Collecting Moments

My three weeks in Georgia were strikingly similar to our isolation in Japan during the pandemic. This time however, I chose to slow down, stay in one place and reflect. Each day offered a glimpse into local life and revealed a little more about my immediate surroundings. The wooden Mingrelian house retained some warmth from the long, hot summer in the valley. In the small kitchen, my friend’s hands moved gently and precisely as she made suluguni cheese. Steam from the boiling whey settled on the windows, casting the bare trees outside in a silvery, misty glow. After a week of our anxious waiting, one of the cows gave birth to a healthy, strong calf. Its eyes were the color of the Black Sea, mirroring the clear blue sky. A pile of hot chili peppers drying on the terrace sparkled in the soft, low sunlight. Sprinkles of yellow and green adorned the table: dill, parsley, lemons. As the glittering gold of October gave way to the milky fog of later autumn, the nights grew chilly and dam...

Saying goodbye to Tashkent was bittersweet. On our last evening there, we took a slow walk around the makhalla and met an elderly Russian woman. She stopped us to ask where we lived and worked, somehow assuming that we must have jobs nearby. She walked with two canes, and it was clear that every step was painful for her. Her pale blue eyes and delicate features, marred by the wrinkles, hinted at how beautiful she must have been once. Lyudmila invited us into her garden across the street. "I live here alone," she said. Her one-story house, likely built during the Soviet era, had never been renovated. Meanwhile, all the other buildings on the street looked like palaces, with huge windows, massive gates, and lofty fences. "My husband died, and my son, who lives nearby in an apartment, doesn't want to come here. My daughter-in-law never visits me either.” As she spoke, she began to cry. We stepped into the yard, where dry brown and orange leaves covered the ground. Th...

That day, we planned to reach Katta Langar, a remote village that a couple of fellow travelers had discovered in their guidebooks. It's located deep in the mountains about 70 kilometers south of Shahrisabz, where we spent a few quiet days away from the exhausting tourist crowds of Samarkand. From our guesthouse in the center of town, we hitched a ride to the bazaar with a cheerful young man who drove an old, rattling Chevrolet. He even tried, unsuccessfully, to call a friend to take us farther into the mountains. In Central Asia, markets are much more than colorful stalls and loud vendors. They also serve as primary transportation hubs, from which an intrepid traveler can access even the most obscure and secluded locations. As soon as we approached the entrance, a chorus of taxi drivers closed in on us. "Langar—only 300,000 sum!" one shouted. "The road there is awful!" Another contender, a red-faced, chubby man, leapt from his car. "Kyzyltepa for forty t...

Иду по тенистой улице в Бухаре. Меня обгоняет дедушка на велосипеде, слезает с него и мы вместе продолжаем путь пешком. — Откуда приехала? — Из Португалии. — По-русски хорошо говоришь! — Да, я родилась в Свердловске. — А я в Норильске. «В Норильске?» — удивляюсь я, уже поеживаясь от холода. — Да, — рассказывает дедушка, — моих родителей репрессировали в 1937 году и сослали строить завод. Дед был богатым человеком в Бухаре, его раскулачили. Всех расстреляли, из мужчин остался только мой отец и дядя — братишка мамы. Когда они приехали в Норильск, там почти ничего не было, росли только карликовые деревья. Мы молча идем дальше. Подай мне, пожалуйста, — просит он, указывая на пакет с обрезками, который лежит у дороги. — Это для барашков. У меня неподалёку дом, я держу барашков и кур. — Хорошего отдыха тебе! — прощается со мной дедушка с доброй беззубой улыбкой и исчезает в переулках старой махалли. Я перехожу на солнечную сторону, но долго еще не могу согреться.

В Ташкенте я была один раз — в пять лет. Мы приезжали с родителями навестить родственников папиной мамы Элеоноры Константиновны Грамматович. Она здесь родилась и выросла. В Ташкенте всё для меня было как из сказки. И гроздья спелого винограда, свисавшие над входом в дом моей прабабушки. И арыки, в которых и днем, и ночью журчала вода. И огромные казаны с пловом на базаре. По вечерам мы с папой ходили слушать лягушачий концерт в парке с прудом. Было совсем не холодно, хотя приехали мы осенью. Моя бабушка, которая попала на Урал вместе с дедом на работу по распределению, всю жизнь тосковала по теплу и солнцу Ташкента. Читаю в архивных материалах “Следствие по делу арестованного литературного работника Госиздата Узбекской ССР Грамматовича”. Это мой прадед Константин. “В Средней Азии арестован автор учебников узбекского языка, беспартийный интеллигент Грамматович. Обвиняемый — сын бывшего помещика, привлекался к ответственности за активное противодействие земельной реформе в Узбекистан...

Когда мостовые превратились в реки, омывающие непрерывный поток машин, в горах выпал снег. От него в городе как будто стало легче дышать, создавалось обманчивое ощущение чистоты и света. Однако небо оставалось серым от густого вязкого смога, белёсое солнце едва просачивалось сквозь эту завесу. Пятничным вечером мы возвращались домой. На каждой остановке в автобус втискивалось всё больше пассажиров — утомленных, угрюмых, с лицами цвета дыма. Следующие два часа жизни мы провели вместе, соприкасаясь спинами и плечами, — невольные близкие соседи. Котлован стоял в нескончаемых пробках, а белоснежные хребты окружали его в безмолвном равнодушии. Мы выпали в беззвездную черную ночь на окраине Алматы и побрели по глубоким лужам в сторону единственного освещенного участка.

Twelve Kilometers on Foot, Twelve Kilometers by Thumb: What Will Make Our Day? For mid-July in Portugal, it was an unusual day. Instead of sunshine, dense clouds blanketed the sky. On the bus, we noticed tiny raindrops on the windows, which is almost unheard of during the Iberian summer. When we arrived at the trailhead in Azóia, the ground was still dry, untouched by the drizzle. We set off toward the cliffs along a narrow trail squeezed between thorny shrubs.The descent was steep, and the loose stones wobbled beneath our feet. Hiking poles came in handy as we made our way down the slope. Though the clouds dimmed the view, we could still appreciate the vast expanse of the ocean and the quiet strength of the cliffs. Waves crashed against the rocks, and seabirds soared through the salty air. We paused at Arco da Pombeira, a natural arch sculpted by the sea, to take in its rugged form and wild beauty. The weather continued to surprise us as we followed the winding, rocky path through...

Exploring the markets of Cabo Verde was a delightful part of our culinary adventure. Since we mostly cooked for ourselves and rarely ate out, we had the opportunity to sample a variety of local ingredients. In Mindelo , we enjoyed locally caught fish and seasonal vegetables from bustling market stalls almost every day. On Santo Antão , where fish was scarce, we sometimes had to settle for frozen chicken from a neighborhood minimarket. Nevertheless, the abundance of fresh produce kept our meals healthy and flavorful. The markets in Mindelo and Ribeira Grande offered an abundance of fruits and vegetables. Ripe papayas quickly became our favorite treat—the perfect dessert to enjoy with nearly every meal. Below, you’ll find a selection of food prices we encountered during our stay across three islands. All prices are per kilo in escudos, and the official exchange rate was 1 euro to 110 escudos. Mindelo: Parrotfish (bidião) 400 Garoupa de Madeira 500 Sweet potatoes, yam 220 Young pot...

Chronicles of 49 hours and 50 minutes of spontaneity, apagão -lypse and quick decisions April 27th: 20:29 A guy named Raphael sends us an emergency request through a hospitality exchange platform. He missed the last bus, was stranded in our town and was looking for a kind soul to host him for a night. We checked his profile page and it was alarmingly empty. 20:30-20:47 We try to overcome a wave of suspicion and doubt, remembering all the horror stories about inviting complete strangers into your home (just like Swedes and Norwegians before they decide to pick up a hitchhiker). 20:48 We send him a WhatsApp message to ask for his whereabouts. 21:26 Raphael answers and we talk on the phone. He doesn't sound like a serial killer or even like someone who wants to steal our TV. 21:33 We send him our location. 21:56 We open the door to a smiling guy with long hair and a medium sized backpack. He's so laid back, chilled and relaxed that we immediately feel ashamed of ou...

Since we moved closer to the Atlantic two years ago, leaving the creeks and ribeiras of Serra de Estrela behind, I've missed the sound of bustling and plunging water. The ocean has its charms. It has a rhythm but lacks a flow. I’ve hiked to many large and small waterfalls during my travels, but I've never had the chance to stand under one. For a long time, I’ve dreamed of feeling the primal force of the current on my skin. So, when I found out about a hike along a cascading river just outside Lisbon—especially after the heavy April rains that filled all the waterways—I couldn't pass up the opportunity. To reach the trailhead , we took a bus from Lisbon to Loures, and then another bus to Bucelas. From the station, we followed a tarmac road that quickly turned into a dirt path leading to Ribeira do Boição . The trail eventually took us down to a swirling stream that we crossed via an improvised bridge made of a long wooden log. On the other side, a full waterfall awaite...

Cabo Verde may not be the first place that comes to mind when you think of hitchhiking, but during our month exploring the archipelago, we managed to thumb about 100 kilometers across three islands: Sal, São Vicente and Santo Antão. Almost every driver who stopped to pick us up was a local, with the exception of one Ukrainian couple and one Italian family. Remarkably, we only once had to wait more than half an hour; most of the rides came within ten minutes or less. The majority of our hitchhiking adventures took place over two weeks on the mountainous island of Santo Antão. Here's a snapshot of some of the most memorable rides we experienced. On Sal, we hitchhiked to Salinas and back , navigating the stark, arid landscape where fierce winds kicked up sand into the hot air, making the journey feel raw and elemental. The unforgettable ride to the Amílcar Cabral airport stands out as one of the best hitchhiking experiences I’ve ever had—short but epic. On São Vicen...