Mysticism in Bosnia and Hercegovina

This is an article that I wrote that was originally published on travelhoppers.com

Twelve Dervish musicians sit hunched over their easels, the hem from their long black capes resting on the floor. In unison they begin to pluck the strings of their wooden instruments and tap the skin of their kettledrums. This marks the beginning of the ancient Sama ceremony. The first monk stands up, shedding his black cloak in a spiritual rebirth before crossing his arms against his chest, representing the number one, an interpretation of God’s unity. With a camel’s hair hat perched atop his head, the first monk begins to rock and then slowly spin round and round. With speed his white skirt fans itself out, shedding all concern and worry for the outside world. He outstretches his arms, his right reaching for the sky, open to God, while the left points to the ground, revealing the Earth’s gifts. He continues to spin until he cannot see the others in the room, until he cannot hear his own voice hum the old Islamic hymn, until he cannot help but feel God’s presence enveloping him in a numbing trance. 

The Sama ceremony, or more commonly known as whirling, is but one of many Sufi traditions of the Dervish monks performed to achieve greater religious enlightenment and ecstasy. Originating with the devotees of the Mevlevi order in Turkey in the 12^th century, Sufi whirling spread throughout the Middle East, various parts of the Balkans, and along with many other Turkish traditions, prospered in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Just 15km southeast of the city of Mostar, in the resurfacing village of Blagaj, lies a religious phenomenon not many of us are familiar with; Sufism.

Built in the 16^th century under the rule of Mostar Mufti, Tekija, a Dervish monastery, is a symbol of faith for the Sufis, an ascetic sect of Islam. The Dervish order promotes a life dedicated to prayer, Islam, and meditation. A vow of poverty teaches the monks a life of humility through begging which they may never use to subsidise their own needs but must instead give back to the poor in the community as an act of selfless charity. This particular group of devotees also offers religious counselling for people who seek their assistance.

The Tekija, its interior walls adorned with Islamic art and old scriptures, is nestled alongside a 200m high cliff where the Buna River surfaces in a steady emerald stream. It has been protected by the State since 1952 and is considered an iconic stronghold for the Bosnian people. Beginning at the monastery is a 30-45min heritage trail that tours the ancient Ottoman village, by-passing the 17^th century Velagic house and a handful of old flour mills powered by the Buna River. After a leisurely stroll through the old village, seat yourself along one of the river’s many restaurants and dive head first into the mystical energies that float along the Buna with some local eats. Give your taste buds a whirl with a steaming plate of Ćevapi, accompanied by a traditional Bosnian beer.

 

Experiencing a foreign country’s religion requires an open mind. It can be controversial, unnerving, and downright confusing at times. I understand that the Bosnian Dervish monks are of a peculiar sort and a million miles away from ordinary. But half the fun of traveling is packing your curiosity and leaving the comforts of home right where they belong. If you’re able to make that hurdle past the nitty-gritty technicalities, and really submerse yourself in a foreign culture, you won’t be disappointed. With the Persian translation for Dervish meaning “one who opens the doors”, ask yourself, will that be me?

Mostar, Bosnia and Hercegovina!

Next stop: Montenegro

Two furgons, two buses, and one taxi later, I was in Kotor, Montenegro.

The “Black Mountain”: Coastal Montenegro

Monte-what? Referred to time and time again as the “Black Mountain,” Montenegro is a tick-tack sized country squeezed smack dab in the middle of the Adriatic bordering states. Just a thumbtack on the map of Europe, but full to the brim with exquisite landscapes, Montenegro leaves you wondering how this tall drink of water is often overlooked when discussing Europe’s Fave Five.

First mentioned in the 9^th century as a Byzantine vassal, the country has spent its entire existence shuffling from one umbrella’d wing to another. But Montenegro managed to remain unsullied goods through times of war and bloodshed, plague, and decimating earthquakes. In 2006 it was granted independence from Serbia, becoming the Republic of Montenegro. But because of this shared dominance between the Balkan states throughout history, Montenegro has grown into the flourishing multi-cultural haven we know and love today.

Mary, the American Doctor I bounced around the Balkans with.

But let’s fast forward to what you’ve all been waiting for; coastal Montenegro. It’s characterized by its rocky beaches and unparalleled sapphire waters, warm and sub-tropical climate, and tiny shore hugging villages. The Bay of Kotor, named one of the world’s most beautiful bays, is agreeably one of the country’s most cherished jewels. As the dwelling place for Montenegro’s most squandered and romantic treasures, the Kotor Bay dazzles the eye and captures the soul of the Montenegrin people. Confused with being a fjord, this naturally submerged river canyon looks as though it was hollowed out with a deep spoon, filled with dripping emerald waters, and then sealed together by a U-shaped wall of shrub covered mountains.

