Chefchaouen: Still questioning an azure, cerulean, cornflower, powder blue mystery.

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Roughly 3-4 hours north of Fès, further into the mountains, lies a magical town painted in multiple shades of blue. It is famous among tourists to Morocco. Everyone wants to visit the blue city. I have to admit that I am a failed visitor in the fact that I never asked why the buildings of this municipality tucked in the northern Atlas mountain range had been painted my favourite colour.

I do know that travelling to Chefchaouen was an adventurous, long-ish journey where you have to spend roughly four hours getting there in a mini-tour bus. Don’t get me wrong. The bus was comfortable and the driver very professional, with the patience of a saint. But the trek is long and you are very happy when you arrive. The driver is even kind enough to make a stop on the bluff overlooking the town before you move into its centre. At that stop, travellers from all parts of the world carefully cross the busy blacktop to stand in front of the nearby hill town. Interestingly, it looks a lot less blue from the bird’s eye perspective, so you wouldn’t really know it’s the destination you seek without the nearby road signs or the driver telling you that you are close to the end of your journey.

Arriving to Chefchaouen was a relief; well at least until we realised the quickest route to finding our riad (accommodation) was a journey through the people-packed, narrow streets of the old medina in the city centre. So along with Ree, who had to take a deep breath and tolerate a hangry Brenda, we plodded our way up the gradual slope. Fortunately, the blue tones on all walls along the way are calming. You just look in awe and think: who had this idea? Who does the paint touch ups? Are there restrictions on what shades of blue can be used? It immediately occurred to me that the monument protection institute in Prague would have a field day setting out rules on paint usage in this city.

Half-way up the hill, you finally make it out of the medina and you reach an open square. Much to my profound happiness. There, you have a view of the local kasbah (a former fortress and prison) with its colourful gardens and pretty views of the local terra cotta tile rooftops and the jagged hills (mountains) surrounding Chefchaouen. This was a moment of respite from the crowded medina paths but it meant the arrival of the salesmen. Stop for lunch? Would you like something to eat? Check out our shops. It was a lot to handle for someone like me who has come to love the standoffish-ness of most Czech storekeepers and sales clerks. I am a firm subscriber to the If I need something I will ask. take on shopping. Soon enough though – with the generosity of Google maps – we would find our way to our riad and the busy juice-maker (vendor) and his neighbour-carpet sellers who flanked the stairsteps nearby.

And the riad … what can I say? And where to begin? Wonderful staff and a room from a fairytale. Ree was kind enough to let me hide myself in the bed on the upper level, complete with a window nook where I could work, read and inspect the hullabaloo that seemed to be a constant on the stairs and sidewalk below.

There didn’t seem to be a strict tourist agenda for persons visiting Chefchaouen. You were in the blue city, so you enjoyed the blueness. The cute little paths and the many locals who were there to sell, sell, sell. You can watch the vagabond cats scurry from house to house or run the cobblestone sidewalks looking for food and treats. To make my hangriness subside, we agreed to find an internet-recommended restaurant where we could grab a proper lunch and catch our breath after days of being on the move. I’m not sure now what I even ate. I want to stay I started with something puff-pastry adjacent that reminded me of Greek spanakopita. And for the main – a tagine or some sort? Who knows. I mainly remember being enthralled by the mountain views around us. These rocky crags that had to be fairly tall – I was so curious about them I turned on my Mapy.cz app to get confirmation that some were indeed over 2000 metres tall. And then I realised that one should do their homework before travelling: had I know of the nearby mountains and their well-marked hiking paths, I would have booked a longer stay. The reality is that if you hike to the tops of the mountains, a view of the Mediterranean awaits you on the other side. In fact, you are perhaps only 50 km from the seashore. Oh well, there’s always next time.

I don’t know what else to say about Chefchaouen. It was a special, almost surreal place with wonderful people full of kindness and hospitality. You just kind of want to think carefully about the mini-interviews that local vendors conduct. Beyond that, I would love to go back and hike the mountains to the sea. I feel like that needs to happen. Until then.

