More driving. A lot more

The country does not have a huge number of inhabitants, just 2,5 millions over a huge territory.

Riding in the southern regions, one hardly crosses anyone. Except for some gas stations at crossroads between major gravel highways, no sign of villages around.

And, then, the interlude of the odd gravel road with gates which you need to open by yourself every 2-5 km.

One fascinating desert after the other and then a  few cities. Swakopmund, Walvis Bay and more north Tsumeb and Grootfontein: neat, green, orderly, well maintained, with the most equipped pharmacies and medical practices. Incongruous, in a way. Not the image one has of cities in Africa.

But head northwards and cross the red line of animal disease prevention and the country changes dramatically. No more dried up prehistoric waterways but real rivers, forests of trees, cattle grazing by the (tarred) highway. And villages and schools scattered around, people walking by the road and children waving at cars.

Cities in the north look different too. Take Rundu: markets, noise and music, dusty roads, and neighbourhoods of huts made of mud or zinc, alongside neighbourhoods of houses made of bricks. And in some places the sad view of plastic garbage as if growing from trees and plants.

Another country, probably poorer, more humid, where malaria has not yet been eradicated, inhabitants are mostly farmers, when they do not move south to work for the tourism industry.

Beautiful in a different way, where you can sit on the side of the river Okavango looking at Angola on the other side.

Or going further east, taking your time to spot hippos bathing on the other side or warthogs happily having breakfast, while birds of all colours fly in and out of your room

Oysters in Bavaria

The end of the desert surprises us with a series of ponds inhabited by flamingos, just next to a waste recycling facility and a shopping mall.

We are in Walvis Bay, former British and then Southafrican enclave in German colonial land and huge port to access Namibia.
Here the orange dunes slide gently into the ocean and the road in between the two sides lead to Swakopmund, a corner of Bavaria in the southern hemisphere.

Impossible to say if tomorrow is going to be chilly or hot, our hosting lady tells us with an unusual tight accent, Swakopmund has 4 seasons in a day.

Tomorrow was going to be very hot and we would be watching hundreds of thousands of black seals cramming the sandy strip leading to Pelican Cape - it looks like an Italian beach in August, some could say.

Today, however, is pretty chilly. Warm clothes and hats on, the end of the afternoon is our time to go check those out-of-context Teutonic buildings and to walk over the Jetty onto the Ocean, swept by the west wind, towards the austral sunset.

And possibly some seafood.
Oysters here are not like in a European country I would not mention - Captain Yanni would say - they do not taste like salty water, they are sweet and fleshy and if you do not believe me, here a plate of twelve for you and a glass of bubbly.

You should always believe the captain.

Deserts

Prepare to drive hundreds of km on long, straight highways made of gravel, running silently in the middle of nowhere. But be on the look out, as the next bump can hide the beginning of a new breathtaking nowhere. This, we learned, is the Namib. Not by coincidence the name is supposed to mean something along the lines of wide dry plains. And not by coincidence, this has given the name to the whole country, one of the driest in the world.

After a red, dusty start of the journey, a flat yellow land takes over, as if some kind of sand had spread itself all around. Except it is not sand: looking closer, it turns out it is a kind of short light grass, betraying the presence of some water somewhere sometime.

We cross very few cars. And a lonely cyclist, looking even lonelier against the yellow nowhere he has decided to challenge.

But the gravel highway goes on and after the next road bump, the grass disappears and a dark rocky world begins, bringing with it a hilly landscape, a sequence of unexpectedly slippery curves and lookouts over a moon-like valley.

A bus has stopped on the side of the road. People replacing a broken tyre is common sight on this road. We already crossed three of them just today. But not the case for the bus: there is a road sign indicating we are crossing the Tropic of Capricorn. Photo time. Actually, good idea.

But this is not yet the end of the journey. First we need to cross a long stoney white nowhere, with the deteriorated gravel highway turning into an endless sequence of small bumps, shaking the 4x4 and our stomachs.

But there we are, at last. Or almost: we reach Sesriem, the gate to the most scenic, best known part of the Namib. The gravel turns into smooth asphalt accompanying us for 65 km through the amazing orange dunes of the Sossusvlei.

Ever changing shape, heights of up to 350 metres, against the wind incessantly blowing off the superficial layer, we try to climb the most accessible one, Dune 45.

