Rambling

Alone

The day was slowly coming to an end. It was one of those days you remember forever. That stay with you forever. Your happy place you keep coming back to. A day when your dreams came true.

It was a beautiful day in the desert and it was coming to an end. I don’t know what it is with me and the desert. It is such a magnificent place, yet so cruel. And yet right there, in the desert, I feel at peace. The day at the desert was coming to an end and still I wanted more. I wanted to go further, higher… up on the top of the dunes. Where the sun was still shining. So I could see for myself. What it was beyond.

From afar I could hear the hustle and bustle of the camp. I could hear people preparing the dinner. It was almost nightfall. But I didn’t want to go back. Not yet. I wanted to go further, up to the sun. And the cold of the night was still far far away.

The sand under my feet was getting colder and I knew I had to make a choice. To go back or forth? But there was this little voice in my head telling me “Go on! You are almost there. Go toward the sun.” And suddenly there was no doubt. I made my choice. I had to move forward and never look back. I was on the right track. And in that moment I knew everything in my life will be ok.

Suddenly the sand wasn’t cold anymore. I took my flip flops off and touched the sand of Sahara with my bare feet. It is something primal, basic in this touch. Walking in the desert with your bare feet. Being so vunerable and strong at the same time. When everything can change in a second and the wheel of fortune starts spinning again.

Suddenly there was only peace in my heart. This peace that happens so rarely. I don’t know if it is a curse of dreamers, restless souls and hopeless romantics. Or is it a blessing. To this day I don’t know.

I was so close to the top. It was so near. Within reach. I knew I would see everything. I would come full circle. As if I was dreaming with my eyes wide open. The dunes were bright orange from the sun. But all I felt was peace. And I knew it then and there. Everything will be alright.

The cold of the sand woke me from daydreaming. I was back to reality. The sun almost set. I quickly snapped some photos. It was time to go back. But in my heart I knew. Nothing will ever be the same. The Sahara desert changed me forever.

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Rambling

Fez

The muezzin’s morning call for prayer woke me up. After a few days in Morocco I became used to it. A new day in Morocco has come. It was a cold morning in Fez and it was cold in Morocco from the day I arrived there. Maybe this is how it is supposed to be in April. Or maybe not. But I sure didn’t expect this freshness. It really didn’t matter. This was the day I got to meet another royal city of Morocco, Fez. But first, coffee, I thought to my self. A strong, black one.

There is this small, simple café on the square before the Blue Gate of Fez. I sat on the veranda, ordered my coffee and just observed the dawn of the new day. More and more people were coming to the medina of this ancient city. I slowly drank my coffee and I was ready to explore this labyrinth of small medieval streets. And I soon realised it was a good idea to see it with a local guide who used to live there. 

We passed an endless number of craftsmen and little shops. It was so vibrant with life that it was impossible not to stare. Everything was so interesting. And on every step and every corner there was a whole new world. But there was this distinct sense of the past times and I couldn’t help but think about Angelique’s escape from the harem of Moulay Ismail in Meknes. How did these streets look like in the 17th century, I wondered.  

There were mosaics and ornaments everywhere. The never ending aestetics of the detail. A glimpse of the places we can’t go in. Beautifully woven carpets, delicate fabrics that caress the skin and awake longings. Sharp odor from the leather tanneries that goes away if you smell the mint. It’s a whole new world hidden from the outside world. It’s mesmerising although it’s totaly different from the world I usually like. It is the world of dimmed lights coming from magnificent chandeliers. It is an intimate place, with soft oriental music, chairs and benches with pillows. Inviting you to lie down and rest, dream a little dream and indulge in a Moroccan food. Like a tale from the Thousand and One Nights.

It was afternoon already. From the intimacy and quietness of the indoors I stepped out, in the bustle of the street. The morning chills were gone. It was cloudy and humid. About to rain. The children were hurrying back home to their parents and we headed back. Out of the narrow streets of the medina and back to the Blue Gate. Out of the labyrinth and back to the reality. 

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Rambling

Volubilis

If I had only seen a photo of this place, I would have thought I was looking at a photo of Tuscany. The lush green colours, the ancient Roman ruins, cypress trees everywhere. There was this amazing dance of sunlight and shadows… it just blew my mind. And there were storks. Everywhere. It felt like home, in Prlekija.