Fès (Fez): the Final Frontier

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There was something about this city. You could feel it calling even before you left the Casa Voyageur train station on the other side of the country. Way too early in the morning to embark on an almost four-hour train ride, but you could sense adventure in the air. The balmy breeze through Casablanca and its surroundings quickly left us and as the train bounded forward into a sunny, desert-esque landscape. We splurged on first class tickets to make sure we had seats waiting for us and upon finding our spots the social engagement began. For a time, we chatted with a fellow tourist from Senegal who shared bits and pieces of information about his travels throughout Morocco – he pointed out that there was a second Chefchaouen called Nador further down the northern coastline. My Moroccan colleague from Tangier begs to differ on this opinion. The voyage went fairly fast, however. A couple, of which the husband was a restaurateur who had worked all over the United States, told us of his American adventures and welcomed us to his country. He gave highlights of different sights that we needed to see and offered his appraisals of our plans for travel around the Fez area.

Arrival in Fez

When descending from the train, it was clear we were in a different region with a different climate. The temperature had jumped about 10°C and the winter coats and sweaters quickly became a burden. The sport of finding a reasonably priced cab then followed. And we did OK haggling a price of 70 dirham down to 50. Comparatively, the taxi fees aren’t terrible; there’s just a bit of competition involved relating to one’s personal pride and a need to prove that this isn’t a person’s first rodeo. That said, the driver was kind and quickly dispatched us to the Blue Gate, where a staff member from our riad would be waiting for us.

It’s hard to put into words the overwhelming of the senses that occurred next. Picked up by our riad contact, we marvelled at the amazing architecture and the bustle of the westernmost part of the old medina (market). The entry to the medina also seemingly has the only permanently functioning ATM for cash withdrawals, which is an important thing to know about travel in Morocco. In the cities, card payments are common, but in some larger and medium-sized towns, they will say cards are OK but later make an excuse to accept only cash. There’s no malicious intent involved – it appears to be solely a matter of convenience, internet connections, and possibly tax evasion.

From the market to maison

The medina was all I expected it to be and in some cases more. It was a bedlam and cacophony of selling, selling, selling. Piles of fresh fruit and vegetables: onions, oranges, tangerines, zucchini, carrots, you name it. Here and there, animal oddities would appear. You could find crates of fresh eggs overseen by a rooster and a hen or two, who gave the feeling they didn’t wish to depart with their goods. Likewise, you would see cages of pigeons; grain sacks full of flour, cornmeal, barley; and food stands offering everything from kebabs to sandwiches on to doughnuts. The doughnuts were tasty and kept us going on our afternoon train back to Casablanca later that week.

I am not sure where to begin when it comes to describing our accommodation. We stayed in two separate apartments in two riads (bed and breakfasts) run by the same family. When I think back on that experience, the words hospitality, kindness, good food and helpfulness come to mind. The interior décor of those buildings transported you to another space and time: the colourful geometric designs, the plump cushions, fluffy beds, elaborate handwoven carpets. You felt like you had stepped into an old tale about Aladdin or Sinbad (even if those took place in different countries). The talent, craftmanship and skilful mystique of those venues’ architects made the experience special.

An afternoon in the tanneries and a morning in the royal gardens

There was so much to take in in Fez. From the scrumptious breakfasts with four types of homemade bread, honey that tasted and smelled as if a colony of bees had delivered it that very morning, or the mazes of streets and alleyways that made up the old medina. There were ups and downs to navigating the old city, impacted by warnings we had been given not to stray off main streets. It was pointed out to us that offers to help tourists find their way were not always helpful. So that made me a bit more careful and mindful of using Google maps and refusing many offers for guidance. But the experience and the kindness of the family running the Fez tanneries and seeing how animal skins were cleaned, processed and decorated reassured me of the local people’s goodness and big hearts. The owners offer fresh mint to mute the smell of the animal hides and pigeon excrement used in the tanning process, but for this one time Missouri country boy it just smelled like your typical Friday at a sale barn.

Enjoying the natural surroundings of the city and the amazing ancient walls, we worked our way back up the hill to our particular gate to the city. It was a long, steady climb but the golden, tawny rock that encloses Fez is beautiful and somehow seems to warm the soul. The following day we would penetrate the wall from the other side to loiter in the royal gardens and watch locals enjoy morning walks with their children. We observed the egrets sunbathing and the occasional stork dropping from the sky to inspect what the fuss was about.

This is scattershot description of my impressions of Fez. But truth be told, I am still processing all the city had, and what more it still has, to offer.

Craziness and confusion in Casablanca

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Over the year-end holidays I made my first trip to Morocco. I honestly had no idea what to expect; I just knew that I had wanted to visit the country for a long time. So we got on the plane from Lisbon and began what would be a fun, unpredictable and tiring adventure. Tiring in a good way though.

Moroccans are very hospitable. You might not initially expect that based on the line at the passport checks in the Casablanca airport. Which took forever, and forever, and forever. As my friend Ree and I waited there to be somehow  let in the country, my hangriness levels started to peak. I don’t really remember now what Ree fed me to keep me from going off the deep end, but it worked. For that matter, I also don’t know what happened to the Asian lady in front of me at the passport check. After she was questioned for 10 minutes, they took her somewhere. I didn’t see her come back.

But we eventually got through and into baggage claim, grabbed our bags, and set off to look for the train station. We quickly found it but had no idea when the train would leave. Turned out it was RIGHT THEN and THERE. So I went into party planner mode and saw Moroccan hospitality and guest care burst into action. I ordered two tickets using my rusty French, told Ree how much we needed to pay … then we ran. We ran because the train was leaving that minute but the ticket vendor called the platform and told them to hold departure for us and they did. Within two minutes we were riding through desert plains to Casa Oasis or Casa Port. Just someplace.

With a little time to relax in the train, we joked about what we had just gone through. And we were really impressed and grateful for the support from our help at the Moroccan ONCF/SNCF. Then came the arrival at the train station and our first stab at finding a Moroccan cab driver, of which there are plenty. I tried to weed through the many “helpful” people who wanted to take us “someplace” and looked for drivers at an official cab stand. That turned out not to work so well but we found a nice enough elderly driver, paid roughly 20 dirham too much to get to the hotel, and then embarked on an interesting ride. My favourite part of that journey was when I turned on Google maps to get the precise hotel location and the driver said “Wow, that GPS tracking is very useful.” I just nodded in tired agreement.

Our hotel location was decent. Lots of boutiques and shops along the busy boulevards, which led me to my first impressions of Casablanca. It is a BIG city for Morocco and feels much more USA metropolitan than Berber, north African desert chic. We bookended our stay in Morocco with a few nights in Casablanca. After our return trip to the city (and a train ride with an interesting Dutch family from whom we got ex post travel advice and discovered what all we had missed out on), we were glad to get back to our favourite hotel and relax. Once again we overpaid for the ride from the train station Casa Oasis to our hotel, but given that other costs for food, public transport, etc. were generally reasonably priced (even cheap by European standards), we just tolerated the random cab fares when necessary.

We spent the next day trying to discover Casablanca’s city centre as much as possible. As said, the town is very urban with lots of high-rises and skyscrapers with some bits of traditional architecture woven in here and there. The promenade along the coastline by the main mosque is enjoyable. Waves bustling in from the Atlantic and the misty, foggy beauty of that that semi-shrouded place of worship in morning hours gave it a special air of mystery. Walking along the coastline you could watch local young men on their sports bikes doing tricks, while their elders sat along the beachfront and promenade railing casting their fishing lines in hopes of being rewarded with some sort of nice catch for the day. We rounded out our walks with some visits to cafés and restaurants here and there; enjoying the comfort of the delicious Moroccan mint tea and the gracious kindness of our servers in various types of restaurants – Italian, Moroccan and some sort of fusion. We ate well.

Casablanca remains a sort of mystery to me. It’s a bit too modern and doesn’t have that local feel of the country’s interior,  nor is there that visible switch to a different history and culture I was hoping for. I would be happy to visit again though just to learn more about the city (after doing some online research). Plus, we were told a venture up the coast to Rabat is worthwhile. So, hang on, Casablanca. I’m not quite done with you yet.

Loving Graz: one meal at a time

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A couple of weekends ago, a friend and I boarded a train and head for Graz, the main city of Austria’s Styria region. The train ride is just over 7 hours but takes you through some beautiful countryside in the wine regions along the Czech-Austrian border and in the mini-mountains as it nears Graz. The railway serpentines around Semmering-Kurort are lovely as you swoosh from tunnel to tunnel and get glimpses of colourful rock formations bedecked this time of year with fall foliage.

Upon arrival in Graz, you descend into a quiet-bustling regional city with the bahnhof life loud and hopping and a fitness centre right there to greet you. Our stroll from rail station to hotel took us down a busy thoroughfare to the bank of the Mur River, where the modern-ly fun and imposing Kunsthaus told us our accommodation was nearby.