The end of the journey brings us to the Dead Vlei: in the zenith of the midday sun, a bunch of dead trees stand like an accusation, in a lake of white salt, against the orange of the dunes and the intense blue of the sky. The stunning reward of the long desert route.

The classic Namibian postcard photo in our pocket, exhausted by the heat, the wind and the dust, time to go back and prepare the next stop: Bavaria of Africa.

L'ombelico del (nuovo) mondo

Welcome to the archeological capital of the Americas, the city of gold, the navel of the new world, the capital of the Incan empire, spanning from Colombia to Argentina - before being conquered (invaded?) and raided by Pizarro and his Conquistadores.

Also the base to explore Inca lands and star attraction Macchu Picchu. But that will come later.

Welcoming and pleasant despite its 3400 metres, so rich in history, culture and sights that can be overwhelming.

With churches, basilicas, museums and even pretty good restaurants, it is going to keep us busy for some time.

While a majestic sun is shining onto the imposing Plaza de Armas, the Cathedral and the Church of the Jesuits are competing for attention. Not a novelty: the latter was built in an attempt to rival its neighbour in splendor - until the offended bishop complained to the Vatican and obtained to downsize the Jesuit plans to only one nave.

Both ended up as masterpieces of baroque, rococo and of mixing catholic art and local traditions: Virgin Mary with a dress in a shape of the sacred mountain, bare-chest ladies symbols of fertility adorning the bishop's benches, and our favourite: the last supper featuring roasted Guinea pig on the menu.

The Qurikancha or Convent of Santo Domingo is another must see. Originally the Inca most important temple, the House of the Sun, decorated with gold, silver, thrones and precious stones, it later became a Dominican Convent, built upon and around the Inca structure.

The Incas knew how to make anti-seismic buildings which are in a good part still standing, with trapeze stones, twelve angled stones and lego-style of construction. The colonial structure fared much less well and was much more damaged by the earthquakes. Which led to the local distinction between Inca and Incapaces.

To the Colca

3400 metres down, the 4th deepest canyon of the world. For a while Peruvians thought it was the deepest of them all, disappointed to discover the real depth courtesy of 4 polish guys going for a trek a few years ago. 

Perfect land to produce protein rich quinoa, now so popular in the First world that it has become very expensive for locals and destined to export. Left to los peruanos only second or third quality

Llamas and alpacas live happily together in big herds above 4000 metres, condors spend their mornings crossing a canyon left and right. Instead, humans from elsewhere struggle to cope with the reduced oxygen and the increased cuteness (picture two big grownup Italian boys going crazy about the cuteness of 2 years old Aracel, 3 years old Sofia and baby alpaca Pedro).

Pictures require propina of 1 sol. Yes it is a touristy thing and no I did not resist either. After all, I woke up at 2 am to be here today, the higher moral ground is for another day. 

Befriended also a brave young chica, accountant from Talara (but future singer), born and raised on the seaside few km from the equator. First time on her own, she took a bus ride of 35 hours to get to the heights of arequipa and colca - and falling prey of sorochi. 

Ah, condors and colibris live here too

A relaxed Peruvian start

We came here for treks but Peruvian stories begin with an overnight flight from New York, a nap in a cute b&b in Lima before a 3 hours bus tour southwards, direction Paracas, for the first ceviche and Pisco sour of the trip, by the beach.

An early morning boat visit around the Ballestas islands is the occasion to accept the "guano" challenge: avoid being hit on your head by the bombs released by the thousands of birds living there in peaceful cohabitation with the sea lions.

Next is the oasis of Huacachina, to relax, enjoy the desert, get into a buggie to climb those mega dunes and descend with a sandboard.

The best in Huacachina - we are told - is the aperitif at sundown and backpackers parties.

But by that time we are already on a bus to the next destination.

Next destination being Nasca, home to the pre-inca (or alien, who knows?) lines in the desert, some hundred metres long, in amazing shapes (including that of an astronaut) which you can best admire flying in a small plane over the desert, around the local chunk of the Carretera Panamericana

Leave it all up to me

A summer of few years ago I was enchanted by the big Apple and left longing to come back. Back did I come, at last, hitting a couple of hot spring days - perhaps a tad too hot for a small apartment in the Upper East side.

And a different New York, where the city was not the main point. Although it was, of course.

Not many photos this time, and anyway I never got to work on those from a few years ago, shame on me.

This time, been busy collecting metro and laundromat cards as well as other things. 

