This blue marble

– and yet it spins

Category Archives: Travel


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Rubens’ angels and Antwerp’s angles

antwerp-3It always rained in Antwerp. The cold was the kind of wet central European cold that penetrates any warm clothing and settles in the bones. The cobblestones were uneven to walk at and I felt sorry for generations of horses that had to negotiate them day after day until the day they died.

The old town was quiet. Most bars and restaurants were closed. I wondered where they got their business from, and when. Antwerp used to be a bustling diamond merchant city (and it still is to a sense). But nothing can be seen on the streets. The diamonds have always been hidden.

antwerp-1Hobbling on the damned cobblestone streets in my heels I thought of the kilometers of water running in channels underneath the city. Antwerp used to be like Amsterdam. Someone thought more cobblestones were a more practical solution than smooth waterways.

I passed the cathedral and thought of Rubens’ fleshy naked angels inside. In the dark and rain it seemed that Antwerp would benefit from pink fat little angels outside the cathedral as well, scattered in the city.

When I finally slipped through the doors of the hotel I thought how lovely it was that one man who lived 400 years ago is remembered by the world for his pink fat little angels. There is much love for life in the work of Rubens, something this cold, edgy world never seems to have enough of. Perhaps some angels and bare warm skin would be an effective remedy against its cold and troubles?antwerp-2(Antwerp, Belgium; January 2016)


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This blue marble: is it all emptiness after all?

saleve-4

For years I pulled my own existence out of emptiness.
Then one swoop, one swing of the arm
that work is over.
Free of who I was, free of presence, free of
dangerous fear, hope,
free of mountainous wanting.

The here-and-now mountain is a tiny piece of a piece
of straw
blown off into emptiness.

These words I’m saying so much begin to lose meaning:
existence, emptiness, mountain, straw: words
and what they try to say swept
out the window, down the slant of the roof.

(Rumi)

We slipped quietly in, sat dow on the cushions, and listened to the chanting monk. And I found myself unable to close my eyes; the snow-capped mountains and fluttering prayer flags were too beautiful a sight. How can one sense emptiness with eyes open and filled with beauty?saleve-3   (Shedrub Choekhor Ling monastery, Saléve, France; January 2016)


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An ancient animal parade

lascaux-2The light flickers on. A golden glow washes the white walls, and I am standing in the middle of Noah’s Ark running by. Deer, bison, dozens of horses great and small, ibexes, and felines rush by and I am standing in the middle of this migration. The light flickers again and turns off. An eerie black light glow lights up a completely different set of animals, carved underneath the painted ones. Hordes of running horses swish past.lascaux-3But why did our early ancestors paint animals that were not hunted every day for survival? Why did they choose to focus on these magnificent creatures that they perhaps knew less well, and from a distance? What do the geometric signs painted on and around the animals mean? The stripes on the horses, the square pattern underneath the cow?

And what was the purpose of the art? Was there any purpose, or was it for everybody’s education and joy just like an art exhibition and a museum are today? Or was this place sacred? Were people singing when painting? Is it possible to recover the ancient words and tunes from the sound vibrations transmitted from the throat to the hand holding the brush and to the painting, just like a gramophone needle reads grooves in the clay disc?

The answer is probably locked away forever. And so are the Lascaux caves, too, in a time capsule intended to preserve the art from mold and moisture. Fortunately lovely paleo-lovers have created both a real-life replica of the Lascaux right next door, as well as the marvelous exhibition showcasing the work as if on a real cave wall. It has just left Geneva but do catch it if you can, where ever it goes next. Spending a moment in the world of our ancestors 20,000 years ago is an interesting experience. lascaux-1(Palexpo, Geneva, Switzerland; January 2016)


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From a bird’s nest to a war zone

genevaconventionI did not know the Geneva Convention actually exists on paper, with seals and signatures. Well, it does, and it is displayed at the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Museum in Geneva.

I did not really ever think of what happens to families after the war. What happened to the children who got involuntarily separated from their parents in Rwanda during the genocide, or what happens to families when new borders are drawn between homes of relatives. I did not know about all the people working resiliently to restore family links.redcross-2I did not really know how the Red Cross and UN operate when visiting prisons, prisoner camps, and other conflict areas where humanity is at risk. I had no idea what a prison visit report could look like – or the lengthy discussions that took place during World War II about whether or not to react. And I did not know the International Committee of the Red Cross recently considered its inability to act as a moral failure.

I come from a country which is neutral and safe – for now. It has not always been, and it has not yet reached 100 years of independence, but safety is all my generation knows. We call our cozy country the “bird’s nest.” Even if I travel much I have never ended up in serious conflict areas. Even if I have worked with charity I have never worked with people in conflict or post-conflict zones.

I do not know much of the protective and humanitarian actions that happen behind the curtains of the 10 o’clock news. But after visiting the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Museum I know a little bit more – and I am deeply touched. redcross-1(Geneva, Switzerland; January 2016)


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The end of the year at the end of the world

lakeleman-3Can a lake be the end of the world? It is round, with shores, and shores mean there is something thelse beyond the water.