Although slightly tired from the long trip, we only took a few minutes to get settled and then rushed to the city centre to see a few sights before dusk quickly arrived. Walking over one of the many bridges that provide connection to the Innere Stadt, we soon found ourselves in a maze of cute streets with an array of architectural styles that each, in their own way, explained the city’s history. After some wandering around we settled on a café that offered a great blend of coffee which I elected to sip with an accompaniment of apple strudel and vanilla ice cream. The coffee provided some warmth as we rested our feet and contemplated the words of Kurdish refugees who had assembled in front of the Graz City Hall to voice their discontent with the dire situation of their peoples in Eastern Turkey.

As we took in the city sparkling in the sunset, we also plotted our evening meal. Nothing says “I need more food.” like a huge piece of strudel and ice cream. We eventually settled on a Bierstube off the main streetcar (tram) route the runs under the Castle Hill, where we indulged in some regional draft beer (Grössl?) and delicious Käsespätzle. I also pigged out on a lovely pumpkin soup as an appetizer. After that, it was time to walk off the meal; enjoying a bit of night-time Graz and discovering sites like the local theatre, some baroque churches, local parks and bustling boulevards.

Our Saturday, as forecasted, was filled with rain. We grabbed breakfast on the opposite end of the main square, prior to walking the tram road over to where we estimated the streets leading up to the remains of the castle on the Schlossberg would be. On a tiny square below the hill, we noticed a formidable set of stairs that I pondered a few seconds before deciding that this was our way to the top: no funicular, no mountain rail. And so we began our ascent, a few steps at a time. I just focused on my breathing and in no time we got where we needed to be: greeted by the clock tower that looks out on Graz and shares the time with all people in view. Armed with our umbrellas, we moved around the hill top, snapping pics of various skyline views and looking out on the city we’d just begun to discover. The Castle Hill is today sans castle, since the fortress that once protected the city was destroyed during the Napoleonic Wars at the start of the 19th century. So with no monument in sight, it became our duty to enjoy and take in the autumnal colours: happy yellows, blazing oranges and fiery reds. We observed them all as we meandered down the back side of the hill winding down to the city centre below. Then more wandering and enjoying the city: the lovely theatre square in daylight, the beautifully carved woodwork adorning a local pharmacy, the delicious and appetizing farmers market, and interesting blips of modern architecture speckled across the cityscape. All that walking was rewarded with an amazing pork schnitzel (tenderloin) and delicious roasted potatoes. And of course some more local beer to wash it all down.

After lunch, the foodie trekking would pause, as we decided to take in the current exhibit at the Kunsthaus and enjoy the modern pieces there focused on branding and commercialism/consumerism. An abrupt return to the struggles of today’s world which we had temporarily forgotten while immersed in 16th and 17th century architecture and our passion for good food. By evening our tourist adventure was slowly winding down. We had had our fill of local food and accidentally stepped into a cute Mexican restaurant. Filled with a great mood and the lovely songs of guest singers, we enjoyed an array of folk songs, while munching on tacos, quesadillas and other culinary goodies.

Graz, you were a wonderful respite from the stress of the working world. And you’re an excellent place for a weekend get-away: filled with tasty food and architectural pleasures. Not least of all the “Mussel” building that sits in the middle of the Mur. Auf wiedersehen.

Côtes du Rhône … where memories meet and happiness flows

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Since I was a teenager, France has had a special power for me. It’s “meant to be-ness” has always made it feel safe. And celebrating a good friend’s birthday in Provence in September served as an important reminder of the need to cherish special certainties.

The givens of Pete fixing amazing food while tormenting me incessantly, or Jakub telling silly dad jokes, or Natalie being armed and ready with rosé, or Laura acting as the voice of reason. Not to mention Jean making sure we were all looked after and the house in order.

An insane route to the farmhouse we were staying at had me less than certain how our celebratory week in Provence would end up. But France, this time the southern part, did not disappoint. The smell of lavender, the rugged mountains hugging our local horizon, and the poplar or sycamore-lined roadways … they all told me that life was as it should be.

It’s funny that the French created the term je ne sais quoi. Because that’s how I often feel when describing why I am at home there. It’s an “I don’t know what” sentiment. I’m never 100% certain why but I always feel welcome when I move through the fruit and veggie markets, when I sit down for un crême, or when I escape inside a house of worship that dates back to the times of The Crusades. The beauty of the Rhone Valley immediately tells visitors, without their knowing why, that everything will be all right.

Our corner of Provence that we hid out in that week afforded us the best that France has to offer. Great wines from the ancient land of Popes (a Châteauneuf-du-Pape or a Gigondas) accompanied most of our meals. The shops welcomed us with the culinary artisanry that only the French can deliver: sumptuous sausages of the Camargue, excellent terrine de foie gras, or rillettes … food shopping in France is unique. Just brush off your French vocabulary from college days and enquire after which local farmers supply the shops and to what periods these agro-culinary traditions date back.

It’s in these moments that you slowly come to understand that the “I don’t know what” may just simply be a proud love or passion for traditions in food-making, animal-raising and store-owning that transcends time. Perhaps, it’s because the river lies nearby. But in the Rhone Valley and that area of France, there’s a fluidity: a phantom of centuries of trade routes that connected Ancient Rome to the Iberian peninsula. When you submit to the region of Provence, you feel these transitory moments. Of wine poured into glasses across the years, of floral scents being gathered for perfumes that would sweeten numerous decades, or of frankincense emanating from churches that would bring the religions of the Holy Land to the Empire’s marchlands.

There’s never a single, clear cause for the serenity and happiness flowing along the Rhone in Provence, but I’m certain it has something to do with the land always seeing to residents’ and visitors’ basic needs. You eat well. You drink well. And you relax as time nourishes you with the riches of the region’s traditions.

Laissez-vous en profiter de ce que la région vous offre.   

Returning to my other HOME

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Three years after Covid forced me out and a major heart surgery threw a wrench in my travel plans, I finally made it back to Armenia last weekend. It was amazing how quickly the warmth of Armenians and reconnecting with old friends melted away the anxiousness I had about travelling to the southern Caucasus region. My worries were never of the normal kind, i.e., would people and places still be as I remembered? Would there still be a connection to, and love for, the communities where I trained and worked. I was more concerned about being fit enough for the journey.  

My current adventure began with new target destinations: to see parts of the country I had not yet visited; and this thanks to having a good rental car at my disposal.  Of course, driving also made me a little anxious but having a great, funny, supportive team of fellow travellers (Jesus and Ani from Peace Corps’ A27 cohort and our new friend Marietta) made my first trip to the Vayots Dzor region perfectly enjoyable. Our journey took us to the spa town of Jermuk, or what I call Armenian Karlovy Vary (Carlsbad for German or English speakers). This small, unassuming town nestled in between cliffs and canyon made for a nice respite from the stress of air travel. It also filled me with hope for all that tourism can, and hopefully will one day, offer local and regional businesses in Armenia. Although the dominant buildings in Jermuk are large therapy and rehabilitation facilities as well as a couple of resort hotels, the town’s charm, at least for me, derives from the nature that envelops it. There are the cliffs west of the town centre formed from volcanic activity and “tubes” of basalt. These geographic features always make me think of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Then, as you meander to the north end of Jermuk’s “Main Street”, you will find a sign pointing you to stairs that take you down to a beautiful, breath-taking gorge or canyon and the gurgling river that soothes even the most exhausted traveller’s nerves. 

As you walk along the canyon path, you are surrounded by beautiful flora – wild roses greet you at every turn along with other colourful flowering plants (I couldn’t tell you their names for the life of me) that jump out in shades of pink, blue, yellow and purple. The trail also offers a break from the intense summer sun that warms all of southern Armenia. Cliff overhangs and large boulders (even a rock arch) cool the canyon and make the hike all the more pleasant. Finally, when you reach the river’s edge, it only takes a few more steps before you hear that a wonderful surprise awaits. The sound of rushing water shushing eager hikers soon reveals itself to be an amazing waterfall towering from the hilltop above. It carries the cool, refreshing Jermuk waters down to the river so they can travel further south to Armenia’s Syunik region.

Many travellers will journey to Jermuk to enjoy the curative spring waters, to relax or to seek rehabilitation. Odd traveller that I am, I went there to be hugged by the hillsides, calmed by the canyon river and streams and to listen to nature telling me to slow down. There is so much energy bursting in this beautiful landscape that I can’t wait to return one day: to hike more in the sun-drenched golden mountains; to watch local beekeepers as they gather their honey; to observe the farmers as they cut, mow and rake their hay into small bales; and mainly to enjoy the serenity that is, and always has been, the mountains, gorges and canyons of Armenia.

It felt good to be back in those Armenian mountains; it felt good to be back in, and embraced by, one of the lands I now call home.  

Following the clouds across Denmark

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Could it be six? Or perhaps it was eight years? Memories came flooding back as the familiar forest of wind turbines that populate the sea of Denmark’s southern coast announced our approach to the Kastrup district and Copenhagen’s airport. So many years of recollections returned along with the apprehension of comparison: how would the present compare to the joy of all the special times from past visits?

However, slowly but surely, the days would unfold just as they were meant to be. Throngs of cyclists accompanied us as we headed to the house – the garden, upon arrival, still full of spring fragrances: lilacs, mock orange, rose blossoms, bridal wreath spirea and more. After a big welcome hug, the conversation began right where it had left off so many years ago. We shared news of what had changed in our lives and thoughts on the state of the world. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee filled the air as we sat in the garden and filled in the gaps of that half-decade.

The beauty of Copenhagen, and Denmark for that matter, lies in the warm welcome of its familiar serenity. Decades ago we would have been on our bikes whizzing into the city centre or headed out along the coastline to ride through the nature preserve. But habits have changed and health and aging have introduced limitations. The absence of riding was replaced by the careful steps of daily walks and thoughtful conversation. The neighbourhood beach had come alive with skateboarders, surfers, paddleboarders and joggers. Strolling along the shore, we watched kids at play and the more daring cranes and herons high-stepping it through the rivulets.

In between walks we enjoyed familiar culinary treats that had also remained unchanged over the years. The hearty open-faced sandwiches and a bottle of elderflower (hyldeblomst) soda pop here and there. Also, the rich cakes and tartes that quickly satisfied one’s sweet tooth; my only regret being new restrictions on how much rhubarb I could consume. The wonderful flavours of local baked goods quickly reminded me that I would need to raid the local store to hoard up my favourite Den Gamle Fabrik jams: hyben (rose hip) and raspberry. Both of which have added pizzazz to my morning porridge since my return to Prague. 

Memories continued to replenish my soul as we moved north to Nykøbing and the Rørvig area. The road to the summer house had been repaved with a mix of tar and gravel. Not sure that was a good idea. But the excess saplings in the front yard and been cleared and the rhododendrons moved to form a beautiful floral wall at the back of the property. The ever-changing Danish weather did us a solid by allowing the sun to shine and accompany us on our walk along the north shore beach that looks out on the Kattegat. We were lucky to have the coastline almost all to ourselves with the exception of an intrepid family that wanted to test the possibility of swimming in the still chilly spring waters and a sole windsurfer who was preparing to try his luck in taming the less than threatening waves. The walk seemed at times overwhelming as it brought with it mental images of past rainy Saturdays in the cottage and cycling adventures along the windy levee and through flooded fields. Or the surprise sight of a windmill on the horizon.

The pleasure of Denmark is that it is easy. No matter how long the gap between visits, each new arrival brings the same warm welcome. And each departure has a sadness of things left unsaid. Still I know I will return, because in København I feel loved.

Ապրե՛ս / Ապրե՛ք (Live!)

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In a week or so, 60 years will have passed since US president John F. Kennedy signed the executive order 10924 creating the Peace Corps. The date was 1 March 1961. I’ve been thinking for a couple of weeks about how to recognize that very important anniversary while combining it with my personal blog here which focuses on travel.

After a lot of thought, I decided to share with you some comments about how the US Peace Corps has influenced my views on travel and how I perceive it a bit differently now. Although cut short, my experience serving in northern Armenia helped me “travel” in multiple senses of the word. It helped me explore and learn about a country I’ve come to love more than I ever could have imagined. And it helped me advance further down a road of personal maturity and understanding (and coming to accept) what I have to give to, and what I sometimes need from, the world.

All that said, I want to share with you one of the greatest gifts the Armenians gave a language nerd like me. And that would be the word in the title to this blog entry which transliterates as apres or apreq. It is the imperative of the verb “to live” and is used in Armenia as an expression of commendation or praise. When Armenians appreciate something you’ve done or approve of your actions, they literally tell you to “Live!”. Usage of this term is so common in Armenia that I never put much thought into its broader significance and the lessons or values it could teach people from other countries: that one of the greatest gifts we have in this world is life. If you think back on the 20th century history of Armenia – both at the time of the collapse of the Ottoman Empire and after the dissolution of the Soviet Union – you realize that the Armenian people were always endangered by the ambitions of their larger neighbors or the commercial interests of other global powers. For those Armenians who lost family in the genocide of 1915 or other mass killings of Armenian populations or for families who lost sons and fathers in the wars in Artsakh, one of the most precious gifts a person has is “life” or “living”. This is a reality that most of us in Europe or the USA don’t give much thought. One of the most daring, audacious things we can do in our time on this planet is to live. Not just exist, but LIVE!

This is a point that was not lost on me the longer I stayed in Armenia and got to know the people there. I went to the Peace Corps because I wanted to learn about another culture; I had hoped that some of the skills and experience I had acquired in my professional life over 20+ years would be of some use or worth to local communities. To my surprise though, my Armenian colleagues and families taught me a small lesson of enormous value: I needed to learn to live. This meant celebrating all that life offers us from dusk till dawn: from making tahini sandwiches with my host sister Yeva and having my morning tea with her mom Zara, on to having a late evening snack with my second host dad Artur and watching bits of the TV news with him. I learned that actually living meant I needed to slow down to truly see and appreciate life. I needed to listen. I had to find value in opening up to strangers and appreciating their natural curiosity about the super tall, dark-haired man who wasn’t one of them, who wasn’t a Russian speaker, but who had somehow made his home for awhile in their bustling town.

I like to think that over time, all the progress that I made in learning how to live (how to heal myself) came from the repetition of that tiny, yet powerful, Armenian entreaty: ապրե՛ս. My Armenian friends and family constantly invited me to enjoy life, to take time to talk and share myself with them and their families, and to notice the small blessings that show up around us day in, day out. So, Armenia, thank you for helping me truly live and enjoy life: ձեզ էլ ապրե՛ք։

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 2)

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In my last post, I spoke of my holiday hiking with friends met in Prague who now live in Lausanne. We decided that in today’s Covid-impacted world the best spiritual rejuvenation would come from getting out of the city and back to nature. Luckily, some of Switzerland’s most interesting and intriguing natural sites are to be found at the foot of the Jura mountains: not far from our home base in Lausanne. Our preferred destination is Les Clées (reached easily by car). Our first hike this season, a new one to me, was a footpath heading west of Les Clées village: in direction of the French border. 

I have to admit that his hike was not full-on serene for me. The nature was amazing and beautiful, but the precarious path and the threat of a possible fall off a steep incline down into the Orbe River had me a bit ill-at-ease at times. Initially, the route is wider and you focus more on questioning why you had such a big breakfast OR you wish you’d had more to eat. You need a good store of energy to push yourself up the constantly ascending path. However, quickly the route narrows and you look at the rushing Orbe below and wonder how rapidly you might plummet down to the water.

As with all things Swiss, this path is impeccably organized. Should you happen on an outshoot of rock: no worries. The locals long ago carved a tunnel into the grey-white rock so that hikers can easily navigate through the mountainside when need be. Likewise, this section of the Orbe River Path also has ample swells of fresh-water springs that trickle slowly to the rapids down below. In the winter season, these water flows offer an additional, amazing spectacle: icicle cascades. Passages through the rock tunnels along the route have an almost 2m tall person like myself dodging a number of frozen-water daggers: a) so as not to hit my head, b) in order to preserve the beauty the icicles contribute to this magical, wintertime, natural kingdom.

The hike provides ample amounts of calm and solace, with the only creatures interrupting our thoughts being Izzi our Vizsla canine companion (she’s afraid of the icy footbridges) and our Jack Russell named Poppy, who shoots up and down the path and sometimes along the icy cliffside without thought for potential consequences. Ultimately though, there is an incredible reward toward the end of the trail. These are the Le Day waterfalls (the Saut du Day) which tower over you as you reach a broadening of the Orbe River where it shallows out and serves up rocky sandbars that are perfect for a picnic. It was at the waterfalls that we went crazy with our cameras and took multiple pics of our beautiful surroundings. We let the dogs test the icy waters and run to their hearts’ content. Plus, it was there that we came across our first humans: other locals on holiday, who also apparently needed to escape their isolating in place for just an hour or two.

I am thankful to have spent a part of my holidays admiring the Orbe River and the gorge through which it passes. It is a calming, fascinating place where I never cease to be in awe of how the water swiftly flows, sharing its gurgles with the random hikers who pass alongside it. I give thanks to the Swiss people who look after the nearby paths and make such wonderful views of nature accessible to all who journey to the area for a walk. As I sit here in Day 4 of my post-holiday quarantine, I can still hear the river calling me. Come back one day. I’ll be waiting. And surely I will return: for a future dose of much needed and appreciated serenity.       

Seeking Serenity in the Orbe Valley (Pt. 1)

Posted on by hiddenspacesblog

Thanks to a friend’s accidental click-and-point approach to trail searches on a map of Switzerland, I was fortunate enough to come to know the peaceful beauty of the Orbe River this past year. I first hiked the river trails in June 2020, during an escape to Switzerland once Europe’s borders opened up after Round 1 of the Covid pandemic.

The Orbe is a meandering, bubbly, mountain river-stream deep in the Vaud region of Switzerland. It touches upon the base of the Jura Mountains some 40 or so kilometers north of Lausanne. My entry point to the river hiking routes has always been the quaint, little village of Les Clées, with its picturesque tower, church and stone bridges. From Les Clées, one can follow hiking and cycling routes east down to the town of Orbe or take the narrow hill paths to the West over to the waterfalls hidden next to the village of Le Day.

The best qualities of both paths include the calmness, the embrace of forest silence, and the soothing whispers of the Orbe as it gurgles to you from the sometimes scary drop below. The walk toward the town of Orbe begins as most of us imagine a Swiss hike should. The hiker trapses through meadows that hug the village of Les Clées. Soon, you approach the forest line, after passing a cow or two, and you walk along a sandy-rock path high above the mountain stream. The path offers tiny bits of natural wonder as you gaze at the stunning emerald moss that covers many of the trees and listen to the trickles of water from springs flowing from the hillsides. At times, wooden bridges help you over sections of the path, where the abundant water sources make the route too muddy to pass. Then a fork in the trail gives you the option to descend down to the bubbling, gurgling Orbe.

The descent can be daunting when the path is snowy or muddy. But with patience and care, you can make it down to the water safely. Plus, a slow downward walk affords the opportunity to notice the handiwork that has gone into developing forest staircases and root-formed guard rails that keep hikers from sliding directly down to the stream. At the bottom, the blue metal bridge gives a moment of respite and as the water lulls walkers into reflection. The blue of the bridge, the deep greens of the fluffy moss, the brown-grey-green-blue hues of the water and rocks offer a color harmony that overwhelm even a colorblind hiker like myself. My judgment of the various tones and hues is not that of the majority, yet still the natural color symphony takes my breath away. 

After several minutes of absorbing the sounds of the Orbe and its calming rush through the mountain rocks, I head upward along the what I call the southern bank, making my way back to Les Clées. That side of the stream offers vistas of the springs and waterfalls on the northern side; particularly, when hiking in late fall or winter after the leaves have fallen from the trees. Walkers have better views of the water as the hiking path rises above it and the mind quickly becomes overwhelmed by still more natural beauty. Part of you wants to sit and take in the river or, on a hot day, jump into the cool, soothing waters. Another part of you wants to indulge in the escape offered by these seemingly ancient forests in which you imagine Roman soldiers must have marched or where you feel like you may have been transported to the green moon of Endor as described in George Lucas’ Star Wars movies.

As you near the end of what I call the “East to Orbe” circuit (by returning to Les Clées), you catch glimpses cross-river of the green fields where the cows you saw earlier continue to graze or you notice from afar the village’s unmistakable tower. It lets you know that your car, and some well-earned rest, is not far away. This path has become a staple activity during my visits to friends in Lausanne. It puts my spirit at peace and makes me grateful for the simplicity of nature. The opportunities the Orbe offers for quiet hiking, smiles of non-speak with friends, and the curious meandering of our canine companions (specifically memories of my dear Mica) are priceless. In a restless world of Covid angst, the Orbe River surges with serenity.