the practical matters, I could at last focus on the surroundings. The flight alone made it evident to the most stubborn of sceptics that we were heading somewhere splendidly unusual. In late May, temperatures in most of Europe were, if not fit for a beach, balmy enough for a decent spring. Yet the first sight of Svalbard from our airplane was that of a snow-covered mountain range stretched endlessly towards the horizon. We had flown back into winter; into the place where average summer temperatures barely reached +6C degrees and where the snow only melted – for a short time – in selected coastal areas.

The airport, too, had its eccentric side, sporting a single runway and a joint hall for check-in, baggage reclaim, passenger waiting and customer service. I tried to steer my eyes clear of the luggage belt to dampen hard feelings about my famously missing backpack. The task was however an ambitious one – for, right there, atop the moving conveyor, stood a life-size stuffed version of a polar bear, Svalbard's undisputed symbol. With an estimated 3,000 species, the population of polar bears on Svalbard exceeds that of humans – who barely number 2,400.

Middle of nowhere

Wet snow was resting on the ground when we reached Longyearbyen. The main settlement lies only 3 km from the airport and is connected to it by a straight coastal road. With the corner of my eye, I noticed a polar bear warning sign at the entry to the inhabited area. Polar bears on Svalbard have no experience with humans and are likely to see them as a way to survive. Everyone stepping outside Svalbard's settlements is required to carry a rifle to protect themselves – as a last resort only – should the polar bear attack.

The airport bus (judging by the sign on its side, donated to Svalbard by Trondheim airport authorities) carefully edged along Longyearbyen’s narrow roads as it dropped the passengers off at the town’s few hotels. There are apparently only 50 km or so of roads on the entire 62,000 sq. km archipelago, and the road systems of separate settlements are not interconnected. Snowmobiles are used extensively during the winter, providing access to many of Svalbard’s remote areas. When venturing further afield, one can rely on boats and local aircraft, though the latter are generally not available to tourists.

More and more, Svalbard made an impression of an eerily extreme location. My last year’s getaway to Iceland – complete with a live viewing of an erupting volcano and whale-watching in the ocean – was suddenly overshadowed. In front of me was a place incomparably wilder, much more beyond reach and with an even scarcer human presence.

Russian settlements, glaciers and boat trips

After parting with my eye mask the next morning (in the best polar traditions, the sun would not hear of setting) and discovering my backpack neatly parked in the reception (kudos yet again to SAS), I was ready for my first major Svalbard discovery – a boat trip to Esmark glacier and a Russian settlement of Barentsburg.

After Longyearbyen, Barentsburg is Svalbard’s largest settlement with some 400 people residing on a semi-permanent basis. The dwellers are predominantly of Russian and Ukrainian origin, making Barentsburg exclusively Russian speaking. All are employed by the Russian coal-mining company, Arktikugol, which established its presence on the archipelago in the 1930s.

But what is a Russian settlement doing on a Norwegian territory, I hear you ask. Behold; while bringing Svalbard under the Norwegian sovereignty, the Spitsbergen Treaty of 1920 also allowed its signatories equal access and exploitation rights of the archipelago’s natural resources. Russia was quick to make use of this clause and its mining activity on Svalbard dates back nearly 80 years. The Russian consulate in Barentsburg even holds the title of the world’s northernmost diplomatic mission.

Our guide Vitaly took the long staircase from the harbour to walk us up to the settlement’s “centre”. The place used to be far more lively, he told us, during the Soviet times when it was seen as a channel of communism influence in the Arctic. With the Soviet Union’s collapse in the early 1990s, however, the settlement’s population has dwindled from 2,000 a few decades ago. Today, Russia’s presence in the Arctic is more strategic than commercial: Arktikugol’s second settlement on Svalbard, Pyramiden, has been abandoned and close to no coal is currently exported from Barentsburg.

The sight of Barentsburg was like a journey back in time. Most of the buildings in the settlement were built during the 1970s and 1980s and carried a distinct feel of their Soviet legacy. An old-fashioned playground suddenly swirled up a bundle of memories from my Soviet past. As if to crown it all, a bust of Lenin rose proudly on Barentsburg’s central square. Only the snowy peaks of the surrounding Arctic terrain – coupled with the shiver-inducing sight of the deep blue Isfjorden – gave away the settlement’s extreme location, so very detached from the Russian mainland.

Meanwhile, the weather continued brightening up. Blue skies and steep cliffs reflected in the surrounding waters as we sailed past, and myriads of sea birds circled the skies overhead, making a most surreal impression. The Barents Sea is among the areas with most seabirds and around 20 million individuals can be found there during late summers. Most of them are migratory birds.

Sunshine in Longyearbyen: carpe diem!

Longyearbyen welcomed us with clear skies; most unusual for late spring in Svalbard. I walked up to the settlement’s main place of worship – Svalbard Church, a cosy building with a small spire – in the so-called “old” part of town, Gamle Longyearbyen. The church, famously holding its doors open at any hour and with a never-depleting supply of coffee and biscuits for visitors, must be the only religious building in the world sporting a stuffed figure of a polar bear by the pews! Remembering my similar encounter at the airport, however, I was no longer surprised.

Longyearbyen's brightly painted houses made a stark contrast with the black and white Arctic backdrop of the surrounding mountains. Each of these buildings has its foundation sitting on wood piles and rises a few extra meters above ground. The reason is simple: Svalbard's soil is continuous permafrost (below or at the water's freezing point), meaning that the heat of a building adjacent to the ground could thaw it, leaving the building to sink! For the same reason, all pipes and cables in Svalbard run overground.

While Longyearbyen certainly isn't the centre of the world, its infrastructure has been designed to give the population at least some of the mainland’s comforts. I spotted a kindergarten, a school, a swimming pool, a hospital, a sports hall and a community centre. There was a choice of two (!) supermarkets (confirming mainstream economic theories, they were located bang opposite one another), as well as several restaurants, souvenir and outdoor shops. All that aside, Longyearbyen also houses the University Centre in Svalbard (known as UNIS) – the world’s northernmost higher education institution that offers degrees in arctic studies to around 350 students. It was in fact the blog of one of UNIS's researchers residing permanently in Svalbard that got me especially excited about visiting (see Max's blog and photos here).

So peaceful was Longyearbyen on this bright spring day - its silence barely interrupted by natural sounds of the birds and the sea - that I suddenly felt I wouldn't mind staying there longer. Sadly, very few foreigners can afford a long independent stay on the archipelago, as virtually all accommodation is owned by local companies and institutions which rent it out to their staff. And even the cheapest hotel options tend to be pricey. Longyearbyen certainly isn't a classic backpackers’ destination.

Coal mining and dog sledding

One cannot separate Svalbard from its coal mining past. Coal was discovered on the archipelago in the late 19th century, after which Svalbard gained its first permanent community, largely comprised of mining workers. Two coal companies operate on the islands: the Norwegian Store Norske Spitsbergen Kulkompani and the Russian Arktikugol. Store Norske currently exploits two mines. The first one, Svea Nord, is located in Sveagruva, a mining settlement 60 km from Longyearbyen where the workers commute on a shift basis. The other mine, simply named Mine 7, supplies coal to fire Longyearbyen’s only power plant.

I wanted to pay a visit to the disused Mine 3 before discovering, with disappointment, that guided tours there had been stopped for safety reasons. I resorted to talking the walking route between Longyearbyen and Mine 3 instead – the so-called Burma Road. The path ran parallel to the old disused coal cableway. The views towards the airport and across the Isfjorden were nothing short of magnificent. Full of excitement, I climbed several wooden pillars on my way for more interesting shots. It was only at the other end of the path that I realised I should have perhaps not ventured so far outside the settlement without a gun. I hurried back; the return journey was uneventful but I would certainly not recommend anyone to be so forgetful.

My afternoon was spent experiencing another typical side of Svalbard – a dog-sledding trip in the Adventdalen, a valley a few kilometres east of Longyearbyen. The induction process involved zipping myself into a snowsuit and massive boots permeated inside out with dog smell (as if to remove any doubt about where we were heading), crowning my head with a big furry hat, putting together a puzzle of six dogs and a sled and getting quickly familiarised with the brake system. After which Anna, our Swedish guide, popped that mandatory gun onto her back, and off we went.

Huskies were an interesting bunch, strangely impatient to run off to the cold valley with their human cargo and visibly disappointed to be locked up into the snow with a metal “anchor”. I enjoyed the few hours of riding but could not understand why anyone would want to be sledding on huskies for days – without any comforts of civilisation and for a fee, too! After being swiftly roped in to feeding the dogs upon our return (the food was frozen salmon chopped into pieces with a spade and portioned into big aluminium bowls with an oversized ladle – yum yum), I had had enough of dogs for the day. Needless to say that I still smelt dogs (and their fishy food) while falling asleep that night.

Pyramiden and a curious walrus

Remember Pyramiden, a Russian settlement that I said had been abandoned over a decade ago? That was the destination of my last day on magnificent Svalbard. The settlement has a bit of a sad history. Back in 1960-80s, it had a promising mining future and used to house over 1,000 residents. However, by the close of the 20th century, coal reserves in Pyramiden turned out overestimated, and the settlement consequently abandoned. These days, Russian authorities are making attempts to turn Pyramiden into a tourist destination – a summer hotel was even built in 2009 – but the process is slow and the place continues to resemble a ghost town.

Pyramiden’s fascinating reputation meant that I was most eager to take pictures there (as you might remember, I particularly enjoy photographing ruins and decay). Stein, the guide of the boat tour, was less enthusiastic. The summer season on Longyearbyen does not fully open till mid-June, and approaching Pyramiden by sea before that is subject entirely to ice conditions. We were most likely not going to make it to the harbour – but the journey itself was promising to be interesting.

