On the roads of Sulcis

Further south, in Sardegna, there is a blue coast, with wild rocks, green pinewoods and Caribbean-white sand.

To reach it, you need to ignore your GPS and google maps of sort and take your car to Marceddi' to cross a bridge which does not exist, then to wade across one or two iron-red creeks, and finally to be pulled out of the sand where the car got stuck.  Best done with a convertible Fiat 500.

You may want to take a break along the way to go for a quick dive in the waters of Piscinas beach, surrounded by Sahara style golden dunes.

Or you may visit the Carthaginian-Roman temple of Antas, hidden in the middle of the mining area of Sulcis.

Whether a curious coincidence or superior design, this August has the red colour of mining history.

From Belgium and the ceremony to mark the 60th anniversary of the Marcinelle disaster, to the abandoned mines along Sardinian road SS 126, across the Sulcis region, home of the fascist and post-war exploitation of the Sardinian reserves of iron and lead.

The sign next to the Laveria Brassey-Naracauli in Ingurtosu claims Liberty style.

Mari Ermi and the others

When the sun goes down in Mari Ermi, the sky turns yellow, the crowds leave and the seagulls go hunting, that is the moment to admire its white quartz stones shining in all their beauty.

It can be a busy day in West Sardinia, whether swimming in the still, emerald waters or enjoying them turned by a hit of mistral into a kitesurfing paradise.

Even more so if you want both and head to the San Giovanni di Sinis's peninsula: east and west, mare vivo and mare morto, shallow waters and powerful waves.

Local businessman Samba, itinerant Sardinian-speaking Senegalese
specialised in beach-ware and advice, strongly recommends to not miss, while there, the elegant simplicity of the Paleochristian church.

It is not that we picked the west coast so that we could every day indulge into sunset watching in the company of an ice cold Ichnusa, but I am glad we figured this point out early enough.

Primo agosto

E cosi' il primo agosto c'era il sole a Bruxelles.

C'era persino qualcuno in giro, macchine nei tunnel, ausiliari del traffico a Flagey, cercatori di Pokemon e nonni con bimbi nei parchi. C'era la lentezza dei movimenti e delle decisioni, in risposta all'urgenza di fermare il mondo durante le vacanze. C'erano matasse da dipanare grandi quanto piramidi egizie, a settembre però.

Tu non c'eri, eri su un altro pianeta a fare lunghe camminate nei boschi o ragionevoli riflessioni in riva a un mare estraneo.

E c'ero pure io a Bruxelles. A salvare il mondo, una briciola alla volta, piano piano. Forse troppo.

Il due agosto ricominciò a piovere, il traffico tornò nel tunnel Cinquantenaire.

Io me ne andai.

Arctic geese

Arctic geese walk in flocks on the coast. A funny, coordinated dance, littering with gusto the dark coastal rocks, which the Baltic waters cannot wash up any more.

Above the geese, a man is bungee jumping from a 150 metre tall crane while, a few metres away, a little girl, too young to even sit straight, is initiated to pony riding.

East of the geese, the main square of Helsinki is full of orange stalls and tourists, Nordic-style street food and fur hats.

West of the geese, posh bars for dwellers in search of an expensive drink to sip throughout the long Nordic sunset or perhaps the short night.

You look nice, the bar is closing: what about some male company? 

It may still take some training, I guess, for this type of Nordic charm.

14 years later

Dear long lost travel companion of mine, I do not remember if I ever thanked you for taking me around San Francisco many years ago. It was before growing up, before the restrictions for liquids at airports, before the iPhone, even before digital cameras. And before the pillars of my life started to disappear, one at time. 

And so I am back here. In fact, I can imagine you might have been back too at some point. I recall you tended to follow patterns. Yet, I can also imagine you do not really remember the patterns of our life back then: the 5-6 songs always on the radio, so regular we called it our CD; the pancakes with nutella on campus and the Kimbo coffee from Little Italy; the rush to take the Caltrain and the announcement at the station: "it doesn't really matter where you want to go, just take this train".