These elegant birds were everywhere in Morocco. I often thought about the long journey they make every year. The journey of the birds that, in my home country, inevitably bring the spring and new beginnings. I watch them everytime I drive to Prlekija. I watch them making a nest, building a home and a family high up in the sky, far away from the ground. And I see the small heads of their offspring, peaking out of their nest, and their first attempts to fly.

Where do they feel at home, I ask myself. Is it here, in Morocco, or is it back in Europe? Is it here, among these lush green hills and ancient ruins, where everything is so similar to Europe? The ruins seem so familiar. And the spirit of the old, ancient Rome is everywhere.

A thought was following me around. A memory actually. Of the ruins of another ancient city. A city, I visited in my teens. Of a once magnificent city. Of its ruins. And of the tragedy that changed the history forever.

There was this weird calmness in Voulubilis. Even though there were people everywhere. Maybe I finally learned to shut out the surroundings. Or maybe I just didn’t care. The ruins were telling me their story. The story of fragility. Of the civilization that was making history, but was caught up with the inevitability of life and its destiny.

That day, Voulubilis was full of life. The spring flowers were in full bloom. The storks were making nests. Every now and then they flew out. And returned back home. To their nest. And life went on. In its own rythm, on its own terms. When will they fly back, to Europe, I thought to myself. Where will their life take them?

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Rambling

Meknes

I heard about Meknes long before Rabat, Marrakech or Fez. It is one of the four Imperial cities of Morocco and the least known among them. I read about Meknes as a teenager. I followed the adventures of a French Countess Angelique across France, the Mediterranean, Morocco and North America. In that book this young woman defies Louis XIV, the Sun King. She rejects his love and travels to the Mediterranean to find her long-lost love. In that book I read about the Great Eunuch who bought her at a slave auction to be the concubine of his sultan Moulay Ismail in his harem in Meknes. It was a mighty palace with a beautiful patio, guarded by wild animals. So that no one could ever escape the harem. The Great Eunuch took her one night to the rooftop of the palace to see the stars. He believed he could read her destiny in the stars and told her that her long-lost love was still alive and she would see him again. And you know what, she actually managed to escape from there with a few other slaves and fled to Ceuta.

And there I was, standing in front of the main gate of this palace in Meknes. And I thought of her. This is it, I thought to myself and let my imagination roam free. It was a hot day in Meknes. The street vendors were yelling and trying to sell oranges. The sound of flutes was filling the city square. For the snakes to dance in their baskets. The rooftops were all covered with emerald-green tiles and there was an ocean of people in front of the main gate. But everything stopped once you entered the patio. It was so beautifully decorated and the garden was enchanting. And it was so peaceful. Time had stopped for a little while.

Was she really here, I asked myself. Did she come through this door? Did she escape through this garden? And why on Earth did the books about her have such a strong impact on my life? Is it the character of Angelique? Her rebellious, free-spirited character? Or is it the fact that she never stopped believing that one day she will be reunited with her one true love? Because no matter what she never gave up? Because she defies fate? I still don’t have the answer to these questions. But she never found her love in Meknes. It happened years later in the New World.

It was very hot under the Moroccan sun that day in April. I went back out, on the city square. I was really hungry, so I avoided the street vendors. I really wasn’t in the mood. I sat at the table overlooking the palace and had my lunch. There were people everywhere. More and more visitors on the square. We have to move on, I thought to myself. Towards Volubilis. But that is already another story.

 

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Rambling

Rabat

Scorching heat. This is how I would describe Morocco before I actually went there. The kind of heat that slows you down. Takes you to another dimension. I’m sure there is this kind of heat in Morocco. Just not in April. It was more like the late spring back home, in Slovenia. Morning mists. A little windy. No heat. A little chilly. And I was a little pissed off. Because it was like the mornings in Prlekija. Because it wasn’t different from the mornings back home. Because if I wanted the same, I would stay home. And yes, deep down I was a little pissed off. Childish, I know.

Rabat. One of the five royal cities of Morocco. We came at night. So the first time I saw it, it was early morning. The day was still young. People were rushing to work, to their daily chores, maybe even to school. My childish tantrum (that was going on in my mind) was slowly starting to fade away. And that moment, I always anxiously await, finally came. That moment of intimacy when you get to see the birth of a new day in a new city.

The morning was chilly and it had this nice vibe to it. I was a little sleepy and dreamy. And I wanted another coffee. Plain black. Cafe noir. That is so invigorating that it makes you believe that today there are no limits. That you can take on the world. When the heart is racing and you just breathe in life. To the fullest. When you discover a beautiful graffiti. And you realize that the language of art is universal. It’s a manifestation of inspiration, creativity and the need to create. That it doesn’t matter which city or country it is. It can be Ljubljana, Paris, Los Angeles, Rabat or Havana.

Rabat was just waking up. People were rushing around and the streets were full of life. And it was hectic, it really was. Sometimes I think to myself you haven’t seen hectic until you have seen the traffic in Morocco or in the Philippines, in Manila. You could hear the Arab music everywhere. From the cars with open windows. It was mixing with the sound of the car horns that the people there really like to use. There was this cacophony of music, car horns and people yelling…but everything stopped by the Mausoleum of Mohammed V and the Hassan.

A colossal platform is surrounded by a wall. And there were swallows everywhere. They were racing around in their playful manner. So full of life. Even though there was this feeling of the past. The spirit of a time that was lost long ago. There were just a few traces of it. Of what was once the greatest mosque in the world. But it was never finished. Only the Hassan Tower is still there. It’s a tombstone of a vision. Of a man who imagined it. A vision of a time that has passed a long time ago. Of what once was.

Humans are capable of remarkable greatness and also exceptional lowness. Of great achievements in engineering, music, art. Of architectural poetries with this tiny filigree ornaments. The white mausoleum with its elegant pillars and metal chandeliers. The colourful stained glass. The beautiful dance of the light, the dark and the shadows. So many ornaments. It created warmth. I was impressed. By the details, the colours and the display of the light and the shadows. That follow you around everywhere you go in Morocco. You just have to open your eyes. And see it.

 

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Rambling South

The Western Kingdom

I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. It’s always been somewhere in the back of my mind. But it never quite turned out the way I thought it would. Until this year. This year everything fell into place. Everything happens for a reason, right? So this year, I started to belive in destiny again. And the stars.

It started out stressful. I got stuck in a major traffic jam on my way to the airport. On a Sunday of all days. Phone calls. Trying to make up for lost time. Running through the airport building with all my luggage. And in that moment I was thanking the skies for learning how to travel light. Because traveling light makes the running so much easier, you know. Chasing the last minutes before bag drop closes. But I made it. I actually made it. It took me a few minutes to catch my breath. And then I finally smiled. All blushed and sweaty I finally smiled. And even though those moments were tense, I knew, deep down, I would make it in time. I made it. I was going to Morocco. From my window seat I watched my home continent, my Europe, disappear. I was flying in the mystical embrace of the African continent.

Expectation is the root of all heartache. I realized that long ago. It’s what kills you the most. From the inside. Quietly. Because you spend too much time thinking about how your life should be, instead of focusing on what actually is. Focusing on here and now. And therefore I had no expectations of Morocco. Trinidad taught me well (link). But I had this subconscious feeling that something major and fateful was about to happen. In the desert. On a deeply personal level. This is what the deserts do to me. They help me transform. They are my happy place. They call out for me. They are so inviting to me. And is there a more majestic desert in the world then the mighty Sahara? I don’t know. I just know it’s something out of this world. And that there, deep in the heart of Sahara, my expectations came true.

The plane landed and for the first time in my life I was on the African soil.It was in the evening and the sky was covered with thick gray clouds. It was windy and not very warm. The hot African sun was nowhere to be found. For the second time this year I remembered the books about Angelique and her adventures in Morocco. I’m following into her footsteps, I thought to myself. As I did once before, in Paris. Oh yes, February in Paris was magical. I smiled. Everything will be alright.

Morocco surprised me. In every possible way. The illusion I had of it was smashed into pieces and a new one was built. It showed my its treasures in its self-assured manner. Displayed its diversity. And even though it is very popular with people (a lot of tourists) it never disappointed me. Maybe it was the people I traveled with. The people who share the path with you in that very moment. Who, at some point in time, come into your life and share their destiny with you. Even though it’s just for a brief moment. But still. I admit, I like exploring the world by myself. Sometimes. But I also like to share these moments with other people.

I believe that in life, some things are just meant to be. Meant to happen. Destiny, I guess. It’s a never-ending puzzle of life: billions of coincidences, fated moments, places and strangers, who in time cease to be that. And that is why, after Morocco, I believe in destiny again. And the stars.

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Rambling West

Snow in Paris

There is something magical about the snow. About the dance of snowflakes, the winter cold and the bright light of the winter sun. The snow brings the peace and quiet to think. Time to rest and recuperate. Like the nature that sleeps in its cold embrace. But at first it brings the chaos and restlessness. Everything stops and life gets a whole new pace. Different thoughts come to mind. The wheel of life changes speed and direction. You get a new perspective. Or an entirely different impression of a place.

An interesting turn of events brought me to Paris in February The city of lights. One of the most admired cities on the planet.And there I was standing on the streets of Paris after nearly twenty years. This time they were covered with a thin layer of snow. The first time after nearly thirty years. And this time around… well, it was enchanting. The first time I was in Paris I felt like it was being a little snob and a little full of itself. But this time, the second time, I was hooked. The people of Paris were like little kids, excited about the snow. Their eyes were glowing. Young women from Paris told me that they had never seen the snow in Paris before. And asked me if we had snow back home. “Yes, we have snow. Quiet a lot right now actually.” I explained to them. A little in French and a little in English.The looked so chic. The women of Paris. They walk with their head high and their posture is just full of pride and confidence. And I caught myself correcting my posture and walking with my head held high. So thank you Paris, for reminding me. Thank you for that lesson.

And I admit, I admired the men of Paris as well. Their self-confidence. When they actually caught your eye, looked at you for a brief moment and smiled at you as they walked by. And just like the women, they had this great posture and self-confidence. They were so sure of themselves and it was refreshing. Because lately we don’t look each other in the eyes anymore. We walk the streets like robots, caught in our own thoughts, staring at our phones. Not looking in each other in the eyes. And I realised I miss that. The eye-contact. I am curious. I want to see the color of your eyes and if you smile at a girl walking by. Just like that. Just for the sake of it. Even though I don’t know you. So thank you Paris, for reminding me. Thank you for that lesson.

This time around, on my second visit, I looked at Paris from a brand new perspective. In my mind I was reliving the scenes I read in books. The adventures of Angelique in Toulouse, Paris, Mediterranean, Morocco and Quebec. The adventures of Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu. I looked for the shadows of Anais Nin and Henry Miller. I finally understood why Paris inspired them so much.

This time around the beauty of Paris seemed warm. It was vibrant and full of life even though it was covered in a thin layer of snow. I forgot about the cold wind and freezing temperatures when the city lit up. When the sun set and it was dark, Paris became the city of lights. Bathing in thousands of lights. Just as I watched it from the plane at its descent on the airport. I remembered seeing the Eiffel tower covered in lights. And suddenly life became bright and playful. Like their sweets and candies in display windows. Paris brought back the colors and awakened long forgotten dreams. It brought back the joy life brings. That genuine one you feel when you take the first bite of a fragile, colorful and sweet macaroon. So thank you Paris, for reminding me. Thank you for that lesson.

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North Rambling

Destination: North

It was a beautiful day. Sunny and cold. The train was quietly gliding through the countryside covered in ice and snow. It was hard to watch…the sun was just so strong and the snow so white. Everything was so quiet. Peaceful. Lonesome. Distant. Every now and then we passed a dark red house. Why are they red I remember thinking to myself. But my thoughts were just floating and I stopped paying attention to that question. This bright, lonesome countryside was so peaceful and quiet. The train kept going deeper… into the cold embrace of the Winter. Deep into the North.

“Will I get lucky?” “Will I see it?” “Please, let me see it!” These questions and thoughts just kept popping up in my mind. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. I pleaded quietly so no one could hear me. “Please let me see it! Please, I’ve come so far. So far up North. Don’t let it be in vain.”

I was looking at this harsh and merciless countryside. Admiring its cold beauty. And I understood. She will always win. She will always be stronger. Natural born winner. The perfect creation of Nature. The Polar Winter. Who always gets her way. Who shows her beauty. Or hides it. With such nonchalant manner. She doesn’t care. She knows them.