Let’s just say that we were semi-lucky that day. As if by magic, the ice sheets split bang in front of the Pyramiden harbour to make a narrow passage for our sturdy little boat. We were able to step off and feel solid ground under our feet after a few hours of sailing. The sight of the harbour – complete with a metal skeleton of a loading crane and a faded welcoming sign carrying the settlement’s name in Russian – made a most spooky impression. Even more strangely, a fresh looking Russian flag atop the crane stood out eerily as the only streak of bright on the otherwise overcast backdrop of the surrounding Arctic scenery.

The same ice that gracefully let us pass could easily close back in and make the return to Longyearbyen impossible. We took no risks and left Pyramiden quickly. As I watched the tiny settlement getting more and more dwarfed by the pyramid shaped mountain in the foot of which it was sitting – and from which Pyramiden gets its name – I vouched to return one day. And perhaps even greet the four unlucky souls who inject some sort of life into this deserted place.

Our return journey was marked by the appearance of a walrus carrying a seal (very graphically, a dead one) which the walrus was obviously intending to have for dinner. The curious animal swam up close to the boat and stared at his sudden audience, not for one moment letting go of his catch. Not even our guide – a native of Svalbard – had seen a walrus devouring a seal before.

The final odd moment of the day was hearing the Svenskehuset story. In 1872-73, seventeen people overwintering in an isolated house on Cape Thordsen in Isfjorden died under circumstances most dubious. The cause of their death is now believed to be lead poisoning (I’ll let you read all about it yourselves) but many locals and visitors still believe that the house is cursed. We could see the house from the boat as we sailed past; I took several photos but would most certainly refrain from visiting.

Goodbye, Svalbard, goodbye, Arctic

The next day brought a snowstorm so strong that not even the sharpest eye could see the other side of the Isfjorden. The “sunny destination” did not turn out to be quite so sunny, after all. Thankfully, it was not the end of the word for the pilot of our SAS airplane. Visibly an Arctic regular, he took a sharp left seconds after taking off, circled over the Isfjorden and pulled up the chassis halfway through the loop – all that to the accompaniment of whistling wind and snow tapping viciously on the windows. It was my life’s scariest flying experience – and, as you might remember, I travel almost every week. Respect to the pilot.

Finally the plane evened out over the clouds, and, sipping my tea (the only free item on a typical SAS menu), I reflected on my visit. Svalbard is a combination of extremes: the location, the climate, the landscapes, the history, the wildlife and everyday human existence on the archipelago are all off limits for a regular leisure traveller. If you are into balmy temperatures, buzzing nightlife, fine dining and historic architecture, steer well clear of Svalbard. You’d do better in more mainstream destinations.

If, however, you are philosophical about the weather, fascinated by unharnessed nature and would like to find out how humans can survive – rather comfortably, too – in climates not really designed for human life – then Svalbard is your place. Polar bears, reindeer, polar foxes and myriads of birds move freely in this fragile Northern environment. Seven national parks and 23 natural reserves cover two thirds of the archipelago. I have barely seen a fraction of it, and I can hardly wait to come back.

