For as long as I can remember I have been accused of being a dreamer. To be the girl with her head in the clouds always waiting for that big break, for that illusive dream-world to unfold before her and become a gentle reality.
To some it's a naive quality that represents youthful enthusiasm and limited life experience - the time before life breaks us and molds us to fit in with the reality that is life in general. But for others, dreams are a way of life, the path that is ever-so-close yet so far away, the path that we know in our hearts is the one for us to take.
The business of being an adult dreamer is a tricky one. Reality with all its constrictions never ceases to attack our dreams with harsh knocks on the front door pushing the illusive dream further and further away. We tell ourselves that these are the times that make us and break us as dreamers, the time when we find ourselves sitting in a four-wall room painted in plain white instead of the colourful world we create by dreaming big.
These are hard times. We question ourselves and our dreams. We start to ask realistic questions that cut a dent in the already fragile surface of the fading dream. Worst of all is when the dreams seem so unattainable that we almost give up on them and tell ourselves to grow up and get a real job.
Then come the happy times. The days and weeks, even months and years, when dreams come true and we find ourselves on top of the world. At last, the dreamland conquered reality. These are the happiest of times. We bathe in the glory that is our dream and celebrate each and every moment given to us in the dreamland.
The dreamer in me has always been alive and well. When times are hard as they've been of late, it's been the heartbeat that pumps enough elixir to my veins to keep me going. Sometimes, when I am frustrated, I feel it slipping away ever so slowly and start to wonder what sort of reality is there for me to live in, a reality where I am content and comfortable.
But as all dreamers know, dreams are no different than the thick fog that gathers over the mountain peaks; once the dream takes hold of you, there is no looking back. My dreams hunt me down until they've break me once more and remind me of who I am... what I want.. what I need. They are the oxygen that keeps me afloat when all else is lost.
And thus, once more a reality of contentment and comfort is not enough. The desire for more takes charge once more and the compass is set on the ever-so-inviting pink clouds high over my head.
I've been up to the pink clouds. I've danced from joy up on silky clouds and embraced my dreams. Of late, as my mind ponders the future more grievously than it has done in a long time, my mind travels back to the days on the pink cloud.
The warm autumn day I walked from Green Park to Buckingham Palace, and onwards on my walk without a destination. I had very little money but oh so much joy in my heart. All I needed was a tall latte from Starbucks and a bottle of water. And a small camera to capture the moment.
Then I think of my first days in Paris as a local. The time my days were spent roaming the narrow streets of the the Marais, across the Seine to the left bank to Saint-Michel, and eventually to Shakespeare and Company where I'd read a chapter from a pre-war print edition about an unknown fellow dreamer who too loved Paris.
The summers I spent on the "Rock" on the Greek island of Ios with a group of beautiful people, both on the inside and outside. Sailing to remote beaches... swimming in the crystal clear Aegean Sea... living without ambition to rise to fame or glory and simply living in the very moment... it's a beautiful life.
Today, I returned to another passion of mine, a passion I never thought I had so much passion for but as it turns out, I do: The academic world of English Literature.
It's a world so full of invisible notions and ideas, and stories that parallel a world long gone but that is forever captured in the written word. Not a moment lost.
To write is an act of documentation. An act of seizing a moment in a moment, of capturing a thought, a heartbeat of a story otherwise untold. The meaning of a single word and the descriptive power of a beautifully written sentence. To me, it is where the essence of life is given meaning.
So, today I sat down to write. To write because it gives my life a meaning. Writing means as much to me whether I get paid to do it or not. It's the essence of me.
A few months ago, when I had a lot of work on my plate and barely enough time to sleep and eat, someone asked me why I didn't skip writing for the sole purpose of writing, why I wrote without accepting remuneration. I told that someone, in those very same words, that writing is what I do because I can't live without my words, because words give meaning to my world and because without it, I am not me.
Being a writer means I observe, listen and interpret. I read the world with my senses and paint a picture of it with my words. It's the essence of my life.
Writing is an endless quest for life. Beautiful lyrics written for beautiful melodies conceive ideas for fictional characters yet unborn, and visual art, be it a photograph, a canvas exploding with life or beautiful choreography brought to life on stage, life's exuberance is my ecstasy.
The academics gave my words a deeper meaning and the tools to read the world and see it through an array of perspectives. I put on different binoculars and see a simple event from many different directions. I put all of me into the words I write, I think about all the different ways my readers will read the sentences I write and how they'll perceive my message.
In my dark days, when I feel the very thing that gives my life purpose is trapped under a heavy load, seemingly eternally invisible from inquisitive eyes and a curious mind, I feel ever-so-strongly the need to fight back, to refuse a sudden death for the asymmetry of words still unborn.
Traveling the world gave me the courage to escape the confinements of reality, to live a dream and to breathe in joy and breathe out gratitude for all the joy in my heart.
I've been so lucky. I've been able to travel and grow as a person while widening my writerly horizon. Without the support of my family, I would never have the cherished experiences now turned into memories so dear to my heart. Without the support of doting parents and two sisters who understood how important it is to my being to dream big and explore the world on my own, I may have become a victim of reality.
Instead, my life has been a trail of enigmatic encounters with beautiful people, kind people, gentle people, loving people, and people with big beautiful dreams.
My Brazilian host-sister Monique is passionate about dancing and her love for dancing shines through every time she puts on her dancing shoes. My friend Aneta who moves to Canada next week to start a new life is unafraid to take on new challenges all on her own. Last but not least, my sisters B and R.
For B, the dream of doing an MBA has been but a dream for several years. But not anymore. The mother of three, (an unlikely) grandmother of one, and super-successful professional, she embarks upon a journey that is both frightening and exciting. I couldn't be prouder. Then it's R, the youngest one who moved to Italy to finish graduate school in style. She loves her new life and I am so happy for her.
It takes courage to dream and guts to turn a dream into reality.
It's a risk because when a dream becomes a reality it eventually takes on a pattern we may take for granted.
Sometimes, it's the dream we dreamt that becomes the suffocating reality. We go from a blissful state of exuberance to a pragmatic reality. But for the dreamer, it's just a momentary pause.
It is the nature of the dream ideology to keep dreams alive, and thus, when one dream becomes a sour reality, another is born. For as long as the wheel of dreams continues to spin new dreams, one after another, life is in fact a journey of dreams.