I had to trust in destiny. Luck. Her benevolence. That everything will happen exactly as it should. That she will grace my with this gift. And let me see it. In all its glory. In all its beauty. That she will clear the skies and chase away the clouds. And let me see it. The Dance of the Gods. The Stairway to Heaven. The mighty Aurora Borealis. The magical Northern Lights.

The train was quietly gliding through the countryside. I couldn’t watch anymore. The sun was to bright, the snow was too white. “Let me see it. Please, let me see it!” And the train just kept going. Up, North. Deep into the cold embrace of the Winter.

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North Rambling

Venice of the North

I confess. I couldn’t start writing about Stockholm. I just couldn’t. Not that there was anything wrong with him. It’s beautiful. In its cold, Scandinavian manner. Venice of the North.

When I think about Stockholm, I remember that it was a beautiful and cold day. That the sky was clear and pure. Nice little streets, warm and cozy cafes and restaurants. How I thought to myself how quiet Stockholm was. Trapped in the cold embrace of the winter, that was slowly moving away and making space for the spring. How everything was in its place. And that they say that the most handsome men live in Stockholm. Honestly, I really don’t know. Could be.

It wasn’t the right time for us. Stockholm and me. We didn’t leave a trace in one another. But there are memories, that always make me smile. Chasing giant soap bubbles on the streets of Stockholm. A warm scarf that comes handy in the north. Because the winters at home are too warm. The beautiful shapes of ice in the lake. A church that serves warm coffee. And a sudden thought that crossed my mind. How beautiful spring mornings and autumn afternoons must be. Here, in the Venice of the North.

Deep down I knew why I couldn’t write about him. Because he didn’t leave a trace. Because for me there is only one Venice. That I keep coming back to them. Maybe one day I will go back. To the city on the water. To check if this time, the timing will be right for us. Maybe one day. Up there, far in the North, there is something that keeps pulling me back. That still captivates my imagination. The magic of the northern lights. Aurora borealis. Maybe one day.

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North Rambling

Northern Exposures

I see hills and mountains.Far, far away. Everything is… so white. For as far as I can see. The sun is high. There is a cloud in the sky…far far away. Not a single living soul anywhere. Lonely trees and bushes, every now and then a house, painted red. It is so very cold. The snow is reflecting the sunlight and I have to put my sunglasses on. I just can’t be without them. The sun is blinding me. It’s so quiet. Only the train is rushing through the countryside. No living soul anywhere. As far as I can see.

Northern exposures. Their overwhelming charisma. The cold beauty of the North. Its tranquility is pulling me back. To the north. Even though I am freezing there. The cold North is calling me back. Forcing me to leave my daydreams. Forcing me to stop admiring its icy cold beauty.Forcing me back to reality. Back to here and now.

For me, northern exposures are like a fix. Always pulling you back into their cold embrace. Inviting you to leave your comfort zone. Inviting you to go with their flow. Back in their cold embrace. Forcing you to face your most vulnerable self.

Because once you are in the north, everything is so simple. You realise what really matters in that moment. The cold clears your mind, your thoughts stop wandering around. The simple beauty of the icy countryside is a little dull and plain, I admit. But only on the first glance. The north hides its beauty carefully. Unveiling it slowly, one step at the time. You see it when you are ready for it.

It is only up there, far north, where the land is covered with cold, ice and snow for the most of the year, in the high north, beyond the polar circle, where you start to appreciate what you take for granted. The warmth and the light. The heat of the fire, that chases the cold away, starting your blood circulation again. The warmth that separates life from death. The cold sobers you up, clears your mind. The warmth is that force that pushes you forward. To the future. Towards the light that chases away the darkness and gives you the determination to persevere. Because the darkness… it embraces you, it protects you, it gives you shelter. But the light reminds you to start anew. To start fighting again.

The South is soft, gentle and fluid. It’s a little flirt. That sometimes becomes something serious, but mostly it’s just that – a little flirt. The North is serious, stable and maybe a little boring. On the first glance. The North is far more than just a flirt. It’s the real deal. That one true love. Because you see, you start loving the Northern Exposures when you’re ready. Ready to see their beauty and their depth. In that moment you see that the north is far more wild than the south. That is hides its hot passion for the right ones.That it’s relentless. Because it forces you to come full circle. To find out who you really are. Deep down. And enlightens you of what really matters in that moment: the warmth and the light. That’s when you see its true colours. And its eternal beauty.

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