For example soaking up the sun and the city esprit on a rock in Central Park, sharing a locally brewed Staten Island lager or a few pancake stacks on the 2nd.

Pretty good also succeeding in getting tickets for the Book of Mormon on Broadway - despite the tech challenges of the enterprise. Hitting a memorable Sichuan crispy cumin beef in the Upper East, and a not so memorable (albeit self proclaiming award winning) hummus in Hell's kitchen.

And finally finding the truth in the subway, in the words of Major Jackson, in a single kiss like a marathon with no finish line.

Spring in Wallonia

Spring is a bit late this year, so all Belgian media made clear to everyone that this was going to be the first warm weekend of the year. 

And it was indeed. 

While half of Belgium went north towards the coast, we went all the way south, to the Ardennes, to a beautiful B&B on the river Semois owned by a very chatty Frenchman who eventually acknowledged that in Italy you could even find *some* good wines. 


The triangle Florenville, Martue and Lacuisine is the starting point for a little Walloon circuit. Not before tasting the local pride going by the name of Orval beer.

Almost too obvious, the first stop needs to be the Orval Abbey, probably the star attraction of the region. Tourists are buying beer there, but we, the locals, know better, don't we?

Hence, time to move on and venture into France to discover Avioth, a small village of a few dozen souls, endowed with an oversized Basilica, a historical mystery probably due to some miracle appearance.

I could not resist taking a photo of the bucolic postcard view of Chassepierre, before heading to Buillon and close the circle with fortress, Godefroy and all the other memories from childhood history classes.

Far north

White, cold, tough. Beautifully hypnotic. Finnish Lapland, all the way north to Ivalo and Saariselka.

Clearly the ideal destination of this long cold winter, looking for even short days, long shadows even at noon, and temperatures a couple dozen degrees in the minus.

Rewarded with an incredible and unforgettable mix of pale blue and light pink in the sky, enlacing endless ice forests coming straight out of fairy tales. 

When the night falls, a Lappish man in Lappish costume will be making coffee for us all, after parking the reindeer-pulled sledge in the middle of a forest during a midnight session of Aurora hunting.

It is -25, so the fire and the coffee feel really good. Aurora is moving and teasing us, but still hiding her green and violet curtains.

Cross country ski aside, better than a trek is an early morning ride on the snowmobile to pay a visit to Santa's office, to try to impress nephews and nieces with Zia's excellent connections - which can be exploited next Christmas.

And to conclude, a first class Napue gin&tonic and a sauna: what can be better?

Lanzarote highlights

Heading for new year's celebrations to the closest of the Canary Islands delivered quite a great sunny holiday week (and a little rain on the last day) with beaches, nature, volcanoes, architecture, seafood and volcanic wine.

On the beaches front, special mention for Famara, the long, wide surfers' beach surrounded by mountains and desert-like landscape; and the playa del Papagayo, at the end of a dirt road all the way south, a beauty and a jewel even when battered by strong winds.

The spectacular volcano Timanfaya and its neighbouring craters would deserve a story on their own, being at the origin of the island as it is today. An impressive landscape, even when done only by bus - and notwithstanding the apocalyptic soundtrack accompanying the ride.

All around the island, architecture beautifully merging with nature, the signature of local architect and hero Cesar Manrique - praised be the man forever - for having spearheaded a mentality of having only buildings which are discreet, low rising and respectful of the island nature.

On the food side, the best meal prize goes to the gambas and langoustines from a restaurant in a probably unknown village squeezed between Arrecife and the airport called Playa Honda. All accompanied by local Malvasia volcanica from la Geria area

Lanzarote might not be famous as a place to go out partying, yet it is a perfect place for a chat with a view on the harbour in Arrecife's Charco

La Graciosa

The most beautiful beach in Lanzarote is said to be on a different island, a little north.

They mean Playa La Francesa but we liked the Playa de la Montaña amarilla better.

The goal of tasting the waters of the Atlantic was thereby achieved, after walking some 10/11 km along the coast. Interesting to learn that all available bikes were gone or reserved for some important lady called Beatriz and that we should have reserved and got better info before even getting on the island. Islanders' mood is definitely not the best today.

Beautiful colours and plenty of empty spaces, we ended up in the good company of a French family carrying colour books, a Spanish trio of friends with benefits, a number of couples and a yoga-on-the-beach virtuoso.