Kept polished and pristine, the Bay of Kotor is home to the picturesque towns of Risan, Persast, and Kotor. UNESCO recognized heritage site, Kotor remains the highlight of any trip to the Bay. Settled in 168 BC by ancient Romans, it was ultimately chosen due to its advantageous military position along the coast in protecting the Montenegrin people from pirates and other invaders.

Built into the face of the treacherous cliffs that surround the city is St.John’s fortress. Having seen many a day, the strong hold is a compilation of Kotor’s history, but its Byzantine influence is undeniable. The city walls that surrounds the Old Town were built in the 14^th century by the Republic of Venice and much of Kotor’s architecture depicts a Venetian influence.

Within the city walls is the St.Tryphon Cathedral, rebuilt in 1124, which harbours a unique collection of important relics and artefacts that tell the all too enticing story of the city’s history. But let’s not shy away from Kotor’s involvement in the arts. Playing host to various Montenegrin festivals and celebrations each year, Kotor’s managed to captivate artists from around Europe and give fuel to the fire by providing continuous inspiration.

Although the city of Kotor has experienced an influx of tourists, it has yet to be purged of its elegant and somewhat smouldering charm. Sophisticated bars and cafes string along the criss-crossing paths of the city’s Old Town and dip into the coastline that runs outside the city’s walls. Past the souvenir vendors and gelati windows lies the glistening calm water of the Bay that for some reason or another you won’t be able to take your eyes off of.

Crna Gora, monte nero, the Black Mountain, Mali i Zi, Montenegro; known in a thousand different tongues and dialects, but remembered just the same, this golden nugget of a country with its illustriously narrow coastal strip paralleled by dark dramatic mountain peaks is sure to stir the curiosity and passion of even the most bashful of crowds.

How to Make the Dough While Traveling

Here's a link to the article I wrote for Travelhoppers about working while traveling. If you have any questions or need some more information regarding visas or the sites I reference, feel free to comment!

http://www.travelhoppers.com/2011/08/24/have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too-work-and-travel-abroad/

Near Misses: Leaving Albania #1

One of the hardest things to get used to while in Albania was the transportation system; or I should say lack there of. While most countries choose the organized route with bus timetables and working bus stops, Albania's managed to take a much more rocky approach to the whole getting its people around and has scraped the whole timetable and bus stop idea. Instead, the country's replaced the Western World's idea of civilized travelling with beaten up white mini vans that may or may not make you feel like you're being kidnapped, gathering places for the vans that seems to change on a daily basis, and of course there's the issue of the unpaved roads. But what is traveling if you don't come home a little shaken up? So here's my story of the two day excursion to Montenegro.

The sun was already creeping its way onto my aching back when I managed to climb over the last of the crumbling steps. Ahead of me lay a last look at the beautiful town of Berat; an Ottoman city tiered into the mountainshide, white houses with brown roofs stacked neatly ontop of each other. I crossed the suspention bridge one last time before turning right down the main street to where the furgons were to meet that day. Greeted excitedly by one furgon owner I was told that the next bus was due to leave. So I lugged my pack into the back of the van, squeezed behind the seats, and plopped myself next to the only open window that allowed for a small breeze. When my bottom made contact with the seat, the cushions sank in and the entire seat bobbed on its spring. I ducked down between my legs for a closer look at the seat and found line after line of duct tape holding the seat to the rest of the van.

Slowly the furgon began to fill up with local Albanians and in no time the driver turned the key, awakening the gurgling, chugging, grinding monster under the hood. We were off to a rough start. As we left the city limits of Berat our poor little engine that could, couldn't. The engine huffed as the driver forced the pedal into the floor, swerving into oncoming traffic as to pass slower vehicles, parked cars, and bikers. Once we hit the "highway" I began to question whether or not the hot wheels tires that kept this beast rolling would hold out as the road ahead seemed unfinished. I guess in this case unfinished is a bit of an understatement; chunks of the highway had been ripped out or unfinished and as such, the driver became a game of cat and mouse with oncoming traffic.

By this point my stomach had already begun twisting and knotting itself thanks to my bobble head seat that sent me flying at every swerve, and the smell of sickly sweat was so dense I took to pressing my cheek against the only open window to breathe in another other than BO. Just as I began to drift asleep, a pinging noise shook me awake. SMACK, PING, SMACK. It had begun to hail and chucks of ice the size of golf balls were hitting the rusty white van at all angles. The rain added to the storm; the poor little van was taking quite a beating. Being the only foreigner on the bus, I was the only one in panic. The van was pelted left right and centre, pot holes the size of Texas were strewn throughout the highway, and to top it all off the front window was fogging up and the driver took to sticking his head out the window in the rain to keep us from drifting off course. Looking around at the other passengers I noticed a dark haired man in a worn suit picking at his nails, an elderly woman riffling through her purse, and a couple jabbering on about God knows what. No one seemed nearly as bothered as I was.

The rain conitnued for nearly an hour until we broke through the mountain pass and were nearly in Tirane, the capital of Albania. The land outside the city was shockingly the opposite of the Berat I had fallen in love with. Half raised concrete buildings littered the flat bare lands, heaps of garbage ran alongside the highway, and community watering holes ran clean water into the ditch all day long. For the first time in this country, I felt a sense of guilt. I was no longer seeing the beautiful oasis of Berat's back country or hiking through its historical mountains. What I was seeing now was what a photographer would turn his back on. But something about the people walking along the road put me at ease. They weren't starving and they weren't begging at the van's window. They were simply living. This was life; without highrise apartment suites, 5-star restaurants, and shopping malls. And for some reason or another, I was okay with it.

A-Cup Confusion

While working at the hostel in Berat, I made some pretty good friends. But one of which, was as unpredicted as it was unusual and as I look back on my time spent in Albania, I can’t help but laugh out loud at some of the predicaments I've gotten myself into over the past year...

 

 

For the past 20 minutes all I've been able to think about is how awkward this seemingly innocent gesture made by a fellow co-worker has become. I can't decide which of the materials strewn across the counter before me will cover my now all to obvious chest and avert the gawking stares of the 5 Albanian women crammed into the tiny shop. My choices are a pink frilly bundle of lace or black satin scraps begging to suction themselves to a stripper's behind. If I didn't love Chachay's quirky sense of humor so much I'd march my newly laced ass out that front door, across that dirt road, and back to the hostel full of other Westerners who understand that the gesture of buying someone lingerie as a going away gift is better left to the sleazy husband types.  

 

 

But let's forget the undergarments for a minute so I can give myself a chance to rid my cheeks of their now ruby color and start at the beginning. I met Chachay at the hostel in Albania. The thing that first made me take a liking to Chachay, with her mousy reddish brown hair and short stubby legs, was the fact that even though I don't speak a lick of Albanian and she knew it, instead of using hand signals to go about our business, she took to speaking at a snails pace and yelling the same jumble of synonyms in the understanding that by doing so, I'd miraculously become fluent in Albanian. I didn't have the heart to walk away from the smile that all too clearly mentioned friendship.

 

 

As the days rolled by, Chachay got creative with her communication and resorted to smacking my ass or just plain laughing at me whenever I walked by her. It was comical, to say the least, seeing her waddle across the kitchen with a wooden spoon brandished in one hand and a mischievous smile sprayed across her face.

But when the time came for me to move on, I knew I couldn't leave without a proper goodbye. I invited myself to Chachay's for some tea and before I knew it she had armed herself with a photo album and was relieving each of her son's childhoods to me. When the reminiscing had ended, or else I think it did because she was speaking Albanian the whole time and I didn't really catch much, she stood up and started pointing at her boobs. Weird, I know, but stranger things have happened. I tried to go along with what the point she was trying to make with a strained and confused expression playing across my face. That is until she made me nearly faint when she motioned to lift her top up. What the hell? After convincing her to keep her clothes on, she started writing in what looked to be More Code until I guessed right that she was asking for my bra size. I figured I'd humor her and went along with her game before giving her a hug and heading back to the hostel. 

The next morning at breakfast Chachay came bustling into the kitchen dripping in sweat from the sun that had decided to set to work early. She handed me a plastic bag and when I opened it I could barely control the waves of laughter. Staring back at me was a hot pink bejeweled wonder bra that looked as if it belonged on a Can-Can Girl or Jennifer Lopez. I removed it from its casing in pinched fingers and held it at an arms length while I examined the most goddy thing I have ever seen. I even had to shield my eyes when the sequins and gems caught the sun's light as to avoid being blinded. It wasn't until I found the bra's size that really made me crack up: A32 a.k.a the cup size of the spokesperson for the Iddy Bitty Tittie Commitee.

When I explained the sizing issue to Chachay she looked at me through determined eyes, grabbed her purse and hauled me down to the main street where I now stand with five pairs of shameless hands doing their best to embarrass me further. With one look at the pile I spot the right size, pull the tag and the red satin piece attached to it and stuff it in my bag before making a break for the door before Chachay and her middle aged friends decide I need matching knickers. Once in the confines of the bustling street, I hold back a minute or two so Chachay catches up and, like that experience is one she sees to everyday, she slips her arm into mine and we stroll back through the foreign streets of Berat.

From Platform 4 to 13

Trains are new to me. Having spent my entire adolescence sponging rides off my mom and dad and then bumming them from friends when I hit high school, there was never any need. That and the fact that Canada isn't a huge supporter of train networking leads me to where I am today, alone in Florence's train station, trying to print my ticket. I decided I'd save a few bucks by booking THE cheapest ticket I could find online. I was offered a second-class, extra slow-moving, piece-of-shit-but-I'll-take-it-anyway, one-way ticket to Rome. My luck ran out when reached the station and found that my confirmation number was invalid. I turned to the first member of staff I could find; a middle-aged woman with a sneering smile and crooked teeth. Her straw-like hair was scraped into a tiny bun at the base of her skull and I couldn't help but shiver from the cool air that emanated from her vacant smile. In the middle of explaining my dilemma, she shooed me away while mumbling something about the ticket booth.

Waiting in line I couldn't keep my eyes off the clock. I started out with 30 minutes to kill before my train left and that once plump number was quickly whittled  down to 10 in the blink of an eye. I began to panic and left the queue and found the same woman who had originally "helped" me. Surprisingly, she collected my papers and found the first open ticket window. I think her generosity was more of an attempt at getting rid of me. It wasn't until she turned on her heel and click-clacked her way back to me that I saw the wide sneer plastered across her cardboard face. The code was invalid, alright.

I rummaged through my head looking for a solution, I knew I placed one somewhere around here. Searching the woman's face for some kind of sympathy, I went out on a limb and asked her what I should do. 7 minutes. She shrugged and said check the number again before walking away. I did a quick evaluation of my options before grabbing my heavy pack and flew down the stairs that led to the metro. I ran up and down the halls, made a left, and then heaved a sigh of relief when I found the giant "@" sign I had been looking for. No scratch that, praying for. 5 minutes. Not wanting to waist time, I flew through the cafe's doors, tossed the cashier a 1 Euro coin, and began hammering furiously on the first keyboard I could get my hands on. I signed into gmail, pulled up the confirmation email, scrolled through the small print, and found it, yes, the confirmation numbers were the same. 2 minutes. Hot with anger I threw my pack over my shoulder and set off down the hall in a dead sprint. Skidding around corners and crashing into other innocent bystanders, I made it up the 2 flights of stairs and nearly collapsed, I was so out of breath. Frantically I searched the platform numbers until I found number 4, empty. I squinted my eyes, focusing on further down the tracks and could just make out a departing train, my hopes of getting to Rome waving neatly from the window.

Thinking my luck was bound to change, I approached a plump, hopefully more friendly station employee and delivered my story with as much despair and sadness I could muster. I think I might have even stuck out the bottom lip once or twice. The woman hummed and ha'd along with my elaborate tale and just as I finished and flashed her my most desperate pleading face along with watering eyes, her features turned dark like someone had switched out the light. She crossed her arms and said in a thick, snarling but somehow still beautiful Italian voice, "You want to go to Roma?" I nodded furiously, "Then go buy another ticket." And she stormed off.

I let my pack slide from shoulders with disappointment before it landed with a heavy thud on the cement platform. I didn't have any money left in my bank account, my credit card was maxed out, and all I had for cash in my purse was a crumpled up, sad looking 5 Euro note. But the part that stung the most was that I had no one beside me to share the disappointment with. I was alone. And this painful burden was mine.

I sat there alone on the cool cement floor just watching. The people continued to board trains and leave them, shuffle from platform to platform, say their good-byes and welcome backs, and that's when it hit me. I was stunned at first, maybe even a little hurt, but what matters is that it got to me. People kept on moving. Trains kept to their schedules. No one stopped because of my tragic streak of misfortune, no one cared. This world was going to keep on living and breathing and growing, with or without me.

So I slowly rose to my feet, pack secured to my back, and I marched over to the station's huge schedule lit up in yellow and green. With a quick skim through I found it, platform 13, my saving grace. I weaved between fellow travelers until I stood face-to-face with Trenitalia's 14:16 to Roma. I took the first step like you do a leap of faith, knowing all too well what I was getting myself into. But I didn't care. I boarded the train anyway. It was when I began to walk down the aisle I started noticing things. The over sized plush seats, the squishy red carpet that I could practically feel massaging my toes through my dirty sneakers, the leg room people over 6 feet dream off, and the men dressed in neatly pressed suits.


Shit. 


In an attempt to double back and get the hell out of there, I crushed a woman's neatly combed up-do with my pack and nearly sent her glasses flying. The whistle sounded and the doors shut. There was no going back. I ditched my bags in a very posh looking luggage bin and took my seat next to a wanna be stock broker with big pink cheeks and silver framed glasses. Don't worry, they hardly ever check tick-, I tried to reassure myself but was cut short but the soft calling for biggliettas. I peeked my head out into the isle just quick enough to see the small ticket woman coming my way. With my thoughts swirling together in a big jumbled mess, I did the first thing that came to mind. I closed my eyes, let my mouth fall ajar, and did the best damn imitation snore of my life. I could hear my heart beat rattling in head, bouncing around against my skull. And her footsteps getting closer were like a steady jackhammer. A waft of floral daisies let me know she had reached my row, and in a whispered voice she checked the tickets of those nearby and continued on. Anyone carrying a pair of fresh undies in their Armani briefcases today?

The train arrived in Rome in just over an hour. I did the fake sleep routine twice during that time and was never bothered. When I stepped off the train the weighted feeling of disappointment and loneliness seemed to some how muted themselves and I felt like a feather floating in the wind. Sure, I was alone, but for today I was on top of the world.

A Sight For Sore Eyes

I left Venice after a few days with a heavy heart and an even heavier stomach. But aside from the good food, spectacular architecture, and winding waterways I had already expected, there wasn't much anchoring me to the city. Sounds crazy, I know, describing this majestic city with a whirlwind of adjectives and then summon the nerve to say it wasn't good enough. But all of these things, the gondolas, the street vendors, the wave after wave of blatant tourists seemed somehow staged. As if there was nothing past the picture on the postcard. I was beginning to question whether or not that Italian magic everyone talks about really existed.

Then I headed South to Florence. There I once again dipped into the couchsurfing bank and spent the next couple of days with an Italian speaking Turkish medical student. While he was away at class, I took to the sights. Well, to be perfectly honest I sprinted from awning to awning avoiding the blistering rays from the 35 degree sun and indulged in one or two cups of flavored gelati. During one of my walk abouts I found myself at the bus station, timetable in hand, and just enough money to get to Siena and back again before night fall. So I boarded the bus and set off for a new city; one that I hoped would deliver me the little slice of Italy I had been dreaming about.

Siena was beautiful, of course. But it was a mind-numbing, what's-next-on-the-agenda kind of beautiful. I wandered through the medieval city but couldn't stop myself from checking my watch, bored. With the heat almost unbearable, I had thrown on a light cotton skirt and a white tank top before I left and could already feel the beads of sweat trickling down the backs of my legs.

I admired the Gothic architecture of Siena's cathedral before finding myself melting in a pool of my own sweat in the Palazzo Pubblico. Cafe patios were buzzing with conversation as the patrons drank their iced cappuccinos and sought refuge under the cool awnings. Still standing in the sweltering heat, I began rocking from side to side. White dots speckled my vision and I became light headed within seconds. But before I had the chance to collapse and make a complete fool of myself in this busy square, a giant gush of wind was summoned from God knows where, snapping me back to the present. I exhaled a sigh of relief before noticing all of the gawking faces that were now directed towards me. Following their horrified glares, I looked down only to notice two pasty white legs, unaccompanied by the previous mentioned cotton skirt. My cheeks flushing red I reefed the skirt down from around my waist where it sat scrunched up after the sudden gush of wind and looked around frantically for an escape route. Tourists who had stopped to watch the spectacle began giggling uncontrollably and their stifled  laughs followed me as I tried to navigate my way through the old city. When I finally reached the bus station, I collapsed on a bench, out of breathe, but relieved none-the-less. When the shock of having flashed the entire population of Siena wore off, I couldn't help but laugh at myself, bare ass and all.

I didn't find the magic of Italy in Tuscany's medieval city. But I think in a way my little fiasco in the square was a reminder that it's out there, somewhere, but it won't be giving itself up without a fight.

Serenissima: Venice; the Most Serene

Stepping off the train onto the platform, I struggled with my luggage. A woman sitting on a bench across from me choked down the last few puffs of her cigarette before flicking the butt away and I cringed at her broken smile. The air around me was thick and my t-shirt clung to my back with sticky sweat. After swinging my pack over my aching shoulders, I followed the herding crowd to the double doors that opened to the streets. On the other side I squinted against the sun's bright light and blinked again and again until I'd adjusted to the world around me. What I saw was no Western city, no buses, no sky scrappers. Instead the bustling streets that I had grown accustomed to were replaced by winding waterways, lengthy canals, and a steady thrumming from the engines of the boats that cruised down the waterways.

Stepping onto the Number 1 boat I took in the city that surrounded me. Merely floating on the tepid waves, the entire city crammed together in an enchanting collage of color. Peach washed apartment building walls lined the canal with their hanging flower baskets over flowing with spiraling vines and violet buds. My eyes drank in the warmth from the setting sun with a satisfying gulp and I couldn't help but sigh with regret as the city darkened, the last image, the silhouette the Rialto Bridge.

The water sloshed onto the dock with my leaving the ferry and I could feel the night's chill sweep in off the canal. After dropping my bag at the hostel, I took to the streets that had just begun to wake. Music buzzed along the alleyways and I could feel its rhythm tickling my skin. I turned left, then right, then left again, until the sweetest smell enveloped me in a drunken haze and it was then that I surrendered to a white and red checkered table cloth and a place setting for one. I sat down and watched the gondolas float lazily down an open passage, and watched as lovers skipped over chipped and worn cobblestone. When the waiter approached me I panicked, not having properly studied the menu, I was lost. I turned my instincts, closed my eyes, and pointed to the first thing I saw. He beckoned me to view the wine list and I shook my head, not ready to drink alone.

Instead I watched this ancient city glide gracefully through the night as if a painting moving in its frame. I could feel the electric energy of the people through every nerve ending in my body and couldn't help but float on this high.

When my order reached me I gawked at the tabletop size of the steaming pizza I had ordered. With greedy eyes I pulled apart a piece of the soft dough and bit into the melting cheese. The basil pampered my taste buds as the fresh mozzarella rolled down my throat. Soon after my love affair had begun the waiter approached me. With a mouthful of everything good in this world, I managed to string together a few incomprehensible words, "How's about that wine?"

A Finnish Fairytale

Finnish people are one tough breed. They've a messy history of fighting off the greedy hands of their neighbors, Sweden and Russia, battling famine, and ultimately keeping their own identity and culture in check. During Swedish occupancy in the 12th century, the Finnish language was spoken only by commoners and the country's native tongue began to quickly diminish. It wasn't long after that the Russian Empire extended its borders and made Finland a Grand Duchy. Along with a strong Russian influence came the famine and nearly 15% of the population was lost. But after load and load of crap was dumped on these people, they still managed to wade through the mess and in 1919 the country elected its very first president.

But it's not just the country's violent past that's left a lasting mark on these people of the North. Their language, quite possibly one of the most difficult in the world to learn, doesn't sympathize with history. Sounding like a combination of Japanese and Spanish but relating closest to Hungarian, true Finnish speakers have got it tough when it comes to learning their ABC's. It's no surprise that the Finnish would be the ones to master such a complex language. The country's educational system kicks the rest of Europe's ass ten fold.

But like every story there are two sides. When first arriving in Helsinki I thought I had hopped on the wrong plane and was returning to Prague. The locals didn't like being asked for directions or help or anything really, never mind being asked to lend out their cell phone in a time of dire need. It wasn't until after having spent a few days in a Finnish house hold that I realized the intimacy and importance that these people place on relationships. While Canadians are off chatting up the entire universe and forgetting every new acquaintance's name, the Finnish go on with their lives and don't pretend like every stranger on a train could potentially be their new best friend. They're calm and collected, stern but precise, and to the outside world they just might seem a little more reserved and chilly than your average Joe.

"The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction."

There is however an unexposed softness that the country possesses and just as it should, it comes in the form of romance. Just a short train ride away from Helsinki is the country's third largest city, Tampere. Here, like many other European cities you'll find the ever so popular Love Padlocks. On the Tammerkoski Rapids overpass and the Rönö bridge there hangs padlock after padlock secured to the bridges' rails by young budding couples who lock away their love and throw away the key. A little cliche, I know, but no matter where you're from or where you go, you'll always come head on with the likes of a hopeless romantic, and let me tell you, from one cynic to another, the world could use a little more love.

Swedish Meatballs

I look up, long bay windows stretch the length of the first floor and intricate metal works frame each pane. I let my eyes drink in the soft burnt orange that swathes every corner and can't help but fix my stare on the steeple that towers over me. The Stockholm Cathedral is but one of the many architectural feats that I've witnessed so far in Stockholm. Frying schnitzel, homemade donuts, and freshly made stroopvaffel swirl together and float past me as I lower my eyes to the street I've been walking along for the past couple of hours. Broken cobblestone paths weave between rows of brightly painted buildings that lead to Stortoget, the city's hub for the multi-cultural market.

We head left down to the harbor, walking along the bay in non-hurried steps and listen to the slapping waves. A couple holding hands smiles as they walk past us and I let my ears follow them as a wave of Swedish rolls from their tongues. There's something about this city that embraces outsiders with its charming nature and friendly locals.

After an exhausting day of wandering the streets of Stockholm, Henrique and I start heading back to his flat. On the way we both become distracted by a shop across the road. Abandoning our in depth conversation, we give each other knowing looks and follow our noses to the root of our diversion. We take our seats on two patio chairs outside the shop and motion for the waiter. Ten minutes later we're greeted by two plates pilled high with creamy mashed potatoes and steaming Swedish meatballs slathered in cranberry sauce. Sometimes things just can't get any better.

My Brazilian Amigo: Couchsurfing Gone Right

Because Sweden is so well recognized within the international community thanks to H&M and Ikea, it only felt natural to add it to my list. Arriving well into a Saturday night, the streets were buzzing with energy and the entire city seemed to spot an intoxicated haze. Weaving between out of control taxis and staggering drunks, I found a nook along the outside wall of the rail station and waited patiently for my couchsurfing host.

Henrique, a Brazilian born optimist and Swedish loving meatball eater, was exactly what my Sverge experience needed. His kind demeanor was decipherable through his hazelnut eyes from the moment I saw him and his ear to ear grin reminded me of a benevolence I'd long since forgotten. Spending time with Henrique was so natural and soon after introductions we were talking like two old friends. His quirky sense of humor often left me in knots and occasionally a little dumbfounded. We talked openly about our pasts, our presents, and our hopes for the future. But what I liked most about Henrique was how he described the world through his own eyes. He broke down everyday literal interactions and found a hidden and deeper meaning. He was non judge-mental and seemed to have a cool and collected way of making sense of our crazy world.

I believe that people are in your life for a reason, a season, or a life-time. It might be years before we cross paths again, but I know that when we do, we'll pick up right where we left off, never having missed a beat.

Vestmannaeyjar: The Westman Islands

On Thursday I decided that I had had enough of mainland Iceland. I was enjoying the country and small trips outside Reykjavik, but something deep down was egging me to go one step further. So I did a little research and came to the conclusion that the Westman Islands would be just as good a place to visit as any. As I began booking my 2 day excursion to the secluded island, I ran into a bit of a problem (and when I say a bit of a problem I mean a brick wall). There were two ferry ports that transported people from the mainland to the island and the ports were two hours apart from each other. That was all fine and dandy until I realized their schedules were based solely on the weather and that only one port operated at a time. This meant that at any moment the departure town could change along with the scheduled time. I found it difficult to wrap my head around this concept and continued to question whether or not this trip would be worth it.

When the time finally came for me to get that show on the road, I was shuffled awkwardly from bus to bus by various drivers, whom none of which actually knew which port to go to. Assuming they knew what was what, I boarded the first bus, took my seat, and hoped like hell I was going to the right place. When the bus rolled to a stop in front of a congested ferry terminal, I was able to rest easy knowing I had made it.

Heimaey, the largest of the Westmand Islands, was one of my favorite places in Iceland. I spent two days strolling along the cliff edges and listening to the water splash against the shore. The air was so fresh and cool that I felt more awake wandering through pastures and spotting puffins than I had in ages. Determined to hike one of the island's volcanoes, I challenged Eldfell. Half an hour into the trek and half way up the side of the volcano, I began slowly sliding downwards. The volcanic rock beneath my feet was so fragile that it kept chipping into tiny flakes and would shift with every step. I struggled at first, scared of losing my footing and tumbling down into the canyon, and then shifted gears and made a mad dash for the top. With the wind whipping my hair around in a mad frenzy and the sun's last rays seeping through my flannel shirt, I ignored the groans from my calves and pushed my body forwards. Once having crested the summit, I was able to take in the tiny community below, the ferry port to the West, and all of the tiny islands that bobbed along the coast with a breath of achievement. But there was something strange about being on top of this volcano that I couldn't put my finger on. It wasn't until I strained my ears that I was able to pin point what it was. Silence. It was just me, the sea, and a very steep hike back.

Second Star to the Right and Straight on Till Morning

Draft.

Eyjafjallajökull: A.K.A The Icelandic Volcano that Erupted

Living in a place like Iceland can have its setbacks. From ferry schedules based solely on weather forecasts to freak snow storms that hinder road transport, Icelandic people have seen it all. But in 2010 not only the residents of Iceland were affected by the eruption of one of the country’s most active volcanoes.

Located on the Southern tip of the island, Eyjafjallajökull, pronounced Eh-ya-fyat-la-yuh-cuttle, released a violent cloud of volcanic ash that hovered South East along the jet stream bringing air traffic to a halt for weeks; the greatest disturbance in air traffic since WW II. Nearly 500 local farmers and their families were evacuated from the site, and thousands of travels throughout Europe were left stranded.

Ever wonder how a volcano erupts and why?

A volcanic eruption is the change in volume and density of molten rock. Deep below the funnel of a volcano is a series of channels and layers of sediment. Depending on the rock and its proximity to higher temperatures, it will melt into magma. Magma, being less dense than the rock surrounding it, floats towards the surface and is encapsulated into little magma chambers. During this rise to the surface, components such as water, sulfur dioxide, and carbon dioxide expand into steam and when they are pressurized in these chambers, causing an eruption.

A new eruption can be caused by the buoyancy of the magma which deciphers how quickly the magma rises and pressure levels of the gases inside the magma.

Eyjafjallajökull was just an inside glance at how powerful our Earth really is. Because when it comes down to man vs nature, we all know who the undefeated champ really is.

Resouces:
www.vulcan.wr.usgs.gov
www.universetoday.com
www.earthmuseum.see.uwa.edu.au

Dare to Au Pair: Round Two

To say my first job as an au pair didn’t go quite as planned would be an understatement. It had its ups and downs just like any other shrill seeking, terror causing, havoc reeking, heart attack causing roller coaster would. So when faced with the opportunity for round two, I first ran for the hills, then hovelled up in a corner with a blanket over my head for a good while until lastly, I faced that scaly dragon in what I can only describe as an act of delirium.

Some may ask, why if I was so unhappy with the first family would I put myself through the same kind of hell? Well, I can answer that in three short and bitterly sweet words: I was broke. With no prospective employers ringing my cell and not a dollar (Sorry, Euro) to my name, I was up shit creek without a paddle. So I got on the old Google machine, and through a very selective process, found the family that was going to rock my au pairing world.

I was in over my head, they said with despair. Three young boys would surely do my head in. And they did. Aged one, two, and three, these blonde haired and blue eyed wonders tested my limits every day. They pulled my strings along with my hair, but they also grew on me. Unable to rouse an angry thought, they could transform my day with a simple hug. We spent countless hours playing peek-a-boo, discussing tractors, and drawing pictures; singing songs and hanging clothes out on the line; chasing birds out of the house and baking cookies; drinking tea, spilling it, and cleaning it up; and it never once dawned on me that this was my job. I wanted to spend my days off at home, chasing those monkeys up and down the hallways and couldn’t help but detect something missing when they weren’t around.

But after four months it was time for an end to this run-on fairy tale. I wanted to stay, I really did; A part of me knew I somehow belonged smack in the middle of this trio. But the voice of reason became louder and louder and I soon realized that as much as I wanted there to be, there was nothing left in Ireland for me. I had made great friends, seen wonderful things, and my experiences would always be in my back pocket, but there was a world waking up outside those doors and I knew I couldn’t pass that up. So with one last hug to each of them, I watched as my heart was split and sealed into three equal pieces and locked away for a rainy day.

Bohemia: Prague in a Nutshell

After six months of being on the road I was taken in by a warm smile from home. Ronny had just moved to Prague to attend Med. School, and I, I was her free loading friend that jumped at the chance of a guided tour through one of Europe’s most beautiful cities. Prague is home to many artists such as Franz Kafka, author of, quite possibly one of the most painfully difficult books to get through, “Metamorphosis”. Although this novella consists of only three chapters, reading it in high school nearly led me to stab myself in the eyes with a fork if it meant I didn’t have to look at it ever again. But aside from its literary feats, Prague nurtures its musicians with a gentle hand.

On any given night, cafes, bars, and pubs alike erupt into a plethora of melodies, feeding the city’s many starving artists. But what most visitors to Prague don’t realize is the hidden city of Bohemia that thrives beneath the one caught on camera. Here the locals legally carry pot in their pants pocket, master quite possibly the hardest language in the world, and, of course, eat steaming plate after plate of roast pork and dumplings.
Before visiting the Czech Republic, I didn’t think there was any country in the world that loved potatoes more than Ireland: I was wrong. Czechs are the creators of some of the best and fattiest food I’ve ever tasted in my life. It was like the entire city put up this front of being cold, unsociable, and unfriendly just so they could save all the good stuff for themselves. Like that little old lady in the market line up practically burning a hole through the back of your head, was all because you grabbed the last ripe tomato.

On my first morning in Prague, I awoke to find the city covered in a light blanket of snow and was forced to bundle up tight before fighting my way out into the cold. Fuelled by our equal passion for fine architecture and even better food, Ronny and I took to the cobblestone. The air was fresh and the chilling sting against my skin reminded me of winters at home. Linked arm in arm we strolled down alleyways, crossed bridge after bridge, and spent the afternoon reminiscing about summers spent together. It was the strangest feeling talking with Ronny, my old friend that I felt I was re-introducing myself to. I was an ocean away from the life I’d put on hold and a million more miles from the person I knew I could be. But, for the weekend, I was home.

"Then I fell asleep with the strange feeling of wanting to be different from what I am or being different from what I want to be, or perhaps of behaving differently from what I am or want to be." -Anne Frank