Of all those memories, the Caltrain is still there, with all the irony of an old fashioned piece of technology crossing nothing less than the Silicon valley. The Golden Gate bridge is still there too, majestic. Yet, no way I could beat the perfect spring afternoon light in which we took our pictures back then, the old fashioned way, with a film. I wonder where these photos are now. Likely buried under the dust of irrelevance.

And, as a kind of challenge to the past, I took again the long walk back downtown along the bay, direction Pier 39. And I took again the cablecar, but also walked up Telegraph Hill, Lombard street and even via Cristoforo Colombo along its Italian shops.

I also came to Mission. Oh, wait, we did not go there at the time, perhaps lack of time or perhaps it was just not your style. Actually, it was certainly not your style. So, Mission we did not see. Neither did we see all the homeless people sleeping in the street, in tents or on the pavement. But that, again, was before the world started changing, back then maybe these people were not even there.

And so, ultimately, in this sunny summer afternoon, I am not going over the past any longer, but sitting on the grass burning my nose, watching elegant moves of Capoeira and somehow even looking forward to going back and trying to change the world again, one piece at time.

South California, baby

The weather is perfect ad the beaches are great. Sure, that we all know. But you also go to San Diego to visit the 1980s: Top Gun, Tom Cruise and his favourite bars, above all, but maybe also less glamorous P.I.'s Rick and AJ from Simon&Simon. You may indulge in listening to Bruce's Balboa Park.

But in fact you land in a plain 2016 timezone, with dedicated pick up points at the airport for Uber and Lyft, ubiquitous free WiFi, fancy cafes and restaurants.


Then you drive over the Coronado bridge and learn that the old promise to make it toll-free after its costs had been covered was indeed kept 4 years ago. With a little delay, but what's 16 years among friends?

That latin soul of yours may be charmed by the old-fashioned wooden beauty of Hotel Del Coronado, while wondering since when "del" stopped being a preposition to become a first name for those anglophone barbarians. You may also be a bit taken by surprise learning that there is an International Bocce Tournament in Del Mar. Grandpa's Bocce? Right.

One or two good Margaritas will probably put things in perspective again. A look south towards troubled Tijuana will bring you fully back to this struggling 2016.

Bluff

At the end of the day, the Clint Eastwoods, Luke McCains and cowboy Sams of my youth rode their horses towards the sunset. For sure it did not take them long to cross the Monument Valley - it did not take us long either, dozens of photo shootings included. 

At end of the day, they must have gone back home and met some Laura Ingalls of sort, busy conquering the West.

That could well have been in Mexican Hat or in Bluff, at the end of the lonely road cutting through those dry red mountains of Utah.

The Ingalls are not there any longer but the Demings and a bunch of their friends are still there, entertaining visitors, enjoying themselves and holding the Fort.

Fort Bluff that is: maxi pancakes for breakfast, hand made cookies for a snack and a walk in traditional costumes, through the history of the West and its first heroes, living in cabins to obey the call from God.

Was it real or was it all just an illusion?

Riding Navajo land

Landing in a world of shining stars and stripes, clear blue skies, burning red rocks and temperatures approaching 100. Page, Arizona, 4 July: go out, watch the parade and keep up those values that make America great. There is no broadband in town until next year anyway.

All around Page, burning under the scorching sun, Navajo land. A sign on the road reminds drivers to think, plan, live and shop Navajo. Navajo guide Leon explains that it is all because their grandmas have been living there forever, since before the first stone of Page was placed in 1957.

And thanks to grandma sticking to her dry piece of land, today his family can provide guided tours into the stunning Antelope Canyon.

Come with me, girl, I will play music for you in the meanders of the canyon and show you how to take great pictures which you can brag about when you are back home.

Oh, and girl, do you have fireworks in your country? I'll get you a flag.

Thanks but I am leaving, gotta get to Utah tonight.

The great unconformity

Canyons, condors and coyotes, all those things soaked in during a childhood of American series and films. That's it, the Far West, the Grand Canyon, the mighty Colorado river about a mile down. No cowboys around, quite a few hikers instead, and families with kids and even dogs hopping on and off the free bus, lookout after lookout.

Girl, you are talking too much and walking too little, do you want a picture? Oh yes, please. Just here, on the trail of time, going back a billion years in Earth's history, and sorry for the local creationists. Mind the step, though, we have lost more than a billion years, right here at the great unconformity, where the age of the rocks jumps from 500 million years to almost 2 billion years.

And yet no picture can ever do justice to the depth and breadth of the sight. No wonder some fellow hikers thought better stopping for a while, sitting down and letting the mind drown in its smallness.

Carioca favourites

Top ten Rio (not counting the Sugar loaf and the Christ and Ipanema beach etc. etc.)

1. Olha che bacana! Landing with a hand glider directly on the beach

2. Pao de queijo. Top snack

3. Cachaça Magnifica. And Caipirinha at sunset at Urca

4. Experiencia 5 etapas @ Irajá restaurant, with the best chef in Rio

5. Chama o sommelier - but not quite for Brazilian wine

6. Havaianas. Loads of them

7. Saude, the forgotten slave trade neighbourhood. And Rocinha, favela pacificada

8. Vasco de Gama, winner of the Carioca league (Botafogo is nobody)

9. Water and salt against malignant influences

10. Cariocas

The city

There are two ways one can talk about Rio. 

Say for example that when getting there you are greeted by green hills of impossible shapes rising above busy streets, bustling beaches, loud bars and colourful favelas on top of wealthy neighborhoods. That it is divided in zona norte, where a foreigner would rarely go, if not for the Maracana vibe, and zona sul, with its Ipanema, Copacabana, Botafogo, Flamengo, Urca, Santa Teresa, Rocinha, Saude, each name bearing a different flavour to the visitor.

Or say, like that man from Ipanema, that as a young man, on a warm autumn afternoon, he landed in a city where looking from Pao de Açucar beaches were glowing in gold, where beautiful people were smiling and kind, and beach vendors offered bikinis, caipirinhas, pasteles, handbags, jewelry and nearly anything else.

All while Christ the Redeemer kept an eye on drinks, dances, thefts, chats and loves.

And that on that afternoon, many good things could happen to him. That many roads opened up to him there. And that whichever road he would take, it would be certainly one of those Rio had offered to him.

From the sky

If Sao Paolo is a horizontal city where you keep on going and it never seems to end, my Rio is completely vertical, up to the sky and back.

A red train takes you to the top of the Corcovado, to spend some time in the clouds waiting for the sky to clear and give you some stunning views of the city (tickets not reimbursed in case of change of weather once up to the Christ).

Two cableways (or a good rope and climbing shoes) to conquer the Pao de Açucar and sink in saudade over the sunset.

A good dose of adrenaline and a sort of military instructor bearing the name of Mosquito, and you can jump, breathless, from 500 mt with a hand glider. If you are scared, run fast down the ramp; if you are not scared, run even faster. And land on the Sao Conrado beach on time for some suco verde or agua de coco.

If there is a place to do an helicopter ride, that would be Rio, friends said. The Heliponto da Lagoa is the place to start, for yet more vertical views of Ipanema, Copacabana, Urca and Lagoa.

And then, with the Cariocas, rise to the sky with life lusting zeal.

Cataratas

My friend told me a few times how many cubic metres of furious water pour down every hour (or was it every day?). I just kept staring at those cubic metres, unable to retain the information.

Brazilian side or Argentinian side, either way overwhelming.

Like a wound inflicted in the peaceful flow of the river, it screams of pain and anger. The end of the world, aptly bearing the name of Garganta do diablo.

And a most hypnotic sight, from up, from down, from far, from close. Or breathtakingly from the sky.

Going Paulista

Packing like you are going to the Caribbeans and landing in the Brazilian autumn instead. Recipe for getting a cold. The fourth this year. That makes it once a month. Great record.
Rio's mild temperatures in a few days might help at least shortening it. While hoping for Rio, hopping through Sao Paulo.

I'm not sure Sao Paulo is a city I can fall in love with, but it is not either that monster people have been portraying. A gigantic metropolis, not necessarily well cared, chocked by traffic jams times and again. But not the safety threat some would expect, with pleasant walks during the day and fun bars for the night - provided you take taxis and use your common sense - if you have to switch off common sense, maybe Sampa is not the place.

Favourite sights: a shoestring vendor, a street artist improvising a dance with an old lady dressed in green and yellow, the automatic distributor of bouquets, a table football at the museum do futebol where you can choose your configuration (4-4-2 works the best).

And Pinhero nights.

Senza parole

A city I did not want to visit.

A wounded city, with panic and fear, sadness and anger. Anger at the terrorists, at the Belgian intelligence service, at foreigners altogether.

A city where you show solidarity by writing on the walls of your only monument. And yet, maybe 50 nationalities are standing there and lighting candles. Welcome to Brussels, capital of Europe, capital of jihad too. Where the police of a different commune had the address of the most wanted man for months but did not communicate it to the other office. Where terrorists order a big taxi for their suitcases full of explosives but the taxi company sends a too small one. Where they ask you to go at the airport 5 hours in advance for a 2 hour flights.

In other parts of the world controls are everywhere I am told. But we are in Europe, we built it on peace and solidarity, we cannot turn it into a war zone because different governments cannot get to work together. People do not want to give up their right to go for a beer with friends. Keep drinking your beer but police in the street, border checks, fear of the foreigner is a new normal which takes us back 100 years.

The notetaker

On a rainy January evening, in the loquacious company of a Finn and a Czech, I am preparing to attend my first informal meeting of the Council of Ministers of the EU on digital stuff. Just my cup of tea, but with a twist. I am going to be... THE NOTETAKER.

Admitted everywhere, talking to everyone, unstoppable. The notetaker is the new power role in modern policy making.

Boat trip to the venue, futuristic videos, live music, geese from Schiphol airport to eat, the King's brother as host, entrepreneurs from small startups (like Uber Estonia or booking.com) giving speeches. All duly recorded. Ready for duly reporting.

Happily, January rainy night gives the stage to January sunny blue day and The Notetaker can therefore even take pictures. In fact, the Notetaker quite likes Amsterdam and would not mind spending a few extra days there.

That time of the year again

It is that time of the year again.

The time when you cannot decide what gives you less melancholy: a shorter day but still full of southern lights and warmth, or a still long but chillier day.

The time when "still" is the word which populates most of your thoughts. When you do not want to surrender to the slow twilight towards winter or to let go of the summer hopes. And dreams.

Or when sometimes you cannot decide whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune, or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles, and by opposing end them.
In reality, of course, hopes and dreams are already gone. And in reality, a good intake of Magnesium and Vitamin C is all you need.

Last day

There are things to which a photo or a bunch of words cannot do justice.

The colour of the water at Nafsika's cave and down the cliffs of the monastery in Palaiokastritsa is one of them.

Like the sound of the cicadas mixed to the sound of the waves, while lying on a pebbles beach in Kassiopi's bay. 

Or the freshness of an unexpected cave, found following the footsteps of a bunch of Germans hiking up mount Pantokrator.

For other things, a couple of photo shots may help.

Sadly, tomorrow at this time I will be a caught by another kind of blue, in the livery of a Ryanair aircraft heading north.

Going north

Staring at cliffs is one of my addictions.

I lost my breath long time ago at the Irish Cliffs of Moher and was knocked out again more recently down under at the 12 Apostles.

Driving in the north-west of Corfù, across cypress and olive tree forests, Cape Drastis added some more jabs.

Small Ionians

The worst kept secret in Corfù is that ferries take you for a day trip to Paxos and Antipaxos, small neighbours in the turquoisest part of the Ionian sea.

So small that only a meagre 200.000 olive trees exist on Paxos, while Corfù can afford around 4 million.

And so secret that ferries are usually fully booked, including the organised tours with hundreds of people (and pork souvlaki) roasting onboard.

Corfiots are very proud of the little ones and can talk endlessly about the beauty of their waters. 

I can now confirm.

Corfù

A new summer, a new corner of Greece. 

Here in Corfù temperature is just right, the garlic in the tzatziki is just a little above what literature may prescribe, the blue is just as overwhelming as it needs to be.

Afroditis, selling jewellery in Kerkyra centre, told us about 'meandros', the spiral and Greek symbol of life without an end. Who wants to live forever? The Corfiots, she said.

Guess she may have a point.

Stamatis, restaurant owner up the hill in Acharavi, 35 years in the business, seemed to be of the same mind. Wondering if that has anything to do with the fact that he seemed to keep forgetting what we were talking about.

Meandros or not, one of the beauties of Kerkyra is meandering through the narrow venetian streets. Later on, a wrong turn may send you meandering through narrow mountain roads, tiny villages and surprise viewpoints.

Plotting

Back from Loire, time to plot all the stops on a map. From Blois to Angers, via Tours and Saumur, touching Chartres on the way back.

For a total of 12 Castles, 6 towns, 1 troglodyte farm, 1 Cathedral, 1500 km, 4 wine cellars, 15 bottles back home.

Top 3 Castles: Chambord, Chenonceau, Blois.
Outstanding breathtaking non-Castle: Chartres cathedral

Top 3 activities: spending the night in a water mill, eating fouées a la troglodyte, sundowner on the Loire (kayaking could have been an option too).

Top 3 people: big-nose King Francis I, our Lady of the Mill, le vigneron de la Giraudiere.
Special mention to the Lady of the Poires Tapées de Rivarenne, explaining her ethics of beating the pears.

Castles part III: Chenonceau

 The castle of women. The castle of luscious gardens. The castle of love, pleasure, lust and power. 

Women lived here who were loved by some king - or were otherwise married to them. Women who fought for the privilege of living here (as opposed to being confined to some other beautiful castle down the river, of course).


Women who ruled the country from a green cabinet or retreated to mourn a dead husband in peace in a dark room - in peace, sure, but surrounded by a court of kind gentlemen.

It has been a hot summer day and then a sweet summer night, of the kind all those women would have certainly known how to enjoy.

Leonardo

King Francis I did not look extremely handsome and had quite a big nose. But that is not so important.

Besides Chambord, he had another beautiful castle overlooking Amboise (among other places where he would move with his thousands servants and assemblable furniture) and a manor a few hundred metres away, when he invited Leonardo to join him.

The Genius accepted and came by - bringing Mona Lisa along and making a French lady of her forever.

Leonardo did not regret it as he even requested to be buried there. The Amboisiens certainly did not regret it either, as nowadays they seem to capitalise on Leonardo's last restplace more than birthplace Vinci.

I suspect that also a Genius enjoys living in a nice manor, surrounded by a big park, developing war machines and other toys.

Castles part II: Chambord and Cheverny

Once upon a time lived Francis I, a very determined young man. At age 25 he knew that he wanted Milan and that he wanted also a huge and beautiful castle with an extended forest around so that he could go hunting. There was a perfect spot in Chambord.

The guy got what he wanted, the castle is magnificent. But Francis I loved travelling (and wars) more than he loved staying in the beautiful castle. Therefore he got himself a few thousands servants and a few sets of dismountable furniture (Ikea bed, chests and wardrobes of the time). And so, he could keep going around carrying everything along and randomly stopping at the immense castle when he felt like it. 

In fact he moved also within he castle. Today did he not feel comfortable in one wing? Just dismount the bed and move everything to the other side. 

I would not find it unlikely that he finally quit the place because of getting tired of looking for the bathroom among more than 400 rooms.

Several centuries later, Hergé and Tintin would find it much easier getting around in neighbouring Cheverny, masterpiece of classical symmetry and harmonic beauty.

Castles part I: Blois

The Loire at last, shining at sunset.

In the city of Renaissance intrigues and bloodshed, stands a majestic castle, which is in fact 4 different castles in one. Cannot stop staring at this marble staircase.

The summer night is warm and calm in the court of the Castle. Even better after the (slightly overdone) "son et lumiere" show is over. 

The sky is dark and clear. The stars (and the satellites and the international space station) quietly look down on us. Cheesy yeah, but it is St.Lawrence, so I'm expecting some falling stars anytime. In fact I think I have seen one - although it may have been just a bat hit by the spotlight, who knows.

And then spending the night in a former watermill in the middle of the fields.