Koseški bajer, Ljubljana.

You are that broken body in twilight, smelling of fire since it has never been tamed.

– Dimitris Angelis

Everybody tells you that you will never come back the same, nobody tells you how easy it is to fall back into the same old traps and patterns. Continue reading “”

This isn’t goodbye.

So, it’s done. I left Paris. After four and a half years of hell and wonderfulness combined (hint to the postcard below) and two weeks of intense stress. A few days ago I moved back home, sort of, at least for this year. I say sort of because I still don’t feel that way in my own head, although everyone around me seem to be certain of it. And I moved for the funniest of reasons if you know me, me who never in her life made a decent career decision. For a job. (Yeah I know not funny, probably another purely internal thing.) Maybe, that is why it’s one of the hardest heartbreaks, too, the hardest decision I ever took because it’s the first with actual consequences I have to bear. Some sort of sacrifice I had to rationally convince myself into. It hurt so fucking much I really doubt I made the right choice and miss my old what-is-a-career-anyway me. I need to remind myself of why I took this job and why all the old ones were (partly) wrong, often transforming me into a brain-dead zombie. I don’t really care about all that now, though. I can only miss. Till now, I didn’t know grieving over a place is just as hard as over people. You’d say, like everyone around me, ”But Paris is still there, a two-hour flight away, you can go whenever you want!”. But I think that what I’m grieving is far more complex and not repairable with just a vacation. It’s the life I built, the relationship to a home I finally found and then tore myself from. I know it wasn’t perfect and that I’ve been preparing for this for a while, yet it still doesn’t make it easy. I’ll live, I’ll give this a try, because maybe I have to give myself a real try, and then maybe France will have me back soon. Now, just give me some time to digest everything.

Leaving Paris is never easy. Sadness shows you it meant something, that every bit of it was worth it.

”une femme moderne, quoi”

ramblings on whatever really

During a job interview some time last year, discussing my hobbies and interests, the lady across the table defined me as a ”modern woman” or in her own words une femme moderne, quoi … In the moment, I wasn’t sure if one part of me should be flattered by the implications or rather offended to be so easily put into a cliché, ticking off the box I belong to. Later, I couldn’t stop laughing about the notion, though. I mean, what does it really mean, to be a ”modern woman”? In my opinion, it’s not my cultural, literary, travel, or whichever interests that define it, I mean where would that make any sense? Continue reading “”une femme moderne, quoi””

Piece by piece

What is it about that bubble we create when we get to another place? The combination of the distance from the familiar and the newness of circumstances, conditions that make grow different aspects of ourselves. Some we knew existed silently, some we ignored. During every trip, longer than a single weekend, something in me moves towards a certain direction, builds up another foundation in me, brick by brick, an understanding enriches its effects. Yet, I find it hard to pinpoint what exactly that means. Continue reading “Piece by piece”

How I see myself after 3 years in Paris

Three years in the middle of your twenties mean a whole lot of growing up, in a bitter-sweet mix of disenchantment and empowerment. When you spend them away from home, the mixture gains new dimensions, wide and deep. There is no reality check that makes you face yourself in a more radical way, than that of cutting off the familiar. Feeling like those little birds you watched on animal shows, or young wild cats, deciding it’s time to leave the nest and take the maturity test, make your own initiation into whatever life you chose, hunt down the necessities with the four limbs and one head you were born with, making out little by little what your gut feeling is like. Perhaps, trading surviving and living more often than you expected, only now realizing how stubborn you are. Stubborn, stupid, who knows. Continue reading “How I see myself after 3 years in Paris”

Only Drops

”I don’t know the code, never learnt the basics…” the song kept repeating, letting me sink deeper every second into its groove, into the truth of the words, echoing endlessly now. No escaping the hard, harsh longing they thrust in my face, rubbing in the acid-like texture into my heavy chest. Longing for the answers, longing for simplicity, longing for a flowing life, life getting its way across the landscape like a river, embracing the rocks like a sea, freely letting go like a waterfall, enveloping being like an ocean. No, there’s violence in there I’m ignoring, storms and clashes and carvings. Maybe, I am like water already, rushing into the land, again and again, hitting it straight on, for years, just without the patience of the millenia. I want to see that cave, that refuge, now, breathe in its humid refreshing soothing air, lay down in its calm fortress, at ease, half-, not really sleeping, -resting, half-enjoying its timid vivacity, catching splashes and drops, hearing out for a rhythm of waves, my melodic guarding brothers now. Yet, they’re not. I’m still drowning, beating my head into the cliffs of knowledge and beauty and truth, floating, dancing numbly in their twisted arms, broken in half.