Thus, in these darker days while pragmatism wears me down with reality, all I have is my dreams.
The dream of traveling to every corner of the world - to sail down the Amazon, hike in Borneo, explore remote beaches on the coast of Thailand and travel from Istanbul to Tehran on a train (just among few) - and to write - to write the story that is lingering in my creative space and finish it, to be the professional travel writer painting the world with my words to curious travelers, and to write a piece that inspires.
Through my dreams, I rekindle the passion in my heart that is my desire for life as I see it.
Friday, 6 September 2013
Sunday, 25 August 2013
"Oceanside"
The city of Reykjavík sits on the edge of the northern hemisphere. The climate is mild on the southwest corner where this northernmost capital of Europe is settled into a dramatic scenery where hilly mountains meet the awesome Atlantic Ocean.
The sea is a friend and a foe, a powerful ally and a fierce enemy. For centuries, lives have been sacrificed in the name of survival. Fishermen braved out to sea, unsheltered from the rough torrents of winter and welcome gesture of the summer sun.
My grandfather was a fisherman. My great-grandmother's first husband died at sea. Countless stories tell of death at sea, the finite defeat in the battle against a raging foe, and merrier maritime stories describe the brave victory that is survival for the grace of a powerful ally.
Such is Iceland's heritage. Dramatic accounts in a dramatic scenery.
The city nightlife is a raging bull, high on life, that feeds off the wild commotion of liquid intoxication. Fashion influences monotonous but striking and edgy. Black on black. Licorice shooters and pints. The wild north.
In the modern day city, multiculturalism challenges the monoculture of the old fishing village. A melting pot of familiar and unfamiliar languages, of exotic restaurants and delightful cafés, the city embraces the birth of a new heritage.
In the prosperous years before the chaos of the economic crisis struck the little land, tall-ish high-rises where luxury was the fundamental ingredient rose in excess. The Icelandic Manhattan dream came true in splendid glass towers overlooking Faxe bay, the sea neither a friend or foe. Just a splendid background to material wealth readily available for a big sum of money.
The "vue de mar" a precious commodity. The sea not only a source of income but a symbol of wealth.
Unlike the splendid dream that died upon the first big blow, the thick stonewall that is constantly under attack from the temperamental sea, the sea that is sometimes gay and at other times gray from gloom, survives each and every blow the warrior waves send its way.
Meanwhile, the palace of music, the majestic Harpa, (in short, the "Harp") sits in her new throne. The frames in the glass walls change shades in the eve of night and reflect the rainbow of musicality that is celebrated in the spacious interior.
But there is another side to the city; a side that is quiet, so quiet not even the violent tendencies of the North Atlantic Ocean care to strike with too much force. Sometimes, just sometimes, the reminisce of a tantrum is spread across the acres of tall grass and paved tracks meant for a leisurely walk, run or a quick sprint.
Across is a row of magnificent three-storey homes with neatly trimmed gardens and French windows all along the little street.
At Oceanside, colloquially known as "Ægisíða", the wind speaks in no vague terms against the sturdy foundation of the row of "Old Reykjavík" mansions. Neither is effected by the other. Only the beach takes on the full power of the grand Atlantic Ocean.
Oceanside is where I go to think, to explore and to share a moment of pure happiness with a one-year old puppy whose joie-de-vivre and endearing curiosity takes me on a journey of discovery every time we traverse the black sand.
Words are words. They speak volumes and when properly composed draw an image of the dramatic landscape that is so innate to the little city in the north.
But alas, the raw beauty of Oceanside is best conveyed through a visual medium, a medium that serves as a visual consent of the imagery drawn with words...
The sea is a friend and a foe, a powerful ally and a fierce enemy. For centuries, lives have been sacrificed in the name of survival. Fishermen braved out to sea, unsheltered from the rough torrents of winter and welcome gesture of the summer sun.
My grandfather was a fisherman. My great-grandmother's first husband died at sea. Countless stories tell of death at sea, the finite defeat in the battle against a raging foe, and merrier maritime stories describe the brave victory that is survival for the grace of a powerful ally.
Such is Iceland's heritage. Dramatic accounts in a dramatic scenery.
The city nightlife is a raging bull, high on life, that feeds off the wild commotion of liquid intoxication. Fashion influences monotonous but striking and edgy. Black on black. Licorice shooters and pints. The wild north.
In the modern day city, multiculturalism challenges the monoculture of the old fishing village. A melting pot of familiar and unfamiliar languages, of exotic restaurants and delightful cafés, the city embraces the birth of a new heritage.
In the prosperous years before the chaos of the economic crisis struck the little land, tall-ish high-rises where luxury was the fundamental ingredient rose in excess. The Icelandic Manhattan dream came true in splendid glass towers overlooking Faxe bay, the sea neither a friend or foe. Just a splendid background to material wealth readily available for a big sum of money.
The "vue de mar" a precious commodity. The sea not only a source of income but a symbol of wealth.
Unlike the splendid dream that died upon the first big blow, the thick stonewall that is constantly under attack from the temperamental sea, the sea that is sometimes gay and at other times gray from gloom, survives each and every blow the warrior waves send its way.
Meanwhile, the palace of music, the majestic Harpa, (in short, the "Harp") sits in her new throne. The frames in the glass walls change shades in the eve of night and reflect the rainbow of musicality that is celebrated in the spacious interior.
But there is another side to the city; a side that is quiet, so quiet not even the violent tendencies of the North Atlantic Ocean care to strike with too much force. Sometimes, just sometimes, the reminisce of a tantrum is spread across the acres of tall grass and paved tracks meant for a leisurely walk, run or a quick sprint.
Across is a row of magnificent three-storey homes with neatly trimmed gardens and French windows all along the little street.
At Oceanside, colloquially known as "Ægisíða", the wind speaks in no vague terms against the sturdy foundation of the row of "Old Reykjavík" mansions. Neither is effected by the other. Only the beach takes on the full power of the grand Atlantic Ocean.
Oceanside is where I go to think, to explore and to share a moment of pure happiness with a one-year old puppy whose joie-de-vivre and endearing curiosity takes me on a journey of discovery every time we traverse the black sand.
Words are words. They speak volumes and when properly composed draw an image of the dramatic landscape that is so innate to the little city in the north.
But alas, the raw beauty of Oceanside is best conveyed through a visual medium, a medium that serves as a visual consent of the imagery drawn with words...
...
Tuesday, 6 August 2013
The New Indian-a Jones
As a child, I was enthralled by adventurous conquests for relics in ancient sites and ruins of historical importance. I was eager to pursue archaeology as an academic field after watching the series of films featuring Indiana Jones and playing so-themed computer games from LucasArts. My chosen field there within was Egyptology as my fascination with the mysteries of Egypt grew with each film and game.
The element of travel to locations out of sight and off the beaten track was the glowing ball of fire so enticing to the adventurer in me, and awakening imaginary of extraordinary excursions in-between teaching a class at an esteemed university.
On the eve of a long weekend, in a sort of "off the beaten track" locations, a place exclusive to my intimate family and close circle of friends, I found myself watching an extraordinary account of how Dr. Sarah Parcak, space archaeologist, uses her technology to discover previously unknown sites and ruins that help to discover new ancient sites hidden beneath the surface, clarify and identify in more depth previous findings, and connect the dots for scientists on the brink of proving a theory but lacking physical proof.
I'd seen a previous episode covering the use of space technology to discover whole new sites beneath the surface of Egyptian soil, some that (if my memory serves me right) may take 50 years or more to uncover.
Thus, an episode about the Roman empire and how space technology can help to explain the ways of the Roman Empire and its grand conquests and vast expansion on a grandeur scale to the north and east.
Being a bit of a history nerd, I couldn't resist the temptation. After all, the nature of her work is to examine the world from a very remote perspective and travel to sites that most of us can only dream of visiting.
She visited a site in which I had a very rare experience, a site generally packed with people but due to sudden changes in the political climate following 9/11, was about as busy as a butcher shop in a vegetarian compound.
The rustic red ancient city of Petra shimmered as it did on the late autumn day I visited the city in 2001, and the grounds above were as empty as I remembered them. The scattered stones among the remarkable still-standing ruins and the caves hidden away from sight told stories invisible to the naked eye and seeing Dr. Parcak explore the grounds and meeting an expert in the history of the ancient city, I longed to return to the site with a mind perhaps mature enough to take in greater depth the great history of the city.
At the age of 21, I was already taken back by the magnitude of feelings I experienced as Mother Nature's beauty and ancient history collided in the dry desert landscape that today is Petra. At the time, I thought of a cinematic moment, that is, the very moment Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones stared the old city treasure in the face at the exact same moment it met with mine. I was among perhaps twenty visitors visiting the ancient grounds in the very early aftermath of 9/11, and the city was but desolate grounds inhabited by friendly Bedouins who offered delicious tea cooked over hot bed of fire in the midst of the old city.
Other sites she visited in the episode was the beautiful cityscape of Rome, the mysterious forest-land of Transylvania and the previously fertile soil of Tunisia, that once upon a time was home to grand fields of wheat feeding the whole super-sized republic of Rome.
The great Roman empire dazzled the senses of newcomers at the height of its empire and continues to do so. So many questions remain unanswered no matter how many times one visits Rome. I have been to the city twice, once with my dad and once with my husband and his family, and both time I felt my list of things to do in the city was still incomplete. Yes, I've walked past the amazing ruins at the heart of the city and looked over them late at night after another culinary feast, and wondered what life was like in this grand city once upon a time.
I, like most of us without a vast historical knowledge of the Roman empire, isolate its centre to the city of Rome and Italy. We fail to recognize the greater borders of the empire, borders that stretched all the way to Great Britain, the Oriental East and the edges of North Africa.
My impression of the old Roman empire was also somewhat blinded by prejudice of its grand warrior reputation; how Roman soldiers violated women as they pleased and slaughtered slaves captured in victorious battles in grand exhibition-style at the colosseums.
A surprising revelation was how in some parts of the Roman empire, such as in the North African regions and Petra in Jordan, the rulers nurtured its inhabitants with prosperous living conditions and access to entertainment and leisure previously only available to royalty.
When her use of space technology failed to produce satellite images, military tools generally used to scout enemy quarters in dense areas where satellites are unable to retrieve data, was re-purposed to find great fortresses in the dense forest regions of Transylvania.
I spent a night camping in the steep hills of Transylvania in the vicinity of Dracula's notorious but white as snow castle, and I was a little amused by the "hype" the producers made out the presence of wildlife such as wolves and bears in the dense forest-land of the region. The dangers on route are nonetheless a great built up to the intriguing discoveries Dr. Parcak discovers with experts in the field.
If I were a young girl or a boy seated between my parents - interestingly enough, I was sitting between my parents in our family cottage - I'd inspire to be her or one of the many scholars she encounters.
In fact, I inspire to have the life she is fortunate enough to lead. As an academic in the field of archaeology and a seasoned traveler, Dr. Sarah Parcak is the modern-day Indiana Jones, and entirely without the theatrical drama of black and white vilification of foes, as is the case in the fictional Indiana Jones.
In the vastness of my dreams, I could envision tracing the source of grand literary traditions, discovering previously unknown manuscripts and excavate the worlds in which some of the greatest literary works are set a long time ago, as well as grasping a better understanding of modern day literature that takes my breath away.
And I do... in my nocturnal dreams at least.
I have grown tired of mindless reality television with no purpose other than to embellish shallowness of popular culture or the satisfaction of making a mockery of real people.
To see esteemed academics document their career-changing studies, sharing their knowledge and "peeling the onion" of history (a term referring to the title of Gunter Grass' wartime memoir so-titled) in a way that is reciprocal to the needs of a "novice" audience in the field, while being intellectually stimulating and enriched by mind-blowing landscape, is a treat to all our most valuable senses.
In her travels, she is on a path of discovery, excavating places most of us will not access in that depth in our lifetime, and letting us in while doing so.
But it doesn't mean the curious traveler without the resources to which an esteemed academic has access cannot explore this world's incredible wealth of history.
Investing but a fraction of one's travel to learning a little more about the history of regions explored along the way is well worth the effort it may take. History has the power to explain cultural elements we may fail to understand and even recognize as we travel to and experience far and sometimes distant lands.
Take the extensive wheat (and I mean the stuff that looks more like barley than the green leaves of the weed plant) production in North Africa. Italy, the ancient centre of the Roman empire to us non-experts, is enriched by culinary culture that depends a great deal on wheat (pasta, pizza, etc) and it is possible to make the assumption the tradition may in part derive from its ancient ruling grounds.