In Sicily Autumn can wait

It is the first day of Autumn and I am lying on the deck of a boat in a new bikini, idly wondering which Tonnara I am looking at, since Scopello is still some miles away. And hesitating on whether I should actually jump in the water. But why not.

There is the Couscous Fest in San Vito lo Capo, the town is packed, concerts, events, food stands, wine, artisanal beer, pecorino extravaganza with pistachios and chocolate.

And people. Plenty of outgoing, talkative people, making sure I did not spend much of my two days there without exchanging views with fellow human beings.

Whether at the hotel, on the boat, for dinner at Trattoria da Mariella, or at the concert.

Young Marco, flirty Francesco, chatty Vito, sophisticated Massimo e Gloria, Umberto, Captain Salvo, informative Enza.

And also those whose name I did not get: the man of the ticket booth, the very well assimilated Peruvian lady of the souvenir shop, the Tuscan young guys tasting Donnafugata wine, the lady on the beach who took a selfie with Joe Bastianich and was shocked I did not know who this name belonged to.

Skin colour revived, bidding farewell to another summer, ready to face the thunderstorms this Fall is breeding.

Back to Tallinn

Pretty much the summary of my Estonia for the past 12 years or so.

Cold time, but good times, happy times, even exciting times. With a lot of memories and a few surprises. 

Started with discovering non existent unpaved Saaremaa roads to nowhere or pretty Tallinn old town views. Comparing the capital with its neighbours Riga or Vilnius. Realising that Helsinki is really, really close. Or being charmed by that chap with long hair and a penchant for talking non-stop and for philosophising about life, people and the world. And going back many years later, just for work, to find garlic ice cream and traditional marijuana chocolate and also that Tallinn's summer market sells woollen hats, scarfs and ponchos (and buying one, the blue one). 

Good times, happy times, exciting times. And a pinch of melancholia.
And regret

Puglia

L'estate sta finendo, cantavano i Righeira. Quest'anno la mia estate finisce in Puglia, a Polignano a Mare.

Bella, struggente e ipnotica come una canzone d'altri tempi, magari proprio del suo cittadino più famoso, ma remixata da un DJ che la sa fin troppo lunga su come vendere milioni di copie.

Estremamente affollata e rumorosa del passeggio di migliaia di persone il sabato sera, tra la cena di pesce alle Antiche Mura, la passeggiata per farsi un selfie di fronte a Cala Porto, il dopocena alla Casa del mojito.

Quasi deserta e decisamente silenziosa la domenica mattina presto, a parte le campane che segnano, con profusione di rintocchi, ogni quarto d'ora, oltre a qualche signora in villeggiatura alla ricerca della messa del primo mattino e un paio di americani alle prese col fuso e con quella minuscola quantità di liquido nero bollente che da queste parti chiamiamo caffè.

E calda, caldissima, nonostante sia quasi settembre. Splendente di sole e profumata di mare, panifici e fichi freschi. Ma se l'estate sta finendo, vuol dire che un altro anno se ne va. Vado via anch'io ma, come dicevano loro, no, proprio non mi va.

Cypriot lessons

Cyprus became my destination a bit by coincidence: someone mentioning the island on a rainy April day, me buying a ticket for August.
And a guide book.
Which I lost on day 2, just as I was going to start digging into it.

Limassol-Paphos-Larnaca-Nicosia-Kyrenia and a few small places in between. 

Loads of sun, Orthodox icons, spicy sheftalia and fresh Xynisteri. 

Plenty of Brits and Russians on beaches and promenades. 

Historical sites, tiny churches and imposing monasteries to choose amongst. 

And even without the guide, good instinct for cool open air bars ad cafes: La Isla on the beach in Limassol, Dstrkt in the centre of Larnaca, Pieto just off Ledras in Nicosia.

But also border crossings, buffer zones, abandoned buildings and some reckoning on divisions and solutions, as a reminder that this is not just another Greek island.

At the end of 10 days, after driving some 850 km and walking about 78 km (according to the iPhone's probably overgenerous counting) also some life lessons:

- driving on the left is odd but doable, also by night, but it helps if you find out how to turn the lights on before taking the highway;

- if the car in front of you at a border crossing has stopped, most likely it is not just another form of creative parking which allows you to overtake;

- this summer nothing can stop Despacito everywhere, but Greek pop will not go down without serious fighting;

- when visiting excavation areas at noon and with some 40 degrees, only one thing matters: