Moscow

It was August on a Thursday evening when I got a phone call from my boss telling me that I will be shipped off to Russia in no less than 2 weeks. I did not know what to expect then, but it certainly was not a 2 hour wait to pass through immigration while being pushed and pulled over by intimidating men that towered over me. After finally emerging from the whole conundrum, walking out into a messy construction view and heat, oh the tropical-country-like-heat, sent waves of confusion all over my body. Don't even get me started on Uber... if this was what it will be like, it will be a long 3 months ahead of me.

They say nothing worthwhile comes easy. And I suppose the same applies here. After the initial bumpy entry into the country, and  a 45-minute drive passing by sandy-coloured communist-styled blocked buildings, coming into Moscow would soon make me eat all my initial haste. It will soon slowly but very surely change me fundamentally in a way I cannot put down in words. You see, Moscow is unlike any other city I have ever set foot on. Its beauty is so imminent and present at every sight. Perhaps the most visible characteristic here is that every thing is so large. Many other famous landmarks frequently disappoint travelers for appearing larger in pictures and on the internet, but not here. Everything, is bigger.

In Moscow, you can almost feel its rich history, from the old days of wooden churches that though sparse, can be seen if you paid attention, to the tsarist era evident in the imposing physical structures complete with intricate detailing and craftsmanship - a testament to the culture and artistic pursuit, all to little reminders of communist styled signs and statues around. Each step takes you further into a world of wonder, where you can simultaneously take too many photos and none at all in an attempt to capture in your memory the beauty that lay in front of you. To no avail, because the true beauty lies not in what you see but what you feel inside.

After all, this is a city that has seen richness, poverty, pain and suffering, and has survived all of that through its grit and strength, all the while with grace and heads held high, looking immaculate at every step of the way. And perhaps, it is this strength in their selves that both characterise the people and its city. Cold and hard at first glance, but stay a while longer and persist through the chill and you will find a misunderstood warmth that lay beneath.

You can most certainly keep yourself entertain just walking and keeping your eyes forwards. This city is stimulating to the artistic and creative mind, with statues and decorations in parks, metros elaborately designed and lovingly labelled the "People's Palace", art galleries and museums... Of course, concerts in one of their many musical venues, plays and musicals, and the infamous Bolshoi. It is always a case of too much and not enough all at once.

All these display Moscow's persistence in perfection that has existed long before modern day, structures that have stood the test of time, and art that remains at its pinnacle for hundreds of years. Discipline and rigorous, the relentless pursuit of beauty and precision. But once night falls an altogether different Moscow appears. Music streaming out of underground clubs and jazz bars, craft beer bars serving sweet cherry beer, and maybe the most inclusive clubbers in all the world (or at least wherever I have been) so ready to share with you their culture, which fortunately involves vodka and Russian rock music, and bobbing your head till it's definitely time to go home. It is at this time when the city comes out of its shell and come alive. It is then I realise how this perfectly captures the juxtaposition of Moscow. A cold hard exterior with a wash of warmth after peeling away the layers and gaining the trust of the Russians, a youthful energy that underlies the city despite it's old European outlook.

If the opportunity ever arises in your life to visit this city, grab it with both hands. If it doesn't make it come true yourself. You won't regret it.

France...

When "France" is mentioned, the imagery conjured are of fashion, food, wine... all the good things in life. Yet when for 3 years I lived in a neighbouring country seemingly at the most opportune time of my life to visit, I never did. Why? I can't say exactly. But I suspect it was because I didn't want to be disappointed. Back in those days as a student, everyone traveled back and forth along to the rhythm of our terms and breaks. And those who came back from the France, almost never had good things to say.

"Paris" they would say "is so dirty. It smells. Pickpockets are everywhere. The French are so snobbish."

Words like these pushed it out of the list of countries I did want to visit. However, once I left the continent and the carefree student life behind, I realised life is not so easy. Earning my own money is hard and spending it even harder. How would I ever pay for a ticket to go back to Europe when there are a million other things I need or want? Maybe, just maybe I should have crowd out those negative words, tuck up my pants and went to take a look when I had my chance.

Fast forward 2 years into working life, I find myself working in a European city for 3 months - a golden ticket as an in road back into this age old continent. When a 1 week break approached, I grabbed my chance tightly with both hands and flew into the country that sat at the back of my mind for all the days of those 2 years.

It was at the end of October and the beginning of November that I spent 7 wonderful days. I kept my expectations low and reminding myself of all the bad that could happen. But, I was blown away. I was blessed with 7 good days of sunshine, blue skies and perfect weather - the kind that makes you want to walk around for hours just looking up at the beautiful architecture and admiring the beautiful blues that painted the ceiling of our earth. Paris and it's blase yet dynamic energy coupled with rich history evident in its buildings, its food, its culture... presents and intoxicating city you feel like you never want to leave. And as I watch the Eiffel Tower light up and sparkle against the stark nice sky, green tea eclair and sweet plum wine in hand, I get it why they call this city "the City of Lights". In my head, I can only think that this is exactly how life should be at this moment in time. In this intrinsically romantic place, it is buzzing with life and a million things to see, to do, to eat. I left with a heavy feet into the train, hours after a trip to at Forum Des Halles and a bomb swatch team member yelled out "Lady, put the shoe down and evacuate this building". It was just precaution and no harm incurred, just an exciting memory of sorts for me to keep in my mind.

As the train departed the city, I wondered how another city can match the dynamism present in all of Paris? I accepted that the peak of my trip had been reached and it will slowly subdue proportionately with the distance the train trailed away from Paris. But then we pulled into the medieval town of Bordeaux, a charming city built on cobblestone roads and dark stones. Narrow streets and old windows, out of the richness of wine and trade. I imagined life here in the days gone past and once again the butterflies in my stomach awoke. Bordeaux is sweet and heady just like it's wine. It comes alive when the sun goes down, a quiet warm sort of fire that burns on good food, good company, and good wine. The chateaus outside the city that produces the finest wines in all the world attracts people to come to this city to live life, to stroll home after a lengthy un-rushed, delicious meal over heart-to-heart conversations. All the things I love.

I hate to say I love it - I feel like I throw this word around too loosely. "I love Moscow. I love Durham. I love Florence, and Italy, especially the coastal towns of the Cinque Terre..." what don't I love? But I do. And maybe it was the weather, maybe I was lucky, but I felt so much warmth emanate from the French. Like the rose coloured wine I had in Bordeaux, or the French girl at the shoe shop, the way goats cheese melted against the crunch of toasted bread... I love France.

As I leave the aerial territory of France, I think back to those times I thought I should have visited as a student. But turns out this was better. I don't walk around with the carefree attitude of a student anymore, instead, I carry a work phone which buzzes me into anxiety with every text that I get. I don't, and can't, run too far away from my responsibilities nowadays. But I am also independent, confident, and I have also earned my right and payed my time to be here and not by virtue of someone else's hard work (i.e. my dad). The fact that it is so much farther out of reach, also makes me cherish each breath I take on French soil even more. 

In much the same way Italy seduces me, France seems to harbour the same amount of love to life. Like two sisters with the same blood but opposite personalities, Italy the chaotic unorganised-organised mess; France, the calmer more sophisticated character - all I know is this is a country I want to come back to. Hopefully with all my loved ones to share in its valour and its beauty.

Salzburg

Hello from a deep, long, overdrawn hiatus. I have finally came around to digging out pictures from a time I still dwelled knee deep in delusion. 

It is wildly important to me to have the right travel buddy, or even none at all. I am the kind that is ok with not having plans, wandering around through hidden corridors, observing and being enchanted by the most mundane details of a new city. The way stones are laid down beneath my feet, the pattern of windows that form after walking five blocks into the city, the tracks of the city trams crossing the town - these are enough to satisfy me. 

Perhaps it was because the itinerary did not sit well in the bottom my stomach, perhaps it was the fact that the trip was closing in half way, perhaps I was getting a tad irritated with life and people in general, I was mostly in grumpy mode. 

Still, in those moments I managed to steal away a breath of silence, Salzburg was stunning. The mountains paints a magnificent backdrop to the city that bustles away beneath it, as usual the churches a feats of wonder that kept my head tilted towards the top, hoping to avoid any unwanted collisions. The most fascinating thing is still the wonder that most of these were created centuries ago. I am constantly in imaginary land, seeing people from a time long gone running through the green gardens, coming home from salt mines, eating beautiful dumplings and schnitzel for dinner. I would give anything to travel through the ages and observe how life played out for them.

An ode to The Sound of Music, it is mostly here that the film took place. The flowers that littered the gardens were an amazing colour of summer, while the sun continued to sear my skin into a dark tan. And to anyone who would care to google, you'd know that it is here that the almighty Mozart first came to graze the world. Yet I was too jaded to venture further into that story, a musical past that still scars and haunts me till now. So all I did was to pay my dues by walking pass his birth house, glancing up and acknowledging all the pains my fingers went through to play what must have been a simple Sonata to him.