Yet this morning, Lake Léman looked like the end of the world. It is large enough to feel like it, too. As if the water that gushes down from the Jura mountains and the Alps continue straight over the edge behind the horizon.lakeleman-4There were no children playing in the water. One crazy lady braved the cold and dove in. Her swim made no sound, and almost no ripples on the water. It was the end of 2015 and the last swim of the year.

When one is sorry in French, one “suis désolé”. When something is desolate in French, it is “désolé”, too. It was a cold morning, but the lady was not desolate about plunging into the desolate waters.lakeleman-2At the end of the world even the swans are hungy. Just like everywhere else. Also the gulls and the ducks are hungry, but they are simply less rude. At the end of the world one needs to be rude in order to be fed.

At the end of a year one can throw oneself in the water and flow with the current over the edge of the world. Alternatively, one can stay ashore and look out for the next  year. All it takes is a sliver of curiosity regarding what is right beneath the horizon. White swans and a good friend are also excellent company when one must choose to welcome yet another year.lakeleman-1(Geneva, Switzerland; December 2015)


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Proper English tea

fortnummason-1Ah! Florentines! Clotted cream biscuits! Proper English tea! Per kilo if you wish. And all a 3-minute walk from my favored hotel at Green Park. The tea is not quite like English Twinings or Brodies Irish breakfast, but the beautiful jars make up for the missing point or two.

The English have made a wise decision to hog all the best tea to themselves – and export the scraps swept from the floor of the tea processing factory to countries who know nothing of tea. My sister  discovered that Twinings outside of the UK tastes of cardboard, whereas Twinings sold in the UK tastes delicious (same goes in my experience for Taylors of Harrogate). The answer to her inquiry was that “we export tea that caters for the international taste”. Yes indeed – it would, as long as those tastebuds never taste proper English tea served in the UK.

For the past 15 years I have imported all my tea from Holland, Malaysia, and the UK, and when possible, from Nepal as well. But nothing beats the experience of stepping into the Twinings tea shop or the Fortnum & Mason paradise in London. Fortunately my monthly visits to London allow to uphold the sense of luxury – and my tea stock.

fortnummason-2(Fortnum & Mason, London, United Kingdom; December 2015)


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Any given Monday

paris-4Any given Monday one could work. Or one could stroll around lovely Paris. One could slip into the quiet vesper mass in Sacre Coeur, and listen to the priest’s candid conversation about the recent terrible incidents in Paris. One could choose a more secular form of enjoyment and admire the paintings on the Montmartre market.

Or one could simply pause between these two alternatives and enjoy the bleak December sun setting over the city.

Work can wait. This is Paris after all.paris-5(Paris, France; December 2015)


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Freedom in an unfree world

paris-1Fear is a strange thing. Once we are frightened and shocked beyond our bearings we have a choice: to flee, or to fight. Yet most of us take the middle road and just get on with it. Like nothing ever happened – or so it would appear.

On the evening of November 13th this year, Paris was shocked and attacked by terrorists. People died. Others got wounded. And very many got shaken to the core. Yet few people fled as a result. Even fewer chose to openly fight – except of course for France as a country and Paris as a city. Most people just got on with it, because life goes on. Nobody forgot, but nobody allowed terror to reign. Just like London, grown up during 31 years of terror threat.

One Sunday, three weeks later, we sat in a Parisian café on Rue Montorgueil. Croissants were still being served, and steaming hot coffee poured. The marchés were open, and Champs-Élysées was one mile-long christmas market. I thought of how we had to walk through metal detectors when entering a museum. How our bags were scanned before entering a shopping center. And how many heavily armed military men were prowling the streets.

I thought about flight and fight. While most Parisians did not chose flight, perhaps they chose a French way of fight. Perhaps choosing to serve croissants on a Sunday was fight, as well as choosing to open the christmas market? Perhaps going shopping to a bustling Les Halles was fight? Perhaps persisting to the plan of hosting the climate summit was fight?

Perhaps fight is not always a physical fight; to draw one’s weapons and go to battle. Maybe fight can also be the fight of minds: to refuse to fear those cultures we are against our will being conditioned to dread; to refuse to change everyday habits; to refuse to give in to fear. And I thought of Albert Camus: “the only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.”

I lifted my teacup in a toast to the Parisians. When I picked up my croissant I, too, felt like a rebel – if only for a second.

paris-2(Paris, France; December 2015)


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A shy sunrise on a stormy morning

sunrise-1It was a dark and stormy morning, one of quite a few the past weeks. In this post-apocalyptic weather where the planet seems to be forever covered by brooding black swirling clouds, one forgets that the sun exists. It is difficult to envision that the sun shines 12 hours a day, even above the clouds of Gotham City. Lack of sunlight is simply a matter of obscured circumstances, not a fact of any kind.

And so, as we rose above the clouds this stormy morning, we saw the most singular sunrise. Light battling the clouds. When it could not shine through, it shone underneath, covering the lower layers of cloud in red velvety light. And finally the clouds had to give in, and we saw a shy little lemon yellow December sunrise. sunrise-2(Somewhere above the Baltic Sea; December 2015)