Sometimes, we spin around a patch of sand for months, years really,

walking carefree around its edges,

round and round,

touching tickling blades of grass, we forget,


step among the nearby trees, luscious, drying,

and come back,

completely oblivious of its languid existence,

its lively nature,

carelessly step into it, still enjoying the intensive sun,

because there is no shadow,

and don’t even notice we’re in its mercy,

don’t think about how one step reversed the positions of power,

it slowly swallowing us,

while we still believe to be in control,

and it’s too late, too late,

we’re in its trap.

We only realize it when the sand is in our eyes,

and the next second, we are gone.

The loving awareness

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about love, and what it means in our lives.

Not as romantic partnership, but as that perspective which encompasses everything we see, how we see it, how we interact with it. The attitude, the mood, the approach to life. What got me there, of course, is all the negativity, something that has been building in me for years really, noticing how we are pre-conditioned into negative thinking, how much of it surrounds us. Yet, all along I’ve felt we have a choice, that it doesn’t need to be that way.

Yes, the bad things are a part of it all, but do we really need to make them stronger, predominant, make our response automatically grounded in them? Continue reading “The loving awareness”

I’m curious…

Maybe, change is always at least a bit enriching.

Because, if you’re always saying yes to the same thing, you’re constantly refusing something else, stifling yourself into a tiny place of the familiar and even automatic. Why seeing giving up on something as a sacrifice, then, as missing on something? Since every time we choose, we’re not only saying no to this, but more importantly saying yes to the other. We could be joyfully experimenting and opening up for new things and tastes and experiences and places and sounds and selves. Putting something we’re used to at the side for a while and see what it’s on the other side, learn about another aspect of this world we think we know so well. Making choices with a different attitude, a different approach, with a bit of curiosity. Continue reading “I’m curious…”

How I see Paris after 3 years

When three years pass in the same place, same room, with harshly the same people, we can easily imagine things stay the same, that nothing has essentially changed. Yet, when I was sitting across a girl on the train heading to the center from the airport, with a huge suitcase, a filled backpack, a beret, and a book about the dream city in her hands, while I was returning from celebrating Christmas with my family back to my new home for the third time, I could see that something has indeed changed, slowly maybe, imperceptibly, yet persistently.

There is a certain profundity that links you to the city, while dreams are transforming into a reality, while you’re less and less a stranger and a visitor, a simple spectator, and more and more connected into this web of its core lives. Continue reading “How I see Paris after 3 years”

Two sides to every human

In a way, I could easily imagine lying in bed all day, eat my breakfast and lunch still in there, not cleaning my own room, and let people visit me while I stay comfy in my pyjamas. Yet, I would just as easily line up for getting up early for a trip pretty much anywhere, reading books and good journalism all day, going to various happenings after, following the expressions of our current culture and joke around with people at dinner parties.

That’s why finishing Goncharov’s novel Oblomov, where the main character literally spends the first part of the story in his bed and his adventurous best friend is his complete opposite, was somehow revelatory. They are the two sides of every human being, two expressions of our will or a lack of it, two moods that reign our thoughts and actions, the two possibilities we’re juggling with all our lives. Continue reading “Two sides to every human”


I should be having the time of my life, right, living the dream ever since I moved to my favourite city. Why am I feeling a growing anguish, an actual anxiety for the past three, and especially last two years? How to say you’re unhappy when you have accomplished what you wished for?

The truth is, I feel trapped. Trapped in this place, trapped in my work, trapped in a certain relationship. I often cry out of loneliness or confusion about life. I feel stranded between two countries, a part of my heart left behind with all the people I love, the other here in the city which I chose as my true home. Continue reading “#hopefullyhealingrant”


I want to talk about female rage




not theoretically no

not feminist rage


female rage in relationships

that rage that comes out of degrading




or trying to

making images

of unreal reality


to an unreal world

putting words in my mouth

not listening to a no

no no no no no

I said no

that rage

when she’s aware of it

she can burn you all

Open up

Reflections after my journey through Québec, june 2017, part II

That thing about travel, changing countries and distancing yourself from your own hometown, the change of perspective it entails. More clearly seeing a certain structure, or in this case, a subtle shifting of a mood back home, a shift you had noticed before, but now seems so much more apparent and comprehensible. Continue reading “Open up”


Maybe I could never understand the way you love

how your heart enclosed after her deceit left only a margin of care

how some of your walls fell just to make the remaining stronger

yet my heart expands with every bludgeoning wound

like my pleasure that never reaches the peak but spreads out

circle after circle wave after wave of water rushing widening

hoping not to reach the shore but does with your sudden spike and shiver

splashes inward on the land wanting more never appeased

Maybe you could never understand the way I love

my love is desire and my lust is warmth

my affection is hesitancy and my trust is tension

my arms clutch and clasp while my feet skitter and bolt

Maybe we could never understand the way we loved

that attack of the inner forces every time our skins brushed by

that underground of our grim past and the lack of what’s to come

that absence of deep roots where we could fix our yearning infatuation

those multiple lives we’ve lived parallelly never knowing how to truly share

those moments of comfort and solace when like children we forgot not to believe

those unuttured latent words every time we were about to leave it all behind and weep

Maybe that is why we never knew how to grieve and ditch us


I stumbled through the streets where urine and flowers melt in odour quite like ourselves

the eyeliner smirring into eyeshadow the asphalt losing its groundness

that bittersweet sound your lips made last night so lovely so angry

telling promises exist in another world another life another love

but ours is the empty present which will be hers tomorrow and was hers yesterday too

her towel still resting on the handle next to mine the proof of your carefulness still in the bin

mine is your touch on my elbow tonight and your hug annoyed by my cries by my stomach that twitches

I mumbled the wishes the desires the tender affections I mumbled all of my deepest imperfections

I whispered I love you next night in the park that I loved you you know right before you part

your immediate hug longed for the kiss but I surpassed the mist of your partial honesty

I can be first I can be second I can even be third yet being an equal to an opponenent is too blurred

so I’m tearing myself from this anxious instant ripping it apart for an unsure tomorrow

for those streets you find smelly for those flowers you ignore …

for that fragrance of the city that takes away yours

the scent of your laundry expelled from my bed

the scent of your shampoo still in my hair

The mirrored feelings

Reflections after my journey through Québec, june 2017, part I

I could start with so many things, still there was one going back and forth in my mind all along the walks and the bus rides, following me through the streets and the hike trails. Some places open up your heart or soul, other just your mind.

Maybe, that is why I didn’t feel attached to Québec in any way, knowing I’d appreciate my return to Paris after the third week, despite the beauty and the experience. I was an observer only, and not much more than that. A listener, perhaps, a reader, a questioner. Continue reading “The mirrored feelings”

A train ride

Wanderlust sometimes shows in less grand moments than we usually expect, yet it’s exactly there that it perhaps has that special feeling of being completely integrated into your soul. No denying it. Your eyes of wonder and zest.

A month ago, I took a train to cross my own home country and there was something extraordinary about it, because I hadn’t done it for so long, having moved out and all. My own restlessness was somehow eased and pleased. The journey had an aura, a glow, only enhanced by the observation that the train I boarded had a metal plaque hang at the beginning of the coupé ”made in 1971”. I had to smile and internally laugh, though by the looks of the train I wasn’t at all surprised by the information. Then, I found it funny how things had changed, the little warning, saying ”Don’t lean out of the window”, written in four different languages, still no English (Slovenian, German, French and Italian instead). The best of it all, of course, were the views, those views I’m sure my co-patriots ignore daily, not me though. All the green, booming into the first spring showings, and the river, fiercely cutting into the valley.

It was the simplest of journeys, and among the most memorable ones. It made me realize it is wanderlust who opens up your eyes even for the most common sceneries.

For WPC.

Where’s the real fight?

I was recently asked to write an article about the atmosphere in France during the elections and it struck me how the crux of it all seemed to be in a weird dilemma between absenteeism and voting against. To vote or not to vote, to act and therefore go against oneself or simply resign and exclude oneself as an active part of the society. Where can a personal answer stand in such an ultimatum?

Nothing new under my sun, it struck me so strongly precisely because it’s been a personal dilemma since my early 20s (or even adolescence…). I became an idealist too soon, as I once reflected by myself, the values I chose to stand for integrated into my very core so fast, I soon enough realized there is only one place where they don’t stand on shaky grounds. Somewhere, deep and high, out of sight, yet always scrapping on the limits of the mind. Continue reading “Where’s the real fight?”

How I screwed up my life trying to be myself

… the one thing nobody can take away from you is the freedom to fuck up your life whatever way you want to. – Jonathan Franzen

Explicitly or not, we are all told at many points of our lives from its very beginning ”Just be yourself and find something to do that makes you happy and …” so on and on. But what if you realize that in order to follow this somewhat tricky-ly wise advice you have to reject so many other things you supposedly should do and let go of the things which, as you are told, also matter.

Personally, I wasn’t raised only by my parents, besides the society’s opaque gibberish I’ve had my own fathers and mothers that have shaped who I am today and whose influence I’ve always consciously acknowledged. Hermann Hesse, Virginia Woolf, the beatniks, just to name a few. And after reading them I couldn’t ignore the little quite voice inside of me saying ”You are not what you are told you are”. But who am I then? Continue reading “How I screwed up my life trying to be myself”


Isn’t it funny how we measure our success as travelers in numbers sometimes?

How many countries on how many continents, how many towns and cities, how many mountain tops or lakes or islands, how many checks on our bucket list… How many encounters made and connections preserved, how many weeks on the road as a whole or months in a row away from home…

In truth, if it is about any kind of quantity, isn’t it about how much and not how many?

How much we opened our hearts and eyes to the world, how much we expanded our minds and how much less prejudiced our thinking got. How much we started living, how much we have learnt and changed. How much we have overcome.

Until, finally, we realize everything that is left to measure are the countless moments of sincere smiling and pure joy with all the opposite ones that make it all worth while. Moments we treasure not as parts of a list, but each standing alone, embraced as a whole and cherished as a unique portrait of the best in life.

At least, that is what I aim for.

The Dark

And if I unravel spread my wings like petals of a tangled rose

you may say I’m acting heading for a catastrophe

you may find me mad like a wild horse and even more morose

And if I untangle the galaxies in me all the star constellations begging to be free

if I find home right in here in the darkest night will you call for me

or let me be quite alright

will you see the moon heading for an eclipse the Milky Way shrinking in its remorse

will you allow me to be right where this place has always been meant for me

in the shadows and the dusk in the clearness of the desert’s midnight

under the ground of the thousand jungles in the light-less room without a window

because it is here I finally feel it all the limits of my breathing

all the possibilities that hit the mighty wall of this life’s being

where death and guilt disenchantment and despair meet coincidence and antinomy

where shining bright means being pitch-black grimy

Follow don’t follow

I don’t want to follow you blindly

follow my path with eyes wide shut

as if it was only a binding spell to guide me

I’m tearing open the shutters

just because I can

just because they are all around me

preying on my queue

I want them to advise me

but not block my view

I take the blame of falling of constantly withdrawing

of steps that trip and shiver hesitate and run

that dance into the darkness

as if it was their home

I take the risk of never knowing never living in the true

world of peaceful love and content peekaboos


Let’s talk honestly about… Loneliness

Loneliness never felt to me like something experienced at certain moments of aloneness or crowdedness, no matter, it is fundamentally something much more profound, basic and even inescapable. It is an integral part of human nature, a sensation enveloping our whole life experience, like a spider web spreading out of our hearts through our whole soul. Maybe that is why it is so hard to accept it, yet that is also why it is so rich and necessary.

We may look at it as a cloud, fogging our emotions and blocking our views, still I feel it clarifies and cleanses our senses often enough. Continue reading “Let’s talk honestly about… Loneliness”

The simplest wish

Sometimes, I feel spring wakes up our soul with its desires and dreams, gets us going joyfully again in that relaxed atmosphere of insouciance. It’s the sun, yes. Then, it’s the flowers too. The simplest ones shyfully popping out of the ground, white, yellow, purple. Reminding us life can be simple as well, perhaps. Taking a walk in a local little forest with my grandma I only have one wish. For more of these moments, chatting and laughing, sharing the enjoyment of beauty with the people closest to me.

For WPC.

Fear of dying

I had a dream a few weeks ago that I was dying. My mom leaning over me, saying I had a strange, but fatal disease. Not much time left and all. I woke up in the morning with a hypochondriac and not quite placable feeling that something actually is wrong with my body. Later in the day, a friend asked me what I would have thought about my life if it had been true. For a minute, I forgot the paralyzing impression the dream left on me and let it produce some kind of reality check.

In the middle of another bad period of the year I took a look at my life and surprising even myself a bit replied ”You know what, I lived. I haven’t done everything I desired or should, but I don’t have real regrets, because I tried and did my best.” Continue reading “Fear of dying”

When you don’t remember to relax, take it easy.

The cut between the summer holidays and working autumn that has now transformed into a chilling winter seems more brutal than the one during school years when the classes and the tests began. Or is it just a lack of relying memory? Now, the time when I relax is the time when I rest, catch a moment to breathe, lie down and watch a movie. It’s getting harder to read with this rebellious short concentration, to write is a miracle rarely fully realized.

In summer, though, I actually took a whole day to get away and walk the anxiety out, meditate at a distant grassy spot, I could take my shoes off and splash the sea water around me, I was reading a complicated essay collection that got my brain cells going.

I’m glad I took a photo of those moments. They just reminded me to make a plan and escape the unbearable hardness of the morning commute I somehow became a part of. Work itself is not the problem, its omnipresence and overwhelming-ness is. Its insistance on consuming all of your energy and efforts, so that your personality and joyful passions are slowly vanishing into nothing. Wake yourself.

Etretat, Normandy, France.


For WPC.

I choose love.

I could comment on the unbelievable-ness and the awfulness of the week and then correct myself by saying ”no, the year actually” and then correct that again, with two years and then a decade. Yet, with the news that shocked, but not really surprised the world a couple of days ago, something else crystallized in me. I’m done, I’m over responding with hatred and anger and scorn and fear and cynicism, I’m just done. I choose love, even when that means silence, even when that doesn’t necessarily mean hope. Continue reading “I choose love.”


I’m far more on the non-aggressive side, I’d maybe even call myself a pacifist. Yet, I have those moments when I get knocked down by an invisible force or a very present person, bludgeoned on the inside. And that hole that is left in my chest screams for that same weapon to be used on whoever, even myself, again and again if necessary, just because I need some specific action, right? An answer. Well, as an introvert I usually ignore that urge and respond differently, with isolation, more or less complete one.

The violence that could be produced is left with one single target then, the target I eventually get some compassion for. After all, I know her so well. Continue reading “Bludgeoned”


Markets, city markets, where everything that can be offered gathers: food, music, people with their voices, products, bargains, styles, street fashion in the glamour of wear, stalls as an ornament to the brick streets and enclosed squares, food, food. People with no fear, no shame, no affiliation, no subculture, each individuality on full display, blending in this mass where no one is threatened by no one. Bourgeois bohemians at every step, each hippie in its own way; wearing disco-gold from neck to legs, afro haircut as a crown; elegant gown to the ground; come up with a hair-colour and you have it; your ordinariness is always too noticeable. They carry me, without touching, tow me with them, to them, invite, attract me with their glances, moves, calls, singing… in an instant they grab me, flavours, smells, colours, bland kitsch. Here, while walking, I’m kissing the whole city so passionately that our mouths hardly touch, the movement of our tongues so insane that they fail to intertwine, hold, let go, come, get lost, the sound almost prevails over touch, a play of closeness and distancing, a play of attracting and directness. That’s why I rather never stop, I listen to the indistinguishable conversations, sentences planted into a foreign context, words repeated after a few meters: cheap, cheap… I turn when they try to sell me their CDs: it’s hip hop, reggae music, you know… only taste, grab something here, something else there, don’t allow to appropriate a thing. An odour of grilled meat, of fresh cheese, grilled vegetable, fresh fruit, the taste of sweet at every step. Folk music in adorable acoustics, concerts following the principle of ‘’give what you give’’, buy, support, clap, whistle, walk on. Retro knitwear, warm coats, chequered shirts, coloured dresses, light sleeveless t-shirts, wool for the shoes. Jewellery, silver, gold, iron, plastic. Life that expires in the moment one turns away into a hidden alley around the corner.

Original (= Slovenian) text here.

For Discover Challenge: Flaneur.

It’s been 2 years, Paris. I’m still here.

I actually forgot the exact date of my official move to Paris (yeah I know, how utterly unacceptable and disappointing for such an important event of my life), but I do know it was in late October, sometime after the 20th and a bit before my birthday. So, that means I’ll be celebrating two years of my life in Paris any day now. What a story to tell. To mix things up a bit, I decided to join the challenge and tell it almost wordlessly… And for the actual word-ful story, I’ll have to write a book someday.

From a tourist to a full-time Parisian? Peut-être. Never lost the wonder, though. Continue reading “It’s been 2 years, Paris. I’m still here.”

Isn’t honesty the most graceful thing you can be?

They say suffering can wake us up, sometimes. It makes us face the inside of our self we’d rather avoid, it makes us realize once and for all (but not really…) who we are and what we feel, more profoundly than we could ever get to know it in the good times. Some still turn away and ignore it. Then, there are those who not just not deny it, they embrace it, they own it, they carry it as the vital part of themselves that it has become. Not in some empty pathetic sentimentality… If suffering is graceful at times, it’s because its expression comes from that brutal truth of life, that simple honesty. Continue reading “Isn’t honesty the most graceful thing you can be?”

The richness of personal perspective in travel

Sometimes, we can’t explain why a thing appeals to us, means so much or seems to be so close to what we are internally, even if it is just for a precise moment of being that passes soon. I find the same pattern to be true when I travel. There are parts of a country or a city which are objectively true and lovely, but our perception still definitively defines them. Who you are during your stay to some extent influences how you see, and vice versa. It may sound egocentric to think about a place this way, yet there is a side where, because of feeling unlimitedly everything in us as it is here and now, we allow the place to touch us in ways it otherwise couldn’t and reveal layers of its own being we’d otherwise ignore. Continue reading “The richness of personal perspective in travel”

The list of things I had thought I’d never do – but did

Because it might be just as inspiring to look back to your used-to-be wish list than it is to always just keep adding stuff on it. Maybe. At least we see how sometimes life is only the choices we make and the stubbornness of our will, and other times it surprises us by itself. I’m personally trying to feel its openness and less and less of the contrary. It feels more natural to think of it as a flow than to see it as our prison… (Not that I’m denying existence to certain limitations.) Because things may seem distant in the future and possible at the same time.

