No geography map, no globe, no class can give you the knowledge of the world like the long hours on foot in a new city or a town. When I want to get to know a place, I refuse to prepare an itinerary. My guides are the streets; and sometimes, I’ve gotten lost and exhausted. But that decision to continue to explore, to see if I may find something new, or meet someone, has led me to the deepest moments of solace and peace. The pace of life slows down only when you allow the paths to unravel themselves by going forward through the mist, knowing that eventually you’ll end up at the address that you were meant to be.

 

Genève, mon amour!

“Fear overcame me; I dared no advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them. I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy mountains, ‘the palaces of nature,’ were not changed. By degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva.

The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. ‘Dear mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer?’” — Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, Chapter 23

Feral Roots

Ohrid — a place that, no matter how much people exhaust it — with their irresponsibility, gluttony, pollution, and noise — always brings new life, new freshness, new hope.
Because God created it in His likeness, as if it were His own island — a place where He can rest from the corruption of the small country where He placed Ohrid to be what it is: a miracle and a promise.

Sofia – A city in search of the wisdom buried beneath its vestiges

When I’m away from Geneva, I like to hide in the easygoing embrace of Sofia. I say easygoing because, unlike Geneva—once described as having “the sleepy tidiness of a man who combs his hair while still in his pyjamas”—Sofia is the half-awakened mess of that same man, hurrying through Borisova Gradina on a workday morning. Sofia is Geneva’s messy sister.

Yet, as contradictory as it may sound, when it comes to mornings, to gardens, to the synchronized rhythm of people quietly passing by, they trade their tranquility and trembling. Geneva is Martha, busy with hospitality, while Sofia is Mary, sitting at Jesus’s feet, searching for peace amid the noise.