If for no other reason than to enrich a journey through this extraordinary world of ours, an academic or/and educational program about the regions we plan to visit has the potential to enrich the journey and help us to be better travelers.
Next year, Brazil is host to the world cup in its favorite sport. For those planning to travel to the land of great football (soccer in some parts of the world), I recommend watching BBC's Brazil with Michael Palin. It provides an insight to regions with its local traditions (culinary, dancing, etc), history, wildlife and landscape that'll truly make a dreamer out of the most pragmatic pessimist.
It'll no doubt double the pleasure of visiting this extraordinary (and almost continental-sized) country that happens to be the only country in Latin America that has (Brazilian) Portuguese as its official language.
Just like, Dr. Sarah Parcak's documentary episodes on Discovery Channel, truly enrich a trip to Rome as much as it will a trip to parts of Tunisia...
And just so it's clear, if Dr. Parcak or Mr. Palin require an assistance or are currently looking for a new member to join their team, I'll be the first to volunteer my services!
The element of travel to locations out of sight and off the beaten track was the glowing ball of fire so enticing to the adventurer in me, and awakening imaginary of extraordinary excursions in-between teaching a class at an esteemed university.
On the eve of a long weekend, in a sort of "off the beaten track" locations, a place exclusive to my intimate family and close circle of friends, I found myself watching an extraordinary account of how Dr. Sarah Parcak, space archaeologist, uses her technology to discover previously unknown sites and ruins that help to discover new ancient sites hidden beneath the surface, clarify and identify in more depth previous findings, and connect the dots for scientists on the brink of proving a theory but lacking physical proof.
I'd seen a previous episode covering the use of space technology to discover whole new sites beneath the surface of Egyptian soil, some that (if my memory serves me right) may take 50 years or more to uncover.
Thus, an episode about the Roman empire and how space technology can help to explain the ways of the Roman Empire and its grand conquests and vast expansion on a grandeur scale to the north and east.
Being a bit of a history nerd, I couldn't resist the temptation. After all, the nature of her work is to examine the world from a very remote perspective and travel to sites that most of us can only dream of visiting.
She visited a site in which I had a very rare experience, a site generally packed with people but due to sudden changes in the political climate following 9/11, was about as busy as a butcher shop in a vegetarian compound.
The rustic red ancient city of Petra shimmered as it did on the late autumn day I visited the city in 2001, and the grounds above were as empty as I remembered them. The scattered stones among the remarkable still-standing ruins and the caves hidden away from sight told stories invisible to the naked eye and seeing Dr. Parcak explore the grounds and meeting an expert in the history of the ancient city, I longed to return to the site with a mind perhaps mature enough to take in greater depth the great history of the city.
At the age of 21, I was already taken back by the magnitude of feelings I experienced as Mother Nature's beauty and ancient history collided in the dry desert landscape that today is Petra. At the time, I thought of a cinematic moment, that is, the very moment Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones stared the old city treasure in the face at the exact same moment it met with mine. I was among perhaps twenty visitors visiting the ancient grounds in the very early aftermath of 9/11, and the city was but desolate grounds inhabited by friendly Bedouins who offered delicious tea cooked over hot bed of fire in the midst of the old city.
Other sites she visited in the episode was the beautiful cityscape of Rome, the mysterious forest-land of Transylvania and the previously fertile soil of Tunisia, that once upon a time was home to grand fields of wheat feeding the whole super-sized republic of Rome.
The great Roman empire dazzled the senses of newcomers at the height of its empire and continues to do so. So many questions remain unanswered no matter how many times one visits Rome. I have been to the city twice, once with my dad and once with my husband and his family, and both time I felt my list of things to do in the city was still incomplete. Yes, I've walked past the amazing ruins at the heart of the city and looked over them late at night after another culinary feast, and wondered what life was like in this grand city once upon a time.
I, like most of us without a vast historical knowledge of the Roman empire, isolate its centre to the city of Rome and Italy. We fail to recognize the greater borders of the empire, borders that stretched all the way to Great Britain, the Oriental East and the edges of North Africa.
My impression of the old Roman empire was also somewhat blinded by prejudice of its grand warrior reputation; how Roman soldiers violated women as they pleased and slaughtered slaves captured in victorious battles in grand exhibition-style at the colosseums.
A surprising revelation was how in some parts of the Roman empire, such as in the North African regions and Petra in Jordan, the rulers nurtured its inhabitants with prosperous living conditions and access to entertainment and leisure previously only available to royalty.
When her use of space technology failed to produce satellite images, military tools generally used to scout enemy quarters in dense areas where satellites are unable to retrieve data, was re-purposed to find great fortresses in the dense forest regions of Transylvania.
I spent a night camping in the steep hills of Transylvania in the vicinity of Dracula's notorious but white as snow castle, and I was a little amused by the "hype" the producers made out the presence of wildlife such as wolves and bears in the dense forest-land of the region. The dangers on route are nonetheless a great built up to the intriguing discoveries Dr. Parcak discovers with experts in the field.
If I were a young girl or a boy seated between my parents - interestingly enough, I was sitting between my parents in our family cottage - I'd inspire to be her or one of the many scholars she encounters.
In fact, I inspire to have the life she is fortunate enough to lead. As an academic in the field of archaeology and a seasoned traveler, Dr. Sarah Parcak is the modern-day Indiana Jones, and entirely without the theatrical drama of black and white vilification of foes, as is the case in the fictional Indiana Jones.
In the vastness of my dreams, I could envision tracing the source of grand literary traditions, discovering previously unknown manuscripts and excavate the worlds in which some of the greatest literary works are set a long time ago, as well as grasping a better understanding of modern day literature that takes my breath away.
And I do... in my nocturnal dreams at least.
I have grown tired of mindless reality television with no purpose other than to embellish shallowness of popular culture or the satisfaction of making a mockery of real people.
To see esteemed academics document their career-changing studies, sharing their knowledge and "peeling the onion" of history (a term referring to the title of Gunter Grass' wartime memoir so-titled) in a way that is reciprocal to the needs of a "novice" audience in the field, while being intellectually stimulating and enriched by mind-blowing landscape, is a treat to all our most valuable senses.
In her travels, she is on a path of discovery, excavating places most of us will not access in that depth in our lifetime, and letting us in while doing so.
But it doesn't mean the curious traveler without the resources to which an esteemed academic has access cannot explore this world's incredible wealth of history.
Investing but a fraction of one's travel to learning a little more about the history of regions explored along the way is well worth the effort it may take. History has the power to explain cultural elements we may fail to understand and even recognize as we travel to and experience far and sometimes distant lands.
Take the extensive wheat (and I mean the stuff that looks more like barley than the green leaves of the weed plant) production in North Africa. Italy, the ancient centre of the Roman empire to us non-experts, is enriched by culinary culture that depends a great deal on wheat (pasta, pizza, etc) and it is possible to make the assumption the tradition may in part derive from its ancient ruling grounds.
If for no other reason than to enrich a journey through this extraordinary world of ours, an academic or/and educational program about the regions we plan to visit has the potential to enrich the journey and help us to be better travelers.
Next year, Brazil is host to the world cup in its favorite sport. For those planning to travel to the land of great football (soccer in some parts of the world), I recommend watching BBC's Brazil with Michael Palin. It provides an insight to regions with its local traditions (culinary, dancing, etc), history, wildlife and landscape that'll truly make a dreamer out of the most pragmatic pessimist.
It'll no doubt double the pleasure of visiting this extraordinary (and almost continental-sized) country that happens to be the only country in Latin America that has (Brazilian) Portuguese as its official language.
Just like, Dr. Sarah Parcak's documentary episodes on Discovery Channel, truly enrich a trip to Rome as much as it will a trip to parts of Tunisia...
And just so it's clear, if Dr. Parcak or Mr. Palin require an assistance or are currently looking for a new member to join their team, I'll be the first to volunteer my services!
Saturday, 27 July 2013
The Tropical North
Reykjavík is the northern most capital in the world, or so we're told.
With unpredictable and sometimes violently fierce weather patterns in winter, our hyperbolic expectations for summer - the only benign season the north has to offer - soothe a body aching for but a brief intermission from the storm.
The Icelandic winter can be hostile with its long months of darkness when the hours of daylight are few, especially during the holiday season and in the new year. Extravagant light displays decorate the city and lend magic to the black night that reigns, and if we're lucky, the white snow adds a bit of sparkle to our life.
Despite the cold, we venture on foot to the city centre and nurture our bodies and soul with the holiday spirit. Then comes January, the longest and cruelest month of the year for no fault of its own. On January 7, illustrious Christmas lights are turned off and once again, darkness prevails.
Then comes spring. Spring is the most unreliable season of all four - we know from bitter experience that spring is spring for namesake only...
Autumn however is a season, more often than not, true to nature. Cool rain and loud wind are expected to come knocking and we are not that surprised when the first signs begin to appear in August. We are pleasantly surprised if September continues to bring beautiful sunny days past the prime of summer.
...
We know for a fact that no one comes to Iceland for the weather so divulging the facts is no crime.
But sometimes, when we least expect it, Mother Nature surprises even the most pessimistic locals with an unexpected summer surprise.
A week ago, on July 20 such a moment came out of nowhere and took me by surprise. The moment it happened I was walking down Laugavegur (the curious shopping strip in Reykjavík's city centre) and very much lost in a moment of self-reflection.
I'd been struck by a sudden realisation as walked down the mild slope down Laugavegur and creative ideas were beginning to take shape. Then came the shower, a rain that poured down in a linear fall almost in a straight line from the gray cluster of clouds.
It was the perfect summer rain: warm but refreshing in the humid air and 17°C air temperature.
And what lovely rain it was!
Like a muse sent to me by Mother Nature, the city of Reykjavík revealed herself to me. To be more specific, she revealed her exoticism to me, a local resident with small town roots and yet an outsider in her own land... a local crammed into a life of abstinence from travels, as priorities are skewed by the sometimes harsh economic reality of a writer to succeed in the hunt for the perfect job, and so far without achieving much success.
The temporarily entrapped traveler in me that conformed to native society with ease but constantly longing to be somewhere else - to journey the world from one end to another - all of a sudden felt perfectly at home.
The warm shower reminded me how despite my immobile traveling lifestyle, I am on a journey, a journey to re-discover my country again in spite of the obstacles along the way. To get to know Iceland as if it were new to me. And in so many ways it is.
The city of Reykjavík is still a stranger to me in more ways than one. So much changed while I excavated the world with my backpack and passport in hand. The monocultural little Iceland grew and expanded beyond my wildest expectations. New residents from all over the world have changed the city and made it a better place to live. Icelanders who left came back with a piece of the world to share.
After years of sticking my head in a pile of academic books, while my mind constantly drifted to other lands, I discovered at last the simple charms of my city and within awakened a longing to get to know her better. A city that is inspiring, beautiful and modest. A city exploding from the creative powers of her residents. An international city that makes up for her smallness with a big heart ready to embrace the whole world.
It took a downpour... a warm shower to clear my judgement... judgement previously clouded by the prejudice of my youth and perhaps of late, pragmatic disposition... to see the delightful Miss Reykjavík for the young and vibrant city she has become.
Thankfully, it's never too late to get started on a journey.
The warm shower inspired me to write about the journey, a journey I can only take in Iceland, and a journey that fuels my undying belief in the realisation of all my dreams.
After all, what is a traveler without dreams...?
With unpredictable and sometimes violently fierce weather patterns in winter, our hyperbolic expectations for summer - the only benign season the north has to offer - soothe a body aching for but a brief intermission from the storm.
The Icelandic winter can be hostile with its long months of darkness when the hours of daylight are few, especially during the holiday season and in the new year. Extravagant light displays decorate the city and lend magic to the black night that reigns, and if we're lucky, the white snow adds a bit of sparkle to our life.
Despite the cold, we venture on foot to the city centre and nurture our bodies and soul with the holiday spirit. Then comes January, the longest and cruelest month of the year for no fault of its own. On January 7, illustrious Christmas lights are turned off and once again, darkness prevails.
Then comes spring. Spring is the most unreliable season of all four - we know from bitter experience that spring is spring for namesake only...
Autumn however is a season, more often than not, true to nature. Cool rain and loud wind are expected to come knocking and we are not that surprised when the first signs begin to appear in August. We are pleasantly surprised if September continues to bring beautiful sunny days past the prime of summer.
...
We know for a fact that no one comes to Iceland for the weather so divulging the facts is no crime.
But sometimes, when we least expect it, Mother Nature surprises even the most pessimistic locals with an unexpected summer surprise.
A week ago, on July 20 such a moment came out of nowhere and took me by surprise. The moment it happened I was walking down Laugavegur (the curious shopping strip in Reykjavík's city centre) and very much lost in a moment of self-reflection.
I'd been struck by a sudden realisation as walked down the mild slope down Laugavegur and creative ideas were beginning to take shape. Then came the shower, a rain that poured down in a linear fall almost in a straight line from the gray cluster of clouds.
It was the perfect summer rain: warm but refreshing in the humid air and 17°C air temperature.
And what lovely rain it was!
Like a muse sent to me by Mother Nature, the city of Reykjavík revealed herself to me. To be more specific, she revealed her exoticism to me, a local resident with small town roots and yet an outsider in her own land... a local crammed into a life of abstinence from travels, as priorities are skewed by the sometimes harsh economic reality of a writer to succeed in the hunt for the perfect job, and so far without achieving much success.
The temporarily entrapped traveler in me that conformed to native society with ease but constantly longing to be somewhere else - to journey the world from one end to another - all of a sudden felt perfectly at home.
The warm shower reminded me how despite my immobile traveling lifestyle, I am on a journey, a journey to re-discover my country again in spite of the obstacles along the way. To get to know Iceland as if it were new to me. And in so many ways it is.
The city of Reykjavík is still a stranger to me in more ways than one. So much changed while I excavated the world with my backpack and passport in hand. The monocultural little Iceland grew and expanded beyond my wildest expectations. New residents from all over the world have changed the city and made it a better place to live. Icelanders who left came back with a piece of the world to share.
After years of sticking my head in a pile of academic books, while my mind constantly drifted to other lands, I discovered at last the simple charms of my city and within awakened a longing to get to know her better. A city that is inspiring, beautiful and modest. A city exploding from the creative powers of her residents. An international city that makes up for her smallness with a big heart ready to embrace the whole world.
It took a downpour... a warm shower to clear my judgement... judgement previously clouded by the prejudice of my youth and perhaps of late, pragmatic disposition... to see the delightful Miss Reykjavík for the young and vibrant city she has become.
Thankfully, it's never too late to get started on a journey.
The warm shower inspired me to write about the journey, a journey I can only take in Iceland, and a journey that fuels my undying belief in the realisation of all my dreams.
After all, what is a traveler without dreams...?
Home Sweet Home
Welcome Home!
Home. It's a word fundamental to our sense of belonging in this world of ours. Whether we travel the world from one end to another or never leave our place of birth, there is a special place (or places) in the world we call "home".
After years of traveling, the concept of home continues to puzzle me. What is the actual meaning of this term? How narrow or wide is the definition in this vastly shrinking world of ours?
The basic requirement of an authentic home is probably to have in one way or another set roots. But what does it mean to set roots? Can you set roots in more than one place? Or is home simply where the heart is?
Much changes when one travels the world. The largest changes occur in the general mindset, that is,
how we perceive different cultures as visitors and even residents, and how we perceive our own culture as a result of the exposure to different cultures.
For me personally, the definition of home has changed a great deal. I no longer identify with only one culture. I have bonded and set roots in places other than my native Iceland. My bonds to Iceland are profoundly personal. I have family and childhood history that ties me to this land. I also feel a connection with Iceland's rugged landscape and rough seas.
I identify with Iceland in ways I don't identify with any other country in the world, primarily the awesome power of Icelandic nature and my family. But I still can't say my relationship with Iceland is so profound I see it as my one and only home.
It's but one of a few.
The very first city to take my breath away was Paris. I was only 9 years old at the time and it was a half-day excursion with my parents and 4 years old sister. The hot scorching summer sun was high up in the sky and the air a dense cloud of city pollution typical for summer in the city.
As I stood on Pont Saint-Louis between the chic bohemian Ile Saint-Louis and the magnificent Ile de la Cité, I was immediately struck by the beauty of my surroundings; the gentle flow of the sea-green River Seine sparkled under the relentless midday rays that struck the surface, and the snow-white walls of the Notre Dame rising high above the Notre Dame Provincial Park.
The majestic sight hypnotized my young eyes, and in that moment, I fell in love with a city so unlike my own humble background, a small town that once upon a time relied on the fishing industry for survival but as times changed became a subdued town in search of a new identity.
My young impressionable eyes envisioned a glamorous lifestyle in a city so rich in culture and history. As the years passed and my dreams of grand artistic success as a novelist, journalist and a photographer rose, I envisioned my life in a small Parisian studio on Ile Saint-Louis with a small terrace overlooking the city.
At 22, I finally made my childhood dream come true and moved to Paris to do a photography course. Sure, life was not as grand nor luxurious as the cityscape that compelled the dream throughout my teens, but I nonetheless was swept off my feet. And before I knew, Paris was home, my home.
Before Paris, I'd already found another place that truly welcomed me and where I had set roots through the acquisition of language, active participation in the local community and kind people who made it even harder to leave as the mandatory departure date arrived.
Rio Verde, a small city in the state of Goiás in Central Brazil, was my home for a year. I went from a young girl lost in the wilderness of a language strange to my ears and limited by extreme shyness to a young woman full of life, playfully indulging in a language ever-so familiar to my ears. It not only altered the course of my life but gave me enough faith to explore the world on my own and make the adventurous world of travels my path.
The dream of Brazil was born out of impressions, impressions of a song from an exotic world to an innocent child. The song was Lambada by Kaoma and for reasons I couldn't possibly explain, the song seduced me with an image of a tropical culture passionate about dancing under the Brazilian skies.
Later I realised, there was more to Brazilian culture such as resilience, pride, and the spirit of joie-de-vivre. And I felt very much at home. My heart still beats for Brazil.
So far, three homes. you'd think that's a reasonable number of countries to claim as my own. But I have three more to go.
On a small island in the midst of the Greek Archipelago, I escaped the cosmopolitan citylife as summer announced its arrival. For brief 3 months I took time out from the fast-paced outside world, working late nights and spending long days on unspeakably beautiful beaches and in a quaint little village named Chora.
The island that is Ios is known for everything but tranquility. For the travelers who come and go it is but a place of intoxicated days and nights. Few explore the dry slopes of steep hills, Homer's grave, and the amphitheatre that overlooks the glittering Aegan Sea in the daytime and the bright reflection of the still moonlight in the night.
Strong bonds of friendship formed in our community of incestious workers - a term we used to refer to "internal" hookups - mostly in their twenties. Life, a sweet elixir of worry-free existence, was lived moment for moment, and in my Greek paradise I found a place to be just me.
But as autumn came the breeze grew cooler, the days shorter and eventually even the busy streets grew quiet. Seasonal workers traveled back to the real world where they either occupied a real-life job or were in search of one, and others returned to academic institutions to continue their education.
After a summer in paradise, I would return to London. I felt instinctively something awaited me in this grand city and as it turns out, it did. I eventually met my husband-to-be on an outing with a multicultural group of friends, and understandably, London is a very special place to us. It is where we lived and loved and every now and then, our hearts tingle for this city that never ceases to nurture the spirit. History is written in stone in this age-old city. The spectacular literary and theatre scene rarely fails to disappoint; academic institutions with history centuries-old; castles and palaces housing arrays of museum artifacts; and leisure scene with endless possibilities.
My final and absolute home is my husband's native land of South Africa. From the time I first arrived in the country long before we met, I felt a deep connection to the country and its rich multicultural history, as well as the majestic landscape that changes from region to region and coast to coast.
The highland plains of Gauteng ("Place of Gold") where the glorious Cradle of Mankind sits in its throne next to the notorious Johannesburg; the towering Table Mountain peaking over the breezy coastal city of Cape Town right where the Atlantic Ocean and the Indian Ocean have their rendez-vous; and the garden route stretching along the coastal regions of the country from Cape Town to Durban.
Durban is the largest city in the verdant hills of KwaZulu-Natal on South Africa's east coast. The pounding waves crash on the shore stretching along its centre, and within flourishes a vibrant city. On its outskirts, the verdant suburbs of Kloof and Hillcrest sit comfortably above the thick humidity of the Durban coastline, in the moist and sometimes foggy hills.
The mere thought sends a tingle, nay, a strong tickling sensation to the very depths of my heart.
A familiar scent, singing crickets and certain songs bring forth a state of such nostalgia and longing for an unwritten future however distant it may be.
Thus, my definition of home is an unusual one.
My definition of home is not isolated to years of residence or deep familial roots. Home is a feeling, a feeling of belonging in a place that touches the soul so profoundly that it occupies a piece of our heart. Be it a temporary home or the place that holds the key to our future, home is a place where the heart rejoices life no matter the ups and downs in life.
Home, in other words, is where the heart lives and beats to a rhythm of its own.
Home. It's a word fundamental to our sense of belonging in this world of ours. Whether we travel the world from one end to another or never leave our place of birth, there is a special place (or places) in the world we call "home".
After years of traveling, the concept of home continues to puzzle me. What is the actual meaning of this term? How narrow or wide is the definition in this vastly shrinking world of ours?
The basic requirement of an authentic home is probably to have in one way or another set roots. But what does it mean to set roots? Can you set roots in more than one place? Or is home simply where the heart is?
Much changes when one travels the world. The largest changes occur in the general mindset, that is,
how we perceive different cultures as visitors and even residents, and how we perceive our own culture as a result of the exposure to different cultures.
For me personally, the definition of home has changed a great deal. I no longer identify with only one culture. I have bonded and set roots in places other than my native Iceland. My bonds to Iceland are profoundly personal. I have family and childhood history that ties me to this land. I also feel a connection with Iceland's rugged landscape and rough seas.
I identify with Iceland in ways I don't identify with any other country in the world, primarily the awesome power of Icelandic nature and my family. But I still can't say my relationship with Iceland is so profound I see it as my one and only home.
It's but one of a few.
The very first city to take my breath away was Paris. I was only 9 years old at the time and it was a half-day excursion with my parents and 4 years old sister. The hot scorching summer sun was high up in the sky and the air a dense cloud of city pollution typical for summer in the city.
As I stood on Pont Saint-Louis between the chic bohemian Ile Saint-Louis and the magnificent Ile de la Cité, I was immediately struck by the beauty of my surroundings; the gentle flow of the sea-green River Seine sparkled under the relentless midday rays that struck the surface, and the snow-white walls of the Notre Dame rising high above the Notre Dame Provincial Park.
The majestic sight hypnotized my young eyes, and in that moment, I fell in love with a city so unlike my own humble background, a small town that once upon a time relied on the fishing industry for survival but as times changed became a subdued town in search of a new identity.
My young impressionable eyes envisioned a glamorous lifestyle in a city so rich in culture and history. As the years passed and my dreams of grand artistic success as a novelist, journalist and a photographer rose, I envisioned my life in a small Parisian studio on Ile Saint-Louis with a small terrace overlooking the city.
At 22, I finally made my childhood dream come true and moved to Paris to do a photography course. Sure, life was not as grand nor luxurious as the cityscape that compelled the dream throughout my teens, but I nonetheless was swept off my feet. And before I knew, Paris was home, my home.
Before Paris, I'd already found another place that truly welcomed me and where I had set roots through the acquisition of language, active participation in the local community and kind people who made it even harder to leave as the mandatory departure date arrived.
Rio Verde, a small city in the state of Goiás in Central Brazil, was my home for a year. I went from a young girl lost in the wilderness of a language strange to my ears and limited by extreme shyness to a young woman full of life, playfully indulging in a language ever-so familiar to my ears. It not only altered the course of my life but gave me enough faith to explore the world on my own and make the adventurous world of travels my path.
The dream of Brazil was born out of impressions, impressions of a song from an exotic world to an innocent child. The song was Lambada by Kaoma and for reasons I couldn't possibly explain, the song seduced me with an image of a tropical culture passionate about dancing under the Brazilian skies.
Later I realised, there was more to Brazilian culture such as resilience, pride, and the spirit of joie-de-vivre. And I felt very much at home. My heart still beats for Brazil.
So far, three homes. you'd think that's a reasonable number of countries to claim as my own. But I have three more to go.
On a small island in the midst of the Greek Archipelago, I escaped the cosmopolitan citylife as summer announced its arrival. For brief 3 months I took time out from the fast-paced outside world, working late nights and spending long days on unspeakably beautiful beaches and in a quaint little village named Chora.
The island that is Ios is known for everything but tranquility. For the travelers who come and go it is but a place of intoxicated days and nights. Few explore the dry slopes of steep hills, Homer's grave, and the amphitheatre that overlooks the glittering Aegan Sea in the daytime and the bright reflection of the still moonlight in the night.
Strong bonds of friendship formed in our community of incestious workers - a term we used to refer to "internal" hookups - mostly in their twenties. Life, a sweet elixir of worry-free existence, was lived moment for moment, and in my Greek paradise I found a place to be just me.
But as autumn came the breeze grew cooler, the days shorter and eventually even the busy streets grew quiet. Seasonal workers traveled back to the real world where they either occupied a real-life job or were in search of one, and others returned to academic institutions to continue their education.
After a summer in paradise, I would return to London. I felt instinctively something awaited me in this grand city and as it turns out, it did. I eventually met my husband-to-be on an outing with a multicultural group of friends, and understandably, London is a very special place to us. It is where we lived and loved and every now and then, our hearts tingle for this city that never ceases to nurture the spirit. History is written in stone in this age-old city. The spectacular literary and theatre scene rarely fails to disappoint; academic institutions with history centuries-old; castles and palaces housing arrays of museum artifacts; and leisure scene with endless possibilities.
My final and absolute home is my husband's native land of South Africa. From the time I first arrived in the country long before we met, I felt a deep connection to the country and its rich multicultural history, as well as the majestic landscape that changes from region to region and coast to coast.
The highland plains of Gauteng ("Place of Gold") where the glorious Cradle of Mankind sits in its throne next to the notorious Johannesburg; the towering Table Mountain peaking over the breezy coastal city of Cape Town right where the Atlantic Ocean and the Indian Ocean have their rendez-vous; and the garden route stretching along the coastal regions of the country from Cape Town to Durban.
Durban is the largest city in the verdant hills of KwaZulu-Natal on South Africa's east coast. The pounding waves crash on the shore stretching along its centre, and within flourishes a vibrant city. On its outskirts, the verdant suburbs of Kloof and Hillcrest sit comfortably above the thick humidity of the Durban coastline, in the moist and sometimes foggy hills.
The mere thought sends a tingle, nay, a strong tickling sensation to the very depths of my heart.
A familiar scent, singing crickets and certain songs bring forth a state of such nostalgia and longing for an unwritten future however distant it may be.
Thus, my definition of home is an unusual one.
My definition of home is not isolated to years of residence or deep familial roots. Home is a feeling, a feeling of belonging in a place that touches the soul so profoundly that it occupies a piece of our heart. Be it a temporary home or the place that holds the key to our future, home is a place where the heart rejoices life no matter the ups and downs in life.
Home, in other words, is where the heart lives and beats to a rhythm of its own.
Saturday, 6 July 2013
What you might want to know about me...
I am obsessed with traveling - if there was a temporary remedy to keep it under control, I'd be taking it right now - but only until I book my next adventure.
My first love was the city of Paris - it may sound crazy but I fell in love with her at the age of 9 during a half-day excursion. Later, I studied photography in Paris - her charms never wear off and I have days when I miss the Parisian life. I even took two semesters of French phonetics to speak French with some dignity.
I so enjoy good food, French food in particular (surprise! surprise!)
I fell in love with more than just the French language - I settled on a total of 7 languages to learn before I die... when I was 11. I am up to 5 but hey, if I fancy a few more after reaching 7, I'll give it a try.
I can't sing - and even if I am wrong about that and actually have a voice that doesn't shriek or destroy the hearing of stand-byers, I just don't. Ever.
I live the northernmost capital in the world - some days take your breath away while others bring you close to a state of desperate misery. Sometimes it feels like we live on the very edge of the world...
In my 33 years, I have made it my mission to not only pass through the places my travels take me... I like to set roots in a few... Rio Verde, the little city in the middle of Brazil; Ios, the party island with the gentle heart; Paris, to get to know and embrace the city I love the most; and Durban, the tropical city no one knows exactly where to find on a map but one that I like to call home.
Otherwise...
I have always known my calling in life was to write - I can't imagine my life without the ability to express myself in words. It's a gift I cherish with all my heart and seek to nurture here.
My only intention is to write from my heart... about the journey I am on now that I am back in my native Iceland... about shorter adventures in unknown places... and maybe one day, about a life in South Africa...
I married a man from the southernmost tip of Africa - we met in London, the arena for international matchmaking.
 |
| My man...the rugby player |
I have a dog I named Emma after one of Jane Austen's characters. I wanted to name her Jane Austen but my husband didn't quite see the appeal in calling out "Jane Austen!"
She is a real beauty...
 |
| Just kidding... she's not that small. |
 |
| Miss Emma in all her glory. |
I am addicted to coffee - if I don't have my two cups straight after breakfast I am in trouble. It sounds worse than it really is.
I bought an espresso maker to reduce the cost of purchases in the specifically chosen cafés I would regularly attend to feed my addiction.
I am an optimist - no matter how bad things get I know things will only get better.
My first love was the city of Paris - it may sound crazy but I fell in love with her at the age of 9 during a half-day excursion. Later, I studied photography in Paris - her charms never wear off and I have days when I miss the Parisian life. I even took two semesters of French phonetics to speak French with some dignity.
I so enjoy good food, French food in particular (surprise! surprise!)
 |
| Coq au Vin... my husband can cook :) |
I fell in love with more than just the French language - I settled on a total of 7 languages to learn before I die... when I was 11. I am up to 5 but hey, if I fancy a few more after reaching 7, I'll give it a try.
I can't sing - and even if I am wrong about that and actually have a voice that doesn't shriek or destroy the hearing of stand-byers, I just don't. Ever.
I live the northernmost capital in the world - some days take your breath away while others bring you close to a state of desperate misery. Sometimes it feels like we live on the very edge of the world...
 |
| A foggy day in the city - all of a sudden the sun erupted and her blinding rays shut through the fog... |
Otherwise...
I have always known my calling in life was to write - I can't imagine my life without the ability to express myself in words. It's a gift I cherish with all my heart and seek to nurture here.
My only intention is to write from my heart... about the journey I am on now that I am back in my native Iceland... about shorter adventures in unknown places... and maybe one day, about a life in South Africa...
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