  1. Living in Paris. The youthful dreams that we dare to keep alive… and then one day we say ”Ok, I’ll wait no longer!” and move. Just like that. And once you do it, you have to keep going.
  2. Speaking French fluently. Almost. Hey – I can communicate!
  3. Seeing Alex Turner live. With The Last Shadow Puppets, not Arctic Monkeys, but I’m an equal fan of both and Miles Kane is just as well hot as hell, so… yes I saw my teenage crush live and was pretty close to the stage, too. Who cares about growing up, khm khm?!
  4. Attending real music festivals. With friends, alone. Austrian, Slovenian, French. Can’t believe I used to be awkward about going to a single concert by myself and now my ideal idea of having a good time is a solo enjoyment of a 3-day music festival. Glastonbury is still waiting for me, though.
  5. Traveling alone. Yes, it used to be unbelievable, too. I think I used to call (female) solo-travelers brave actually. Funny that I now roll my eyes when others describe them that way.
  6. Backpacking to South America solo. Yes, I did it for only three weeks which is a minimum of a minimum, I did it in the most comfortable country maybe, but I was there. It started. It didn’t take too much nerves neither.
  7. Reading Virginia Woolf in the original, English version with all the difficulties of the subtleties of language, but – I was right – all the more charm of her flow than the translations. Not that they are bad. I mean, they try and mean well.
  8. Falling madly in love. Like you know, flying high, you know what I mean… Intense. All consuming. And inevitably short. The impossible attraction and a certain kind of surprising connection.
  9. Writing as in finishing a novel. The count for now is two. If they ever get published or not, if they are any good or not, I persisted and poured my heart into it. Got the guts to (successfully) submit my short stories, too. Writing and getting my writing out is feeding my soul.
  10. Being a waitress. Yes. It wasn’t on my wish list, you can guess. However, I would never in my life believe I could do it, me, a shy, extremely introverted and quiet person who never wishes to approach others, ask, speak, receive attention. Yes, we can change, not in the core, but so that we function and are alright with the situation. We learn so much in the process and occasionally even enjoy it, because we might be lucky enough to meet awesome colleagues (and clients) there.

And I’m only, almost, 26. Still got a way to go.


you’ve just had your heart broken in Paris.

it’s a pretty nice place to have your heart broken in, don’t you think?

you think about your strolls in those cute districts

when he still held your hand in his

gently caressing it

after a movie and a dinner telling you to take him home

because it’s cold and he could use some tea

a tea became your warm torso wrapped around his

his hand on you and soon he was in you

he fullfilled your body, right? he made you feel wanted

when he grabbed you in the dark and kissed you like he’d been missing you his entire life

your stomach ached at the sound of his voice and knees shivered in his hug

his presence overpowered the rest

but let me ask you

did your soul sing because of who he was?

was your heart on fire because of his?

didn’t it bore you sometimes how he numbed your mind so often?

remember those walls you had built?!

there are still there standing strong around your heart and your mind and the very core of your soul

the only ones that fell are those in the middle of your body

good. now you know what profound pleasure is.

but seek empathy that can transcend it into more

bring you where you’ve always wanted to be

burning running dancing wildly adventuring and shouting

because you are not an angel a decoration or a puppet

you are a mighty presence you are a person beyond anyone’s desires and expectations

loved for who you are first

and if changes come they are secondary

first are the presents of these moments when life is lived and not waited for

those moments of companionship that doesn’t fail because of a few traits

you’ve just had your heart broken? did you?

a scar isn’t a massacre

it might heal or it might not

and if you bleed slowly you will not die

and if you bleed intensely you will transform with the cycle of your body

be careful though when going sad to a supermarket

pasta and alcohol and cookies and ice-cream …

rather have a solo slow dance later or evoke the rocky

no — the punky yearnings of your fierce steps and rising hands

you are allowed to be yourself


A day in the life of an expatriate?

A single moment is enough to scare the shit out of yourself. I don’t get it. Why did I break? Running down the stairs in tears, on my way to the last vacation dinner before taking off to my favourite city again. Why is saying goodbye suddenly so much harder than before? Continue reading “A day in the life of an expatriate?”

It is in the eyes.

You know what I miss so often? Someone who looks me in the eyes and sees me as I am. I’m not talking about trusting conversations or secretiveness we sometimes play. What I mean is just one look and he understood something about me everyone else had failed to notice. Does it matter then what we actually told each other? All the things we didn’t say out loud?