And who knows, I might even meet a live polar bear then. See you next year!

~~~~

(View my Flickr photo set for Svalbard here)

Stay tuned for my upcoming visits to Norway: Trondheim to Nordkapp via the Lofoten Islands (described here in Part I and Part II) (July 2011) and Stavanger / Lysefjord (September 2011)

A day in Chernobyl

2011-06-13T13:33:00.027+01:00

We meet on Kyiv's Independence Square where the guide checks our passports and dress code. I have thoughtfully brought an extra pair of socks to protect a short stretch of flesh over my shoes. The strategy proves to be right: the more skin is covered during the visit to the still radioactive area around the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, the better.

On the 2-hour journey from Kyiv, we watch a documentary about the disaster. Most of us already know the story: on 26 April 1986, a safety test at Chernobyl NPP went badly wrong. Two resulting explosions completely destroyed one of the plant's four reactors, releasing massive amounts of radioactive substances into the air. Over 100,000 people from the surrounding areas were promptly evacuated and hundreds of thousands of workers were called in to deal with the consequences of what is still considered to be the world's worst ever nuclear accident.

After an hour of images no less than terrifying, some of us are having second thoughts about continuing the journey. Our guide Konstantin doesn't make it any better. "Don't worry about the radiation," he says. "It's higher than at Fukushima but normal for Chernobyl."

Needless to say that we all sigh with relief when it turns out to be a joke.

Background radiation 28 times normal? Hilarious, isn't it.

Into the Exclusion Zone

There is no way back by the time we reach Dityatki – the check point at the entry to the so-called Exclusion Zone. The area covering a 30 km radius around the Chernobyl NPP is considered to be the most contaminated by the disaster. Our passports are checked again; the most enthusiastic of visitors are not wasting any time and start snapping the colourful warning shields around. Most carry yellow symbols of radioactivity. Even our bus has one on the front pane where the name of the destination would normally sit instead.

The road to the town of Chernobyl passes several signs indicating the location of villages whose population was promptly evacuated after the disaster. One by one, they dash in front of our eyes. The village of Kopachi is entirely buried under sand – an extreme measure by the rescue workers (known as the liquidators) to prevent the radiation from spreading.

The surrounding nature is intensely green, and the air streaming in through the open roof of our bus surprisingly fresh. Grass, weeds and overgrown bushes are decidedly taking over the environment once harnessed by human activity. The Ukrainian law forbids any kind of industry in the Exclusion Zone, and – radiation aside – the place could closely qualify as a natural reserve. Some say the areas to the east of the Zone are free from radiation altogether and winning back permanent residents – with real estate prices beginning to match those in Kyiv.

"Stop! Forbidden area"

The road to Chernobyl

Not all abandoned

Suddenly a rather well kept building comes into view. Fresh curtains are dancing in the half-open windows and wooden panels look like someone has replaced them recently.

A silent question in everybody's eyes is soon answered: Konstantin says that, yes, many original residents – 800 by some estimates – have resettled in the area since the disaster. "They were homesick elderly people", he adds. "Who felt they belonged here, radiation or not."

We reach the town of Chernobyl which, despite our expectations, does not exactly look abandoned. There are people in the streets and an occasional truck wheels past on a decently maintained central road. Despite the popular perception of Chernobyl being a ghost town, people continue to work there. The surrounding forests have flourished in the absence of industrial activity and brigades of fire fighters monitor the site to prevent fires that could raise radioactive particles into the air. Then there are water specialists – ensuring that the water in the cooling pond around the notorious Reactor 4 is kept at a certain level – as well as scientists, researchers and support staff.

A further 3,000 people are employed at the Chernobyl NPP itself. Many of them are former residents of Pripyat who were relocated to the town of Slavutych 50 km away and commute to Chernobyl daily. The plant stopped generating electricity years ago (in case you had any doubts) but the decommissioning of units 1, 2 and 3 will take much longer; possibly, generations of workers.

We continue to the town of Pripyat along what our guide calls the "most washed road in the world". The 18-km stretch used to transport the liquidators to the critical point of the disaster was once generously washed every 24 hours to remove radioactive dust. Minimising the workers' radiation intake along the way meant that they could stay longer at the disaster site.

Chernobyl to Pripyat. Note the border of the 10-km radius zone at Leliv

The real ghost town

Finally a torch-shaped welcoming sign à-la Soviet Union emerges into view: we have reached Pripyat. The town was purpose built for the workers of the Chernobyl NPP in 1970 and had a population of 50,000 at the time of the disaster. A model Soviet city, Pripyat was once shown to foreign delegations as an example of the USSR's successful achievements in nuclear development.

What we see though is far from the bustling, young city Pripyat once was. With not a sign of human life in the streets, visiting here is a spooky experience. Buildings stare at us in windowless silence, tree branches sticking out from the inside. Most of us soon feel uncomfortable but there is no way back.

Entering Pripyat

Hotel Polissya. Top floors offer a great view onto the central square.

The Energetik cultural centre's performance hall

Ferris wheel. The brand new fairground was due to open on Mayday.

Teremok, the abandoned kindergarten

A brochure dedicated to International Women's Day, widely celebrated in the former Soviet Union

Mayday booklet. The Chernobyl disaster happened only days before, on 26 April.

We visit hotel Polissya, the Energetik cultural centre, kindergarten Teremok, a fairground and School Number 2. Pripyat's population was evacuated 36 hours after the explosions – in what was possibly the world's most impressive mass evacuation – and it is obvious that people left in a rush. Books and toys are scattered over the kindergarten floor. Unpaired shoes lie forgotten in the massive sports hall at the Energetik. In one corner I find a class timetable prepared by the music teacher. The last date marked is 28 April 1986; a lesson planned two days after the disaster. And some blackboards still bear traces of chalk.

Class timetable, two days too late

Torn apart

Little feet

Such incredible mess there is around though – with school desks turned over and baby cots stripped – that we cannot help thinking someone has repeatedly visited the site before us, searching for anything remotely valuable. Konstantin tells us guards were placed throughout Pripyat to keep the looters away, but couldn't do much. Former inhabitants were told to leave their personal possessions behind, and many residential blocks and official buildings have seen regular looting raids.

A friend lost in Pripyat

Newspaper dated April 1986, the month when the time stopped

I searched in vain for the matching pair

Through the eyes of a child

Classroom for military education

School 2 in Pripyat

School library. Looters not interested in reading.

Our next stop is a shining new canteen serving the workers of Chernobyl NPP. As an authoritative-looking woman with an apron on feeds us a 3-course lunch (no, seriously), some workers collect their meal trays from the other end of the hall. They do not even look at us; Chernobyl first opened its doors for tourism 10 years ago and is visited by several tour groups daily.

Reassured by the guide that all food ingredients are imported from outside the Exclusion Zone, I finish lunch early and go for a walk towards the carcasses of Reactors 5 and 6. They were nearly finished at the time of the disaster and the site is still surrounded by cranes crouched in a variety of positions. Just like in Pripyat, no-one here was expecting to leave when – in the words of the documentary we saw on the bus – their world was "wiped out by an invisible enemy".

A 3-course lunch at the Chernobyl NPP canteen

Chernobyl NPP canteen serves the workers involved in the decommissioning of the plant

The unfinished Reactor 5

As close as it gets

The most interesting part of the tour is saved for the finale. We continue towards Reactor 4 – the epicentre of the disaster. The pond once used by the power plant for cooling is literally swarming with overgrown catfish. Its size isn't the result of radioactive mutation, however (as most of us seem to think at first), but rather reflects the fact that the fish face no predators in the pond. The guide goes on to tell us that, according to certain scientific tests, excessive radiation has only been found in the skin and bones of the fish, and eating it might not be as bad as most imagine. Unsurprisingly though, we do not see much fishing activity around.

Our final stop is within 100 meters of Reactor 4 – the closest visitors are allowed to the disaster site. As everyone rushes to have their photo taken on the dramatic background (blame the radiation overdose), I stand aside and scout the walls of the so-called Sarcophagus. A concrete structure sealing the destroyed reactor was designed to last for about 10 years and, 25 years later, bears visible signs of weariness. With over 200 tonnes of radioactive horror still locked within those walls, one would shudder to imagine the flaky roof plunging in. It doesn't bear thinking about.

The Geiger counters are by then screaming themselves hoarse, and it is time to leave. Back in Dityatki, a vertical machine – so-called dosimeter – measures individual radiation levels at exit. I sigh in relief as it gives me a green light. The radiation exposure from a sole day in the Exclusion Zone is minimal – in fact I probably get far more serious dosages from cruising at 30,000 feet every week – but it will be a very long time until one can feel at ease in a place like Chernobyl. If ever at all.

Cooling pond and Reactor 4

Cooling pond on a sunny day

Monument in front of Reactor 4

You have been warned

(View Flickr photoset for Chernobyl here)

Syria: 10 days of uncertainty

2011-05-20T13:12:00.015+01:00

I returned from a trip to Syria recently.

Given the tense political situation in the country and all the negative publicity, it was decidedly not the best time to visit Syria. Many of you will remember the hesitation I went through before the trip. The choice was not easy, but I eventually gave Syria the benefit of the doubt, said my prayers and boarded a Damascus-bound flight.

And here I am – back in London, not hurt in the slightest and full of impressions to last a lifetime. Many thanks to those who followed my route and photo updates on the Internet. Something this trip made me realise was just how many people cared about a crazy blogger called anjči. I never had doubts my long-term friends would keep in touch; more surprising was that also some contacts I had long considered forgotten suddenly re-appeared in my life, sending encouragement and reconnecting after years of absence.

Long story short, I couldn't imagine that my well-being would be of importance to such a wide circle of people. Thank you all very much; I appreciate unreservedly that you care.

Not as bad as on TV

Public concern surrounding my trip clashed dramatically with my Syrian everyday. I did not run into a single conflict during my 10 days in Syria. The government's security forces may have looked intimidating in the news; personally, however, I did not hear one gunshot in the areas that I visited. I certainly saw plenty of guns carried around, but those were not put to use once in front of my eyes.

Neither did I manage to witness one protest. Albeit disappointed that dramatic photographs were not lining up dutifully at my doorstep, I admit that travelling to the troubled areas would have been stupid at best – if at all possible.

I felt that being a foreigner in Syria was more of an advantage than otherwise. The turmoil was, emphatically, a domestic issue which the Syrian government was not keen to take outside its borders, thus preventing foreign journalists from entering the country and international news agencies from reporting on local events on-site. It was understood though that, if one outsider was hurt, the issue would escalate to the international scene, making foreign involvement almost inevitable. For this reason – and thanks to the genuine hospitality of Syrian people – tourists in Syria were treated reasonably well and could generally move around unrestricted. As long as they were not undercover journalists, of course.

While foreigners in Syria were not targeted by the protesters or the official forces, increased security meant certain inconvenience to travellers. Multiple passport checks accompanied every journey, including a daunting requirement to register with police at every terminal of entry, be it a train station or a mini bus stand. Carrying a document of identification was already a legal obligation in Syria, and the instances of being asked for such became more frequent the longer I stayed.

"What do you mean the road is closed?"

As of late May 2011, the anti-government movement in Syria continues to be localised to certain parts of the country. Having broken out in the southern town of Dara'a two months ago, the protests have gradually spread to the central city of Homs, several non-central neighbourhoods of Damascus, coastal towns of Latakia, Banyas and Tartus, as well as the Kurdish regions bordering Turkey in the northeast. The government forces fought back hard, on many occasions opening live fire on the protesters and killing around 900 people since March 2011.

While cancelling my long-awaited trip was not on the table (I can be remarkably stubborn at times), I tailored the route carefully to avoid trouble. The closest I got to the epicentre of the uprising, Dara'a, was 40 km away, in Busra – a town famous for its Roman amphitheatre and a popular day trip from Damascus. The only indication of reduced government sympathies in Busra was the near absence of President Assad's images, making a stark contrast with the capital where such images were on public display on every surface imaginable. Indeed, the only image of any member of the Assad family I came across in Busra had already been vandalised during earlier protests.

Busra's rebellious stance towards the regime became more obvious on my way back to Damascus. A few minutes into the journey, our bus was refused entry into the highway connecting Dara'a with the capital. It turned out that the authorities had shut the road to prevent the disloyally minded locals from marching on to Damascus.

Facing an unenviable prospect of sitting out the stirrup in a small Syrian town until an undefined date, I made an escape via Suweida together with two French tourists. About 70 km from Damascus, we were stopped by rather explicitly armed security forces for the first passport check of the several that were to follow. Our driver had his Busra-issued documents scrutinised and was sent back: no locals of the areas adjacent to Dara'a were allowed to Damascus, even if merely as drivers for foreign visitors.

We had lost our car, but the soldiers were courteous enough to help us with a lift. One of them promptly hailed a passing car, patted the slightly shocked driver on the shoulder and ordered him to take the "guests" back to Damascus.

Which the driver did. Needless to say without even mentioning compensation.

A "pressing need to stay"? Well...

Following the post I wrote just before travelling to Syria, most of you – parents in particular – were suggesting that I cancel the trip. When I eventually did go to Syria, many people continued persuading me not to linger there and to make a dash for Lebanon instead. This war of opinions intensified the more graphic the news reports on Syria became. I was rather torn apart between those diametrically opposite choices; undecided, I listened carefully.

I was however not ready to leave Syria yet. After having spoken with many locals and reviewed the news, I did not believe the situation in Syria risked changing overnight. Moreover, I had still not seen a sight of danger. I decided to stay – subject to making further revisions of my itinerary.

My next stop was Aleppo, Syria's largest city 400 km north of Damascus. Halfway between the two, I received some breaking news from the UK where the Foreign & Commonwealth Office had freshly revised its travel advice for Syria. Britons were now being advised against travelling to the whole of the country rather than only a handful of areas where the violence was particularly acute. International airlines were still operating scheduled flights from Syria, and the UK government's advice to its citizens was to leave unless they had a "pressing need to stay".

The journey from Damascus to Aleppo was relatively uneventful. I deemed it best not to linger on the Homs-Hama highway though, and skipped Crac de Chevalliers – a medieval castle in the vicinity of Homs and one of Syria's most famous landmarks. With great sadness, I also diverted my steps from the coastal city of Latakia; while the 4-hour train journey from Aleppo had been recommended as exceptionally scenic, I could not risk running into a full-scale demonstration at the other end.

Planning an Aleppo exit

After two days in Aleppo – where I was decidedly a rare tourist in town – and a detour to Deir Samaan historic site, I still had not seen any protests. Time had come to transfer to Palmyra, my next stop.

Normally I would travel to Homs, from where mini buses were departing frequently to Palmyra. As said before, however, the highway leading south was not entirely trouble-free. Segments of the Damascus-Aleppo road were periodically held closed in a way similar to my earlier Busra experience. Moreover, a bus operated by one of Syria's biggest companies, Kadmous, had recently been stopped by a group of protesters who stormed inside, ripped out the President's image in the rear pane and stamped on it in rage. Albeit unhurt, the passengers (one of whom I met randomly in Aleppo and heard this story from) were absolutely terrified.

Even an alternative road would mean problems: the coastal route to Lebanon went through Latakia, Banyas and Tartous, all involved in anti-government uprisings. Syrians near the border were beginning to cross into Lebanon, causing congestion at border control. The route to the "safe haven" was not exactly safe.

Go East, live is peaceful there

So where next? Western news on Syria I was following overnight (the adrenaline in my blood was exceeding all levels of normality, making sleep impossible) looked rather intimidating, even if they clashed with my calm everyday reality. Hearing my mother's trembling voice over Skype, I decided to tread carefully. My third best way back to Damascus (and consequently on to Beirut) was long but safe: first east towards Iraq and then west across the desert via Palmyra.

The town of Deir ez-Zor in Eastern Syria is unlikely to make the itinerary of a rushed explorer. What made it most fascinating though was the river: nothing less than the mighty Euphrates moving towards the Persian Gulf. Seeing one of the world's most important rivers – as well as Lake Assad en-route Deir ez-Zor – surely made up for a forced detour into a stretching desert.

If Aleppo and Damascus featured occasional tourists, in Deir ez-Zor I was decidedly a sole foreigner around. This explains the ceaseless attention – and certain distrust – I received there. Very few public places had wireless internet access; when I tried using one of the painfully slow computers at a central internet café, I was asked to have every page of my passport scanned beforehand. Needless to say that I refrained from posting any radical opinions about the Syrian government that night.

Talk wisely

Speaking openly deserves a detour here. In a country where social networking sites like Facebook had only been allowed since February 2011, the society was not exactly used to expressing controversial opinions. Locals told me they were careful about what personal information they were putting online. Some sources report an estimated eight thousand people to have been detained since the Syrian protests began. My acquaintances in Damascus confirmed that arrests were indeed common: at least 10 of their close friends had been taken under custody recently for expressing dissent with the regime on the internet. Another person I met had his email account blocked for "receiving too many messages from abroad". He was using his brother's email instead.

Freedom of speech was certainly not taken for granted in Syria. Locals I spoke to during my journey were cautious not to be overheard when discussing domestic politics (itself a rare occasion). One Aleppan – a teacher of English and therefore highly useful to non-Arabic speakers like me – insisted on changing location every 10 minutes not to attract attention. I understood that the government's secret police in civilian clothing numbered thousands and were present everywhere – ready to act should someone attempt spreading rebellious messages, speaking against the government or rising up openly in opposition.

Public talk aside, one resident of Damascus told me that the state-owned post company regularly went through the parcels he received from abroad. He had been detained several times and questioned on the origin of his mail.

Syria is a religiously and ethnically divided society. Not everyone expressed dissatisfaction with the current regime. I met surprisingly many people who seemed – or acted – happy with the way things were. Women generally appreciated the apparent safety they associated with security forces. Syrians working in tourism condemned the protesters for "making noise" in the middle of peak tourist season. Christians felt certain protection under Assad's rule. Furthermore, some Kurds I happened to meet sympathised with the President thanks to his earlier promises that the Kurds' once ceased Syrian citizenship be restored.

Despite his portrayal in some Western media as a ruthless adversary to any expression of public dissent, President Assad seemed to be perceived as a reform-friendly figure by a few Syrians. Many agreed that his actions were largely dictated by immediate family members occupying some of Syria's key positions of power. Not even the West can conclude with certainty whether Assad is more of a puppet or really holding the reins of authority. One diplomat once described Syria as a "dictatorship without a dictator"; he might have had a point there.

Back to Damascus

Going back to my journey, I felt somewhat lonely at Dura Europos, a fortress in the middle of the desert 50 km from the Iraqi border. My only company – the guards nearby – poured me some tea and said tourist groups had all but evaporated in the past few weeks.

My final stop was Palmyra, Syria's number one tourist destination. An otherwise unassuming town, Palmyra is world famous for its impressive Roman ruins. It usually gets very busy in peak tourist season. This time, however, the town was quiet, with barely a few tourists around. There were actually more locals around the ruins than foreigners; a few souvenir sellers and camel owners were ceaselessly chasing the visitors.

While I did not mind some peace, the atmosphere was a little sad. The locals sounded disappointed with the protesters' actions causing a sharp decline in tourist numbers and therefore their businesses. Ibrahim, an owner of a popular restaurant, keenly showed me a photo of President Assad visiting Palmyra with Spain's royal couple years ago. The current regime certainly had few opponents in a place like Palmyra.

Even then, I was somewhat scared when local vendors suddenly started shutting down their stores one evening, all drawing towards a central café. I didn't need to worry, however. What looked like a budding revolution merely turned into preparations for a football match between Real Madrid and FC Barcelona. Syria may not be that strong in football on the global scale but remains endlessly loyal to its most popular sport.

Come Thursday, after being stopped by the police to have the photos in my camera checked (I kept quiet about backing up my memory cards daily to avoid trouble), I embarked on the final leg of my journey – to Beirut. Fridays in Syria had become firmly associated with increased protest activity and the resulting crackdowns by the government. All this meant that I was not the only foreigner swapping Syria for Lebanon that Thursday. The diplomatic lane at the Lebanese border certainly looked full.

Goodbye, Syria

After a 2-km stretch of road lined with President Bashar's images, I was finally in Lebanon. I had imagined this moment many times already: how I would hand my passport to the immigration officer, get it swiftly stamped, cast one last look across the border and sigh with relief as the bus would be taking me further and further into safety.

But was Syria really that dangerous? Even though I never felt threatened, my friends' growing concerns about the Syrian situation took their toll. Many of you called me fearless to travel to Syria during the difficult times. I hope I will not disappoint anyone by saying that I, too, was often terrified by the everyday uncertainty on a supposedly relaxing holiday. Even if my fear had been caused by foreign news reports rather than a sight of imminent danger.

Our bus was already approaching Beirut but the long-awaited relief did not come. I suddenly felt sad to have left behind Syria – as well as the wonderfully welcoming people I met there.

I remembered Toufik and Mohammad who wholeheartedly invited me to share a modest meal in their family home in Aleppo after barely a few minutes of acquaintance. Ibrahim in Palmyra who bought me a bus ticket after I ran out of cash. Philip at Souq Al-Hamidiya in Damascus who unearthed an ancient map of Syria to give me some travel advice. Hisham in Aleppo who bought me ice-cream and begged to send him some aloe skin crème from London. Lima, a mother of a cute little girl called Sham who kept me great company on the bus to Hama. Hassan, an engineer in Deir ez-Zor who showed me around town and impressed me with his fluent Serbo-Croatian (he had studied in the former Yugoslavia and was married to a Croatian woman). Marouf, a taxi driver in Damascus who taught me some Kurdish words and spontaneously drove me up Mount Qasiyun "from the heart". Zacharia, a minibus owner Raqqa who introduced me to his entire family and then entertained with some authentic Arabic front-wheel dancing as we drove to Lake Assad.

I met some great people on my way. And the image I will have of Syria will not be a place torn apart by protests and violence. It will be of a country warmly welcoming visitors regardless of its internal problems. This is how I will remember Syria. And I hope to be back one day – back to what might already be a different country by that time.

Inshallah.

~~~~
(View my photos from Syria here)

Eurovision 2011: Running Scared?

2011-05-16T13:39:00.007+01:00

As I ran towards the North Greenwich Tube station, the familiar chords of Pink Floyd's immortal The Wall seemed to be tracing my every step.

Behind me at O2 Arena, Roger Waters was giving one of his exclusive London concerts – the event for which my tickets had been pre-booked almost a year ahead. After all, Pink Floyd's music was the soundtrack to my childhood; seeing their founding member perform live at one of London's largest venues was supposed to be a real treat.

And yet I was leaving early – leaving because something infinitely more important was awaiting me at home. Most of you will have guessed already. What else but the Eurovision Song Contest 2011?

Before anyone starts cringing in uncontrolled disdain, let me back up. I have been a devoted Eurovision fan since watching the Contest for the first time in 1997, and have seen every single Contest to date. Which numbers 14 years worth of Contests, or exactly one half of my eventful life. Doing something with near religious adherence for half of one's life is no joke.

Besides – music quality aside – the Contest is unique in its highly entertaining political bias. No other show provides a better outlet for regional sympathies and tensions in Europe and beyond.

Which hopefully explains why Roger Waters lost a keen listener a bit early last Saturday night.

It's that time of year again

The 2011 Eurovision Song Contest was interesting in many ways. For a start, it was the first Contest Germany had hosted since its reunification and the third one held on the territory of present day Germany – the last one was held there in 1983. I wasn't even born back then.

Secondly, 2011 marked a change of Eurovision's Executive Supervisor. Famous for his classic words, "Europe has voted", Sweden's Svante Stockselius resigned from the role shortly after last year's Contest after seven years of supervising Europe's musical voting. He has been replaced by Jon Ola Sand – a Norwegian who may not be copying Svante's trademark phrase but at least speaks with a similar accent.

Finally and most notably, this year's Eurovision title was likely also the most contended one in history: the fate of the winning song was not clear until towards the very end of the voting. After several years of top participants leaving others trailing behind minutes into the voting, national result announcements this year kept the audience glued to the screens until the end.

The uneven split of votes is well evident in the varied allocation of the top score "douze-points". If in the last couple of years the winning songs each received a maximum number of 12 points (Germany's Satellite got nine in 2010; Norway's Fairytale as many as 16 a year earlier), 2011 was not so clear cut. The highest number of maximum points (five in total) was awarded to Bosnia and Herzegovina which finished sixth. The second highest (four) went to Italy, ranking second. And the ultimate winner – Azerbaijan – only managed to score three 12-pointers, one of which – from an old ally, Turkey – it had as good as guaranteed anyway.

Azerbaijan's victory may have surprised many and defied a few highly regarded prediction polls. Why were so many European nations suddenly dishing out mid-range votes to a former Soviet republic somewhere in the Caucasus? Other than for the song itself, Running Scared – indeed of laudable Eurovision quality – I humbly theorise that the extra votes for Azerbaijan came from the numerous Turkish diaspora in Europe. After Turkey's Live It Up failed to, well, live up to expectations, European Turks' second best option was to support their closest brother nation. Out comes Azerbaijan; you know the rest.

Money is not always King

In a desperate attempt to improve their once enviable Eurovision performance, the United Kingdom and Ireland both splashed out in order to promote their entries ahead of the Contest. The same formula seemed to have worked last year for Germany, which marched on to pan-European victory after staging a fancy multi-round TV casting show for its national selection.

Having taken care of the promotional side, Europe's two English speaking nations sadly seem to have forgotten all about the actual quality of the songs. Ireland's Lipstick performed by an energetic duet of identical twins, Jedward, was a far cry from the country's previous Eurovision winners. The twins finished eighth – a disappointing result given that Ireland continues to hold the most Eurovision titles to date (a total of seven) but has failed to win the Contest since 1996.

As for the United Kingdom, its overhyped boy band Blue – freshly reunited for the occasion – narrowly undershot the Top 10, finishing 11th. I Can clearly couldn't win support across the Channel; still, the United Kingdom finally seems to have broken out of the loop of systematic bottom-of-the-list Eurovision performances. It is only a shame that it had to work so hard to reach so little.

Ironically, 2011 marked the first year when Azerbaijan did not invest millions in promoting their song, proving that sheer quality and regional support continue to come ahead of zealous promotion.

Haven't we seen them somewhere before?

Several countries returned to Eurovision in 2011 after skipping one or more years. Austria (last seen in 2007) and Hungary (in 2009) both trailed at the lower end of the rankings despite rather deserving entries; it might be that the former imperial allies need to start making new friends in Europe. Another returnee, San Marino (participating for the second time in history after 2008), barely collected a handful of points in Semi-final 1, making one wonder if, frankly, the micro state need to have bothered at all.

The comeback of the year, however, unanimously goes to Italy. Having last participated in 1997, Italy pledged to win the Contest upon its long-awaited return. And while it did not win, Raphael Gualazzi's Madness of Love came a respectable second – hopefully boosting public awareness of Eurovision in Italy and most certainly saving face for the old core of Europe.

As every year, several countries also chose to recycle the previous years' performers. Most obviously, Germany's Lena won the Contest last year; her Bjork-esque Taken by a Stranger was however less successful in taking over Europe's hearts in 2011, finishing 10th. Israel's Dana International – a winner in 1998 – might still have looked a Diva but failed to make it past the Semi-finals. Hats off for Moldova, whose Zdob şi Zdub already represented the country in 2005 but had since added some interesting costume solutions to their performance.

Bosnia and Herzegovina clearly knew what they were doing by sending Dino Merlin as their Eurovision ambassador. Known to non-Balkan circles for having represented his country at Eurovision in 1999, the singer is a real veteran on the music scene of the former Yugoslavia. Not surprisingly, Bosnia and Herzegovina's Love in Rewind scored a top number of 12-point awards (three from elsewhere in former Yugoslavia and two thanks to vast Balkan diaspora in Austria and Switzerland), which best visualises the recognition factor. Having said that, the song, too, was decent.

And the 12 points go to…

There were few surprises as far as voting was concerned. After all, isn't the political bias exactly what we love Eurovision for? First came the so-called "sweet couples": the countries gracefully exchanging 12-point handshakes in Semi-finals and Finals. Namely: Turkey and Azerbaijan (see above), Serbia and Croatia (secretly in love with each other), Romania and Moldova (isn't that the same country, anyway?), Denmark and Sweden (Norway didn't qualify), Slovenia and Bosnia and Herzegovina (Slovenia's Maja clearly outscoring Serbia's Nina on certain fronts), and, finally, Ireland and Denmark. The latter is the only one I personally fail to explain; is it that, God forbid, they actually liked each other's music?

As expected, strong support came from the homesick diaspora. Lithuania's "C'est ma vie" did remarkably well in the United Kingdom (receiving 12 points in Semi-final 1) and Ireland (12 points in the Finals) thanks, firstly, to thousands of Lithuanians continuing to sit out the Baltic crisis in those two countries, and secondly, to inheriting votes of the Latvian diaspora after Latvia failed to qualify.

For historic reasons dating back to the early 1990s, many descendants of the former Yugoslavia ended up in Austria and Switzerland; these two countries were responsible for awarding Bosnia and Herzegovina 12 points in the Finals. Similarly, Switzerland awarded 12 points to Serbia (Semi-final 1), Greece gave 10 points to Albania (Semi-final 1), and Italy ranked Romania its top choice (Semi-final 2). One does not need official demographic statistics when there is Eurovision!

Other trends

Following last year's momentary comeback of national languages, it seems that English is yet again stepping forward as Europe's ultimate lingua franca. Only nine of 43 songs were performed entirely in the respective country's language (assuming, of course, that Corsican qualifies as such for France and that Gaelic remains off the table for Ireland), of which only five participated in the Finals. A further nine were bilingual, meaning that as many as 25 songs were in English. The highest ranking song in the national language – Serbia's Čaroban – scored 14th. Indeed a sad trend given the richness of European linguistic heritage.

Going on to the announcement of national results, I noticed a couple of familiar faces among spokespersons. Ukraine's Ruslana and Russia's Dima Bilan won the Contest for their countries in 2004 and 2008, respectively. Past winners aside, most other nations turned the announcement into an undercover beauty show – which added a fresh element to the admittedly over-stretched result announcements.

Final entertainment of the night was reserved for Latvia. Caught in a classic situation facing our ailing Vaterland – namely, being given a say when everything has been determined already without us – Latvia's Aisha played it well. Indeed, her enthusiasm and impromptu live performance of the Italian entry were a welcome change from a series of staple "my-country-speaks-better-German-than-yours" attempts and mandatory compliments on the presenters' appearance. Stefan Raab looking "marvellous"? Give me a break.

Having said all of the above, I did not for one minute regret sacrificing the last few minutes of Roger Waters's performance to Eurovision. The Wall has fallen; Europe is one! Even if we still like our next door neighbour's song better than yours.

Congratulations to Azerbaijan and see you all in Baku in 2012!

~~~~

Read my accounts of Eurovision 2009 and Eurovision 2010

Eurovision logo: http://www.eurovision.tv/

Should I stay or should I go (to Syria)

2011-04-21T15:36:00.005+01:00

My past few days have been quite busy.

At work, I have wiped out my "to do" list down to the most unimportant item, taken my favourite colleagues for extended coffee breaks and left the secretary with detailed instructions of unlocking the drawers in my absence. I have double checked the "emergency contact" in my employee file and the exact coverage terms of my insurance. I have repaid whatever I ever owed to anyone and sent a reconciliatory email to that guy who once clipped his bicycle to mine in the shed downstairs. It is not a crime, after all, to lock one's vehicle to other people's without permission, is it? He couldn't have done it on purpose. Right? The bastard.

At home, I have cleaned the entire flat, washed my bicycle and packed away winter clothes. I have emailed the friends I lost touch with long ago and called my parents. I have finished editing my latest travel pictures (the process that NEVER really ends) and started compiling an album of the best ones from 2011. I have organised my bills and arranged direct debit for my electricity and gas payments – something I had procrastinated on for absolutely ages.

Finally, as a reward for this unprecedented effort, I bought myself an ultimate treat – white chocolate mocha with soya milk from Starbucks. I love it, folks. Nothing makes anjči happy like a good cuppa of steaming white mocha. Extra hot, please.

In short, I have been acting like I am leaving and not coming back for a while. Which is most strange given that I am not actually moving anywhere. I am merely going on holiday for 11 days.

Except, of course, that I am going to Syria.

April is the cruellest month

April has proved to be the most unpredictable month in my life. Take 2009 when I was planning to spend Orthodox Easter on the Greek island of Chios with my then boyfriend. Things didn't go quite as planned: I got a job in London and swiftly left Greece and Easter travel plans (as well as the boyfriend) behind.

A few of you will still remember the April story of 2010. I was due to fly to Hong Kong for a short break when Eyjafjallajökull, Iceland's world-famous volcano, erupted angrily, casting clouds of rage over Europe and North Atlantic. My flight to Hong Kong was cancelled hours before departure.

The two occasions – which then seemed tearfully unfortunate at best – have taught me a couple of lessons. Firstly, to stay philosophical about things I couldn't do much about. I most certainly couldn't tell the volcano to hold off erupting for another week – or to love the country I clearly wasn't made to live in.

Secondly, I learned to see the positive in the grimmest of developments – even when such were not exactly obvious. Leaving Greece helped me to avoid the economic crisis which broke out in the country shortly after – and to start a new job in London which I am still madly passionate about. On the same note, not going to Hong Kong meant catching Oliver Dragojević perform live at London's Royal Albert Hall instead – as well as booking a fantastic replacement holiday in Greece a few months later. Add to that the once-in-a-lifetime experience of watching a live eruption of the named volcano in Iceland. It was all perfect in the end.

Indeed, missing out on something always translated into gaining something else elsewhere.

Revolution? Didn't we have one last week?

Come April 2011, and I was subconsciously expecting another travel drama. That I would have to scrap travel plans at short notice for reasons like, say, a war in Libya, an earthquake in New Zealand or tsunami-evoked nuclear crisis in Japan. I was even disappointed that nothing of the sort was seemingly forthcoming in my destination of choice. Out comes Syria.

All that changed when Syria, too, headed for some serious upheaval. Antigovernment protests reached Syria later than other Arab nations. They have also taken a much more gradual pace; first localised to the town of Dara'a in the south of the country and eventually spreading to the central city of Homs, several coastal areas and peripheral neighbourhoods of Damascus. Unlike in the other countries taken over by revolutionary movements, however, the Syrian protests have not really broken out on a large scale. Yet.

As the demonstrations escalated, I wondered if I should stick to the original travel plan. On one hand, Syria firmly sat in my Top 5 dream destinations for quite a while. My tickets were booked as early as 11 (that's eleven) months ago and my itinerary crystallised shortly after. On the other hand, I was actually planning on hanging around for a few more years, not sacrifice my life to democracy in an obscure Arab nation in the middle of the desert. To go or not to go?

The UK Foreign & Commonwealth Office didn't make my life easier. For years, I have relied on their travel advice for the countries where I was planning to travel. This was more out of habit than real need, however, as I never happened to visit a place driven by regime-opposing movements before.

The Foreign Office's advice for Syria has evolved unrecognisably since last month. From merely recommending not to travel to the town of Dara'a, it changed to avoiding non-essential travel to the whole of Syria – and, eventually, to suggesting all Britons to leave the country by commercial means.

It didn't, however, say anything about all Britons HAVING TO flee by any means available. Which gave me some comfort.

Should I stay or should I go now

Most of my friends have been telling me to scrap the Syria trip, and I can see where they are coming from. I fully agree that it is not the safest time to visit Syria. It will be a shame if I do not have a chance to discover some of the country's most famous sites because of ongoing unrest. It will be an even greater shame if, God forbid, the violence escalates out of proportion, affecting foreigners in Syria and leaving them – and their families – regretting their visits for the rest of their lives. It will be a great shame indeed.

But it will likewise be a shame to stay in London for no good reason. To waste two consecutive 4-day weekends on the city where I have lived for five years and where the upcoming Royal Wedding is promising to make enough logistical mess for everyone never to forget. For everyone who chooses to stay here, that is – those of my local friends who haven't left the country yet are planning to do so shortly or are too heavily pregnant to fly anywhere at this stage.

Even more so, it would be a shame to cancel my trip judging purely from TV footage of localised outbreaks of violence. Yes, some areas in Syria are affected. Yes, some curfews are in place. Yes, there are shootings and killings. And yes, some people have gone missing since the mess began. There are only limited concerns in places where I am personally planning to go, however. My contacts from the region are absolutely cool about Damascus, Aleppo and Palmyra. I am not planning to participate in protests or break a curfew if such is imposed wherever I am staying. I cannot promise that I will keep my camera away if I see a particularly vivid demonstration in front of me. The temptation may just be too strong. But I can definitely promise that I will try.

And, should things get really out of hand, I can always direct my steps to Lebanon just a stone's throw away. Unless, of course, it will be too late. But that I will worry about later.

Happy Easter, everyone! Let's hope something good comes out of all this.

Lost in Venice

2011-04-18T09:56:00.017+01:00

Venice has numerous look-alike cities in Europe. Take “Venice of the North”, a title worn by the likes of Stockholm, Amsterdam, St. Petersburg and any Northern European city boasting a decent number of canals. Or think Croatia's Adriatic region, where the Venetians ruled for almost 300 years and left behind numerous cultural artefacts. Not forgetting, of course, Greece – the influence of Venice in places like Crete, the Peloponnesus, the Dodecanese and the Ionian islands has survived for centuries until present day.

The Venetians were enviably successful in growing the perimeter of their once thriving republic and spread cultural and architectural influence to numerous places all over Europe.

Plentiful quasi-Venetian exposure in my past trips explains why, until recently, I had imagined I knew Venice before actually travelling there. “I have seen it all before,” was my usual excuse to postpone a visit to Venice proper for another month. And another – until it almost became a given that Venice was never going to appear on my visited destinations' list.

The revelation

It was a strike of shamelessly random events in the end – a discount offer with Ryanair and a relatively travel-free April – that led me to reconsider. With stubbornly low expectations and in utter indifference, I embarked on a flight to Venice. You might remember that I had already "seen it all before" in Stockholm, Trogir and Chania. Venice was merely filling in a gap on my European destinations map. It could not possibly impress a seasoned European traveller like anjči.

One can easily guess that somebody was bracing for a major disappointment. Of course Venice did not turn out to be just another Bruges, Amsterdam or Gdansk. Neither was it a larger version of Venetian-inspired towns in Dalmatia and Istria – which indeed faded in comparison with a metropolis so magnificent.

Much more than a collection of canals and shaped balconies, Venice reminded me of several European cities at once – and not only its classic lookalikes. The narrow, confusingly similar side streets could well be taken out of Malta's Valletta; the arcades were reminiscent of Bologna not far away; and the layered domes of Basilica di San Marco emulated Byzantine heritage fit for Istanbul itself.

Despite having so much in common with its European counterparts, however, Venice was unquestionably unique – on our continent as well as others.

Any road will take you there

An overseas visitor to century-old European cities will invariably complain about few of those coming across as planned. They weren't exactly; originally little more than a handful of dwellings connected by narrow lanes, such sites gradually grew into what we know as present day urban centres – or, in other words, a complete mess. A mess where a street map often proves as useless as it is frustratingly impossible to follow. Therefore it is the getting lost part that most visitors to Venice see as the best way of discovering the city.

And Venice is a perfect city to get lost in. A maze of small bridges – one cuter than the other – over equally matching canals never seems to tire the eye, and the tiny yards at the end of unexpected culs-de-sac entertain rather than frustrate. So put that map away for once; check where the main flow of visitors is heading and take a sharp left. Then right, then another left, across the bridge, into a narrow passage and right again on the other side. That is when you will come across the authentic little cafe full of locals frequenting the establishment since times immemorial – or a tiny postcard-shot courtyard with a diligent housewife hanging up her fresh round of laundry. The decidedly non-touristy sights no commercial travel guide will dream of advertising – yet the ones that really define a city.

In spring it is the dawn

Europe's popular cities never quite seem to be free of crowds, do they? The good news is that tourist activity rarely begins before 9am. Which means that, unless you are a serious night owl or hanging around a business district of one of Europe's financial centres, most cities are all yours in the wee hours of the morning.

Nothing beats a view along Venice's silent canals – disturbed by little else than a passing gondola – in clear spring dawn. Local residents walking dogs may be your only company as you slowly tread over countless bridges; the only coffee shops open will have inside a handful of Venetians drinking cappuccinos to a serving of local news. Even the undisputed heart of the city – the Square of San Marco – will seem entirely different to the place where a street orchestra was playing celebrated classical tunes to ever-changing audience just a few hours ago.

It is the crowd-free Venice that most visitors seem to miss – perhaps for a reason no other than not knowing exactly what they are missing.

Islands calling

If daytime crowds in Venice seem a little too overwhelming, do not despair – just a short ride away on a vaporetto (waterbus) lie the islands of Murano and Burano. Looking like miniature versions of Venice, they receive substantially fewer visitors and are popular weekend getaways even with the small Italian population still choosing to reside permanently in Venice.

You may have heard of Murano thanks to the island's long-lived tradition of glass blowing. Originally taking place in central Venice, the craft was transferred to Murano in the 13th century on fire fears. It consequently became treasonous for a craftsman to leave the island to make sure the skill perfected by generations would remain unshared.

And if Murano still feels a little too close to the mainland – assuming one could call Venice mainland, of course – then hop back on the vaporetto towards Burano further in the lagoon. What coloured glass is to Murano, lace-making is to its smaller twin. Burano is firmly regarded as one of Europe's focal lace-making centres with tradition dating back as far as the 16th century. Every corner of the island is full of shops offering this pretty, if perfectly impractical, merchandise.

There is a risk that one may forget all about lace soon after disembarking though: the brightly painted houses lining Burano's streets look as appropriate on a small piece of land next to Venice as they would have in a fairytale illustration. Cheerful colour combinations may seem accidental, but behold – a legend goes that local fishermen originally chose bright, varied paint to make their dwellings visible from the sea on a foggy day. Even today, to ensure a harmonic continuation of the tradition, the residents get their choice of paint approved by local authorities.

When in Venice

Not been to Venice because you have "seen it all elsewhere"? Think again. Come and lose yourself in the city's countless narrow streets, amid identically looking facades suddenly giving way to a silencing sunrise view over the water. Lose yourself – and you never know what you might find.

(View full Flickr photo set for Venice)

'Tis spring

2011-04-01T14:34:00.014+01:00

It's finally April.

A new month. A new title at work. New projects. New responsibilities. New insights. Exciting new travels. A new horizon underneath the blazing sky. A new SPRING.

The season I never get quite enough of. Have a good one!

All photos are author's own. In no particular order: London (UK), Sofia and Plovdiv (Bulgaria), Aix-en-Provence (France), St. Petersburg (Russia), Andros (Greece) and Horten (Norway).

Rio de Janeiro: From wedding to favela

2011-03-26T22:55:00.021Z

"Your friends have chosen a perfect place for a wedding. Have fun in Rio." So said a certain lady at London's Brazilian Consulate as she promptly issued my visa.

Seeing a foreign service official get all chatty and personal wasn't surprising at all. Everyone I had by then spoken to seemed to be in love with Rio de Janeiro. Or at least not one person would openly admit to dislike it.

"How long are you going for?" the same lady asked. "You should also visit the Iguaçu Falls."

Rub it in, please. Scores of my friends had been asking the same question for weeks already. I smiled apologetically as I gave my answer – and watched my counterpart's eyebrows shoot right up in uncontrolled amazement a few seconds later. Really? Someone in their right mind was preparing to make a return trip from London to Rio to spend only three days in Brazil?

Let me back up here. I do not usually entertain myself (or my readers, for that matter) with transatlantic flights without committing to at least a fortnight on the ground. This case was however exceptional. A couple of months before, I received a wedding invitation from a good friend. A two-month advance notice – for a celebration in Rio de Janeiro, a 12-hour long flight out of London – was frankly a short one. I had already booked most of my holidays for the year and could ooze out no more than three days in Rio.

Worth it or not? A short survey among my friends showed surprisingly strong support. After all, what would I most likely remember in 10 years – (a) putting the money on my savings account, (b) buying a new tripod – or (c) flying to Rio for Fernanda and Federico’s very special event, three days or not?

You get the idea. Of course I chose Rio.

RIO IN THREE DAYS

All of you will have heard about Rio de Janeiro. Lovingly known as Cidade Maravilhosa (“Marvellous City”) or simply Rio, it is the most visited city in the southern hemisphere. The 11-million megalopolis is Brazil’s second largest city (after São Paulo) and South America’s third largest urban area. Before Brasilia became the country’s administrative centre, Rio served as its capital for nearly two centuries, from 1763 till 1960 – thus covering both the Portuguese colonial period and Brazil’s independence. What Rio is perhaps most commonly associated with is its dramatic seafront backdrop with numerous beaches, the world’s biggest street carnival, samba and Bossa Nova music, and the hilltop statue of Christ the Redeemer (“Cristo Redentor”). Named one of the New Seven Wonders of the World, the latter is decidedly the city’s main symbol.

Thousands of guidebooks have been written about Rio to date, and I will not attempt to re-write or replicate any of them. It suffices to say that three days is by far not enough to visit all of the city’s countless sights, walk along its best beaches, sip caipirinhas in the top bars, shop in style at grande shopping centres and street markets, witness the bustling life of its spreading favelas (shanty towns) and dine for two at the many rodízio restaurants. I will definitely be coming back – for now though, let’s just do with a few teasers from my brief visit.

SUNRISE ON COPACABANA BEACH

Rio de Janeiro is probably known as well for its beaches as for the beautiful people frequenting them. Copacabana and Ipanema are recognised among the world’s most famous ones (beaches, possibly also people) and firmly feature in the itineraries of most visitors to Rio.

Rio is not all about fancy beaches and good-looking boys and girls, however. The city is not really regarded among the world’s safest. Look for yourselves: you may find that almost every information source on Rio contains some kind of a warning. Never walk the streets unaccompanied. Stick to populous areas. Avoid entering favelas. Leave expensive cameras and jewellery at home. And oh, I almost forgot – don't walk on the beach after dark.

Now, those of you who know me well are probably exchanging sceptical looks. I could cope with most of these basic precautions – bury the massive camera inside my scruffy backpack, avoid shady backstreets, remove expensive jewellery (made considerably easier by the fact that I do not own any) and generally keep a low profile. All of those would be manageable except one: I badly needed my trademark photos of the sun rising out of the water. Which meant getting out to the beach early in the dim morning light, my big camera at the ready. Was it worth the risk? Or was Rio going to be as bad as Caracas – where my friends regularly get mugged in broad daylight, let alone during the twilight hours?

I may have been lucky – but not for one moment in Rio did I feel threatened or in danger of losing any of my possessions. I did venture out to Copacabana beach shortly before dawn twice, and took hundreds of sunrise shots. The only people around were morning joggers, fishermen and sleepy dog owners watching their pets splash about happily in the forceful waves of the South Atlantic. None of those looked remotely scary. And the photos? They didn’t remotely capture the true beauty of the surrounding scenery but will nevertheless keep me a great memory.

FAVELA LA ROCINHA

A favela is a term used for a shanty town. According to some sources, it is derived from the name of a skin-irritating plant found in Brazil’s Eastern province of Bahia; the plant which tends to grow back plentifully the more one chops it down. Around 30 per cent or some 3 million of cariocas (residents of Rio de Janeiro) currently live in favelas. And, appropriately for the origin of their name, favelas are reported to be growing at three times the average rate of Rio, thus largely driving the city’s population growth.

There is no shortage of prejudice across all levels of society as far as favelas are concerned. Most guidebooks advise firmly against visiting them altogether. The most dramatic portrayal I have seen about favelas to date is “largely lawless slum areas” where “the police won’t even go…they’re that dangerous” – while others stigmatise them as "inapproachable", “miserable” and "not worth risking your life for". Even my most trusted travel advice source, the UK Foreign Office, disappointed with its “do not venture into a favela even with well-organised tours, as favelas can be unpredictably dangerous”. In short, favelas are not exactly seen as inviting places – which, given that most of them are controlled by drug gangs, is hardly a surprise.

With all the negative media around, I was surprised to find some companies offering favela tours. Would anyone really want to visit there? Even then I would have rather mixed feelings about being jeeped around staring at favelados (formerly a pejorative term but used increasingly more simply to refer to residents of favelas) like at animals in the zoo – without slightest reassurance that the tour money would be going towards improving life in the community.

It was then that I came across a tour guide called Zezinho. One thing that made Zezinho different from other guides was that he was, one, independent and, two, an insider – an actual resident of a favela called Rocinha. With the population of roughly 300 thousand people, Rocinha is the largest favela in Rio de Janeiro. Located in the southern part of Rio between the districts of São Conrado and Gávea, it is more urbanised than other favelas in Rio and is therefore more often shown to visitors.

After some hesitation, I decided in favour of visiting Rocihna – and did not regret it. Zezinho spent over five hours walking our small 4-people group through the favela, pointing out its central spots and explaining local peculiarities. Minus the drug lords and their gang (whom we were told to edge carefully), the place did not look much different from low-income neighbourhoods I have seen in other parts of the world. Kids were queuing to a school bus along Rocinha’s main road; a few favelados were having simple lunch in a local restaurant; resident artists were selling artwork in the streets. Everybody was minding their own business. I certainly did not feel like I was risking being robbed of my possessions – let alone hurt or kidnapped.

As for the dismissive guidebooks, I am guessing none of their authors have been to a favela before. No, I certainly would not recommend gate-crashing a favela without knowing someone there. I would also refrain from taking pictures of every square inch in case a gang member may be hanging around. With that in mind, favelas are interesting communities everyone remotely judgemental should witness in person before influencing the choices of others with any ungrounded opinions. (Stay tuned for a more detail recap of my visit to Rocinha with Deejay Zezinho)

PANORAMIC VIEW FROM DONA MARTA LOOKOUT

Media sources on Rio de Janeiro do not seem to spare praise for what may rightfully be the world's most famous city view. The 710m high Corcovado mountain is well known for the iconic statue of Christ (Cristo Redentor, or Christ the Redeemer) holding his arms wide open as if embracing the city. The 38-meter statue was built in Art Deco style and as such is the second largest in the world. Christ could not have possibly chosen his guarding spot better – whether from famous movies or other works of fiction, most of you will recognise the unquestionably amazing views filmed from helicopters zooming around the statue at breath-taking heights.

What most guide sources however forget to mention are weather conditions. It may be that the Almighty likes to rest from public attention sometimes – understandably so, as the statue is among the most visited sights in Rio – but, more often than not, He is (quite literally) lost in the clouds. As are, unfortunately, those world famous views from atop the mountain. And, for the rest of the time, the city authorities seem to be fighting off the temptation – rather unsuccessfully so – to hand the venue over to exclusive use of some visiting famous persona. I was rather touched to have Barack Obama time his visit to Rio so carefully with mine – though anything but entertained to be refused entry to the Christ for the whole day as the authorities were making sure Mr. President would have unrestricted access to the site in case the prevailing cloud cover might disperse.

And the day after? Well, the weather was not exactly ideal, either: it was raining in downtown Rio and absolutely raging on top of Corcovado. As I tried to board the mini train to the top for the third time in two days, the complex was shut down again. Don’t know about you, but I was glad Mr. Obama didn’t happen to be hanging around when I was told I wouldn’t make it to the statue at all in the end. It was certainly the President’s lucky day.

Thankfully, one soft-hearted local saw the tears in my eyes and – in a manner most worth of a gentleman – came to my rescue. After a brief conversation in broken Spanish (which did not make much sense to any of the people present, including us), we found ourselves driving to an alternative lookout spot. A spot often recommended to visitors at times when the Christ is clouded up – namely, Mirante Dona Marta. We made it there just in time for the peak of twilight. The massive Rio was slowly lighting up all around us. I took my panoramic shots with bated breath, sighed in the direction of the (still heavily obstructed from view) Redeemer, shook the hand of my human saviour and – once again – profusely cursed Mr. President’s schedule. He better stay out of my itinerary next time, thank you very much.

A BRAZILIAN WEDDING

Aren’t you forgetting something, I hear you ask. Indeed, the wedding – the reason I actually came to Brazil to start with!

Let’s just say it was a blast. The Consulate lady was right: my friends could not have chosen a better location. Casa de Santa Teresa atop a namesake hill in central Rio offered a spectacular view over the city (and the clouds surrounding the Christ, obviously), at the same time keeping a wonderfully intimate atmosphere inside the venue. It happened to be the evening of the so-called Supermoon that everyone in the world was staying up all night to watch. Or should I say everyone in the northern hemisphere; the moon really looked no different to other nights from where we were in Rio.

Super or not, the full moon gave a mysterious colouring to our reinless festivities. And what festivities! I vividly remember being told by a Brazilian guest not to have more than 10 caipirinhas in one night – only to have him change his opinion as soon as he heard I was from Eastern Europe. In my defence, I think I was still standing after about 20.

Disappointingly though, the“most common“ wedding tradition I knew for Brazil let me down in the end: the groom emphatically refused to have his tie chopped in pieces and sold to guests for cash. Which was actually a relief, as it was indeed a very nice tie.

Other highlights of my visit are illustrated below in brief.

SUGARLOAF MOUNTAIN (Pão de Açúcar): a mountain peak famous for its shape resembling traditional concentrated loaf sugar and accessible by a cable car (bondinho, or teleférico).

IPANEMA HIPPIE FAIR (Feira Hippie de Ipanema): an arts and crafts market which takes place every Sunday on Praça General Osório, Ipanema.

FLAMENGO PARK (Aterro do Flamengo): the largest leisure area of Rio.

RODRIGO DE FREITAS LAGOON (Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas): a lagoon in Rio surrounded by a park area and frequented by visitors for sports, dining and leisure.

(View the Flickr photo set for Rio de Janeiro)
And one final Rio tip from me? You know it already! Stay longer than three days... doh.

Sunsets I will never forget

2011-03-16T21:22:00.006Z

Sunsets are perhaps what I love to photograph best.

One can easily see why. The setting of the sun is a natural highlight of a day's cycle. Sunsets embrace seemingly familiar landmarks in an exciting new light. And, unlike many of the landmarks themselves, sunsets are simply beautiful and a pleasure to watch - as well as to photograph. There you have it.

So devoted am I to sunsets that, before embarking on yet another trip, I usually check for scenic sunset spots at the destination. The main trick is to avoid the obvious tourist traps. Take Santorini's Oia, for example. Presented as the "World's Best Sunset", it offers little as far as the "best" experience is concerned – on top bundling it rather unpleasantly with crowds of similarly fooled fellow tourists. If I were them, I’d check Santorini's Ammoudi village downhill from Oia instead - or indeed the Pyrgos village offering a spectacular sunset view over both of banana-shaped island's two ends. You would kill two birds with one stone: avoid the crowds and enjoy a Santorini sunset more breath-taking than Oia will ever dream of.

In short, if you are serious about sunsets, it is important to choose the shooting spot carefully.

Somebody asked the other day what my most spectacular sunset of all time was. Hmmm. Memories came flooding in as I recalled scene after scene of majestic, multicolour light displays. It would be impossible to choose one "best" sunset, so many great ones there have been. After some more thinking, however, I managed to select a quarter of a hundred - twenty five perfect sunset moments I will never forget.

See for yourselves why.

RIVER VIEWS
Located on the Ebro River in Zaragoza, Spain, Catedral-Basílica de Nuestra Señora del Pilar (Basilica-Cathedral of Our Lady of the Pillar) is reputed as the first ever church dedicated to Virgin Mary (image: October 2009)

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The River Daugava (Russian: Западная Двинa, Belarussian: Заходняя Дзвіна) rises in the Valdai Hills in Russia and makes a journey of over one thousand kilometres before discharging into the Baltic Sea in Riga, Latvia (image: January 2009)

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The Douro River forms part of the national border between Spain and Portugal and enters the Atlantic Ocean in Porto, Portugal (image: June 2007)

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Ever wondered about that river flowing under the famous Ponte Vecchio and Santa Trìnita bridges? Notorious for its irregular flows sometimes resulting in major floods, the Arno River in Florence, Italy, is central Italy's most important after the Tiber (image: July 2010)

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PANORAMAS AND SKYLINE
Fes, Morocco, is the country's former capital whose Medina in Fes el Bali is believed to be the world's largest contiguous car-free urban area (image: September 2007)

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Some recent additions to the panorama of Tbilisi, Georgia, have been less popular than others: the gleaming new Peace Bridge was quickly re-branded as "Always Ultra" thanks to the perceived similarities with a certain sanitary towel (image: July 2010)

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New Belgrade (Serbian: Novi Beograd) in Belgrade, Serbia, has recently become the city's new financial centre and its fastest developing area where many businesses have moved to – despite continuing to score low with less business-minded visitors (image: September 2009)

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Designed by architect Ivan Straus, the UNIS Twin Towers in Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina, were badly damaged in the war of the early 1990s but have been fully restored since (image: August 2009)

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JUST SKIES
The Golden Horn (Turkish: Haliç or Altın Boynuz) is a historic inlet of the Bosphorus dividing the city of Istanbul, Turkey, on the European side (image: July 2010)

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Parc Güell in Barcelona, Spain, provides a spectacular view over the city's major landmarks – including the TV tower Torre de Collserola – and is a popular sunset watching spot (image: January 2010)

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Perfectly spotless skies in Trakai, Lithuania, are most unusual during the winter – as are five simultaneous sunset-coloured trails from passing aeroplanes (image: January 2009)

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The so-called hotel zone (Spanish: zona hotelera) in Cancun, Mexico, lines a 25km long barrier island; connected to the mainland on both sides, it encloses a large lagoon (image: October 2010)

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FAMOUS LANDMARKS
The first ever person to cross the Brooklyn Bridge in New York City, USA, was Emily Warren Roebling – the wife of the original architect's son – on 24 May 1883 (image: May 2010)

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When Chelsea Bridge in London, UK, was painted red and white in the 1970s, a number of Chelsea F.C. fans complained about the "Arsenal colours"; blue has since been added to the palette (image: January 2010)

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Belém Tower (Torre de Belém) in Lisbon, Portugal, was originally built on an islet in the Tagus River but is now nearly touching the shore thanks to the slowly shifting shoreline (image: January 2008)

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The Long Bien Bridge (Cầu Long Biên) in Hanoi, Vietnam, was repeatedly damaged during the Vietnam War and is today only used by light traffic and pedestrians (image: January 2011)

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MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
Unknown to most foreigners, the island of Evia (Εύβοια), Greece, is in fact the country's second largest – both in area and population – after the much more frequented Crete (image: September 2008)

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Albania's best air links are with Italy – the country where many Albanians work and whose language is the most spoken foreign language in Albania (image: March 2010)

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The eruption of Eyjafjallajökull volcano, Iceland, in April 2010 caused major melting of the covering glacier and flooding of the surrounding areas (image: May 2010)

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Never heard of it? The Mytikas village (Μύτικας), Greece – where time sometimes seems to have stopped altogether – lies in the Western part of the country on the Ionian Sea (image: October 2008)

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OVER THE SEA
The Western side of the Koh Samui (เกาะสมุย) island, Thailand, may lose to its Eastern counterpart on the partying front – but wins hands down with its stunning over-the-water sunsets (image: April 2007)

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Lining the coastal areas of Latvia and Estonia, the Gulf of Riga is part of the Baltic Sea (image: June 2006)

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You will not believe it, but the Rio-Antirio bridge (Γέφυρα Ρίου-Αντιρρίου) near Nafpaktos (Ναύπακτος), Greece, is the world's longest multi-span cable bridge (image: November 2008)

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Nowhere else does a 6am awakening pay off as much as in Tulum, Mexico – and yes, this is strictly speaking a sunRISE, not a sunSET(image: October 2010)

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Installed in 1997, the "Umbrellas" on the seafront of Thessaloniki, Greece, are among the most famous works of Greek artist Georgios Zongolopoulos (image: March 2008)

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That Thessaloniki sunset is perhaps the closest I will ever get to perfection. I still keep hearing from the locals along the lines of "I have seen your sunset pictures on Flickr. I remember that day. Was it March 2008?"

Truly unforgettable moments.

Madrid: From fear to love

2011-03-09T14:57:00.016Z

Madrid used to be my city of horror.

Let me back-up here. An innocent investment banking analyst in London, I was once a living example of a serious work-life imbalance. My work week started at 9am on Monday and ended around 10pm on Sunday evening. That's if I was lucky. At the most extreme, a given work week would last until way after the following week would have a bare chance to begin. I will never forget my much fresh(-er) looking colleagues slowly reconvening in the office some Monday mornings, only to find yours truly, half-conscious, desperately finishing another one of those meaningless overnight presentations. It suffices to say that investment banking in London was anything but a glamorous affair.

All fine, but what’s Madrid got to do with it, I hear you ask. Well – as miserable as our London branch was, it was a different office firmly topping the analysts' black list. The office notorious not only for its long working hours – which in investment banking are more of a norm than an exception – but also for the plight of borderline inhumane inefficiency. The office where deal teams quickly grew to absorb, say, five analysts, three MDs and everybody's grandmothers. Where all-party conference calls would casually commence at 3am and dose for a few hours at a time. Where having dinner at one's desk was an alternative preferred over not managing to grab any food at all. Where local clients were using us as their FREE dedicated 24-hour hotline. You would have guessed it by now. Madrid was the office.

Being sent off to Madrid on a deal was sudden as death. It could literally happen to people overnight. When someone's cubicle stood empty for unusually long and one of us would eventually slip the indifferent "whatever happened to him/her" – it was the one-word explanation that broke the silence. "Madrid"; a few of us would exchange quick looks and duck into our keyboards, in the hope that the next turn may not be ours. Having a member of the team claimed by the Madrid office typically meant that the Spaniards had stretched their own resources – which could well mean that more of us Londoners would soon be sucked into that red-eyed chaos in no time. And then heaven only knew when one might be coming back. One thing for sure though: Madrid was not the place from where one was coming back quickly.

I was a lucky analyst in this respect; my almost exclusive assignment to Russian projects always spared me from a Madrid exile. But the damage was done. Two years of investment banking had firmly engraved Madrid in my mind as an unwanted destination. And going to Madrid on a leisurely visit? God forbid; I would sooner visit a coal mine in a Mongolian desert. Or watch moss make its way through volcanic soil and glaciers on Jan Mayen – a largely uninhabited Norwegian rock in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. That's how bad things were for Madrid. For a while, I wasn't at all keen on visiting.

But it wasn't Jan Mayen I went to in the end

It took me as long as three years to reconsider. I am still not sure how I finally came about to booking flights to Madrid. It may have been for the fact that some good friends of mine were residing there in apparent peace and harmony. Or that people around me were returning from trips to Madrid being – save for occasional hangovers – relatively unhurt. Or that I was slowly running out of low-cost weekend destinations in Europe. The fact remains such: I finally overcame my panic fear and went to Madrid last weekend.

My Madrid itinerary will no doubt disappoint some of you. No, I have not admired the fine art collections of El Prado or Reina Sofia. I forewent having chocolate con churros for breakfast (seriously, is that what those fearless Spaniards attack first thing in the morning?). Unless getting up at 5am to capture the sunrise over Calle de Alcalá qualifies as nightlife, I have shamelessly skipped all of such in Madrid. And oh, I likewise forgot to stop in La Latina to enjoy the Sunday sun in the neighbourhood’s many outdoors cafes together with the locals. It looks like I might have just missed out on everything Madrid had to offer.

But I did spend many hours pacing the city’s broad avenues and narrow backstreets, strolling along the wonderfully relaxed Retiro park with hundreds of local families and visitors, admiring panoramic views from Templo de Debod and people-watching aside one of the fountains on Puerta del Sol – an undisputed heart of Madrid.

Needless to say that I came back from my former “horror city” alive. In fact, I may have come back even more alive than ever! And I am most certainly coming back soon – if only to catch up on the things missed on my first visit. Viva Madrid!

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(View the Flickr photo set of Madrid)