Even if this wasn’t my illusion and it is actually possible, are we strong enough to withstand it or do we run away from the intrusion?

Because eyes are powerful. It’s through them you realize someone’s place in your life, their soul as they say and what this soul can do to you. There’s the beauty and the terror. Continue reading “It is in the eyes.”

My personal ultimate self-care list

or The list of things that make me happy

They are too popular, I know, and mine is going to be a cliché to many as well. But hey, it’s my reminder when I’m felling down that there are things I enjoy and appreciate in life. So, why not?

  1. Read. Read. Read. Novels, short stories, poetry, essays; literature, philosophy or quality journalism. No matter, just surround your mind with meaningful words regularly.
  2. Write. You know what, right? Sit down and reach within.
  3. Plan a journey or a trip. Remind yourself of places you want to visit, or do a research for new destinations.
  4. Go on a journey or a trip. Discover and embrace the adventure on the way.
  5. Listen to ”your” music. The classic favourites or the new best songs ever, I bet the next best act of the moment is around the corner.
  6. Sing. Who cares if you can?
  7. Dance. All crazy and with your eyes closed.
  8. Go for a walk into the heart of the city. Meet your lively friends the streets.
  9. Enter the cinema for a good movie, the surprising European one or something of completely random interest.
  10. Buy a ticket for a concert, or two, or three, and one for a festival. And then be excited a month, a week, a day in advance, until the night when everything falls back into place again.
  11. Read out loud in French. Nobody’s listening to your false accent, flow with the melody.
  12. Look at the sky, into the clouds. There is always some inspiration or calm or just beauty up there.
  13. Watch a sunset (one day try a sunrise as well), the slow descend of the sun, all the shades of yellow and red, the burning lines and shadowy clearness.
  14. Observe the plants and animals. Tree in the middle of a busy square, a buzzing meadow, little bugs on leaves, spiders on walls, a dog passing by, a cat following you with its gaze from a balcony.
  15. Caress animals, touch wood and plants, smell flowers and inhale the scent of herbs.
  16. Eat fresh fruit, and dark chocolate, and sorbet ice-cream. Or pasta with your favourite absolutely green vegan pesto.
  17. Have your morning routine in peace. You’ll be grateful (and everyone else around you).
  18. Drink water. A sip there and a sip later. Refresh yourself.
  19. Buy yourself flowers.
  20. Nurture your whole body with a nourishing cream.
  21. Put on a funny brooch, colourful earings or your everyday rings.
  22. Make yourself a simple, but delicious lunch.
  23. Tidy up your room. Make some space. You live and breathe in there.
  24. Smile.
  25. Laugh out loud, really loud, ignore anyone’s annoyance.
  26. Draw and paint. Colour!
  27. Look at the present. All is here and all passes. Whatever suits the moment.
  28. Fill your notebooks. With quotes or your own ramblings. You actually do go back to those some day.
  29. Make yourself some grandma’s herbal tea. Or have a glass of wine. Depends on the mood.
  30. Allow yourself to say no… and yes.
  31. Write a diary. Again, you do go back to those memories some day. Lessons are well preserved that way.
  32. Sleep. Take your time for it.
  33. Dream. Asleep and awake.

Waw, it’s a long one.

Good, life is good.

For Discover Challenge: The Poetry of List-Making.

Luxury in present tense is simple

Maybe luxury isn’t something we strive for, but something we are already surrounded with. Talking from a privileged perspective, we already have that life full of things escaping a strong definition of absolutely necessary to stay alive and the rest, there only to give us a minor or a major pleasure. Even more, it seems luxury itself is escaping a permanent definition, and it is this which perhaps defines it most accurately.

Wouldn’t you say as well it changes with a certain perspective and the minute we pick another, items that fall into its category also change? Continue reading “Luxury in present tense is simple”

No muses here. Just people.

You’ve heard those stories, right? It’s mine as well. Most of my young life, I’ve read I could be a muse at best. What if I don’t want to stay one? What if I come to realize that position can only give me a restraining passivity and empty adoration, while I don’t desire to be a cold statue, but an alive and kicking humane person?

The muse’s story is not her own, so I refuse to wish to be one. I’ll find my own inspiration in the richness and the beauty of this planet’s surface, the sky above it and the touch of its grounds that penetrate further, of our minds and dreams and sentiments.

Now, I know and read better. I can make my own story with just as burning enthusiasm.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with being a muse, quite the opposite, to be inspiring is a privilege. Nevertheless, I believe it’s wrong to be reduced to one, to shrink one’s existence to a dependence on the other. Continue reading “No muses here. Just people.”

Don’t know exactly where you’re going

I’m not used to follow the to-do lists even if I do usually check them before departure-arrival time – just to get the sense of what to pay closer attention to. But there is one to-don’t I always comply with: don’t know exactly where you’re going.

It’s not only about the anti-adventurous spirit of precise goals and the narrowness of top-sight lists. It’s a fact: you ignore most of the city and definitely miss its point if you’re only interested in its monuments and the famous streets, statues, museums, cafés or whatever. When you’re focused on that one or a few things you absolutely have to see, then you forget about the fun and the view you might enjoy on the way there. You stay blind for all the possibilities, for the true face of the streets, for the essence of the city that is hiding right in between the main scenes. Continue reading “Don’t know exactly where you’re going”

Yes, I’m afraid, yet grateful.

I’m afraid of the world I live in. The wars, coups and attacks, the people’s comments and political agendas, the omnipresent power of money and greed. Sometimes, when I stop for a second and actually read the news I’m reading I become the child at 8 who only wondered and could never understand. No, I still don’t. I get anxious and terrified, I could cry, and do when I let myself, about all the complications we put ourselves through when life can be so simple… I learned, like everybody, to live with it, to be grateful that for now I’m here, in a so far still privileged country.

Nevertheless, the knot created in the night of the finishing hours the 13th of November last year, didn’t disappear, but is only growing with every new brutal headline I come across. I’m stupefied by the fact that some people have to live with these kind of threats daily and still manage to survive, have the will to survive. I sometimes just want to escape to a cabin in the far-away woods where the atomic bomb will at least catch me unexpectedly, in the midst of my solitary ordinary joys.

I’m afraid of the threat just as much as I am of our response to it. Continue reading “Yes, I’m afraid, yet grateful.”

Details grow with age.

Sometimes, a girl buys herself a rose after a certain celebration, hangs it upside down beside the window and leaves it there to dry for a month or two. Then, she puts it in a vase with another which she got as a gift, as a permanent reminder on her shelf, the first standing effortlessly, the second invariably reposing. In every detailed wrinkle the rose wears proudly and beautifully she can see there are lessons and experiences that never die inside of us. (For WPC.)

rose2Do you really wanna know,
About these lines on my face?
Well, each and every one is testament to
All the mistakes I’ve had to make
To find courage

– Villagers, Courage



The frailty’s shadow play

Beauty always seemed frail to me. Just as life, it is of an elusive and melancholic nature, even more: it seems to be built on a certain kind of weakness, maybe even helplessness. For me, there is always some sadness in beauty, just as much as there is no sadness without beauty. I once shared this belief with someone and he replied that was because we found beauty so much bigger than us. I felt there was more, though.

It is a paradox, yet this play of indirect contrasts shows us how profound joy and profound sorrow coexist in the world. How separating one from the other is somehow cruel and sinful, and most of all it is blind and sturdy. Continue reading “The frailty’s shadow play”

The under-appreciated moments of being on the way

I remember how I loved the journey, the act of being on the way to somewhere, as a child, always being a bit disappointed at the moment of arrival when it inevitably ended, even if I sincerely wanted to see my destination. It was the moments of observing the world around me I adored so much.

There was a certain unconscious thrill and a conscious delight in the calm back seat of the car, going to my grandmother’s or being on a trip in an unknown country, devoting all my attention to the passing scenes of the streets and the highway, fields and forests, people on their errands, sneaking a peek on their balconies or through the windows. All of life seemed available on the plate to my eyes, thoughts and feelings. It was a meditation of sorts, maybe it was even an escape. Continue reading “The under-appreciated moments of being on the way”

Will vs. Strength

The more you go through, the more you can go through.

Why we push ourselves out and go live somewhere without a proper safety net, putting ourselves in situations where things aren’t as self-evident anymore? And how can we keep up with all the challenges, surviving things one after another and still see sense in it all?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a change of phrases that could lead to the change of perspective. They say it helps to motivate yourself if you say ‘I want to do this’ instead of ‘I need/must… do this’. But what bothered me is the ‘I can’t do this, this is just not possible for me to do…’. Is there really anything, besides things limited by physics and ethics, that we genuinely cannot do?

Maybe we should start saying ‘I don’t want to do that’ and lift from ourselves the burden of incapability, defeat and fear. Continue reading “Will vs. Strength”

Autonomy in all its glory

If I had to personally define autonomy (it’s the daily prompt, yes), I would say: ”that independence from anyone and anything as the one single thing I’ve strived for my whole life”. I’ve been too stubborn about it, like a blindfolded hurt buffalo thrusting my way through every relation I had, family, friends or love, it didn’t matter. All they had to know and what I wanted to feel was the eternal I don’t need anybody, any-F*-body, ok?. You can guess it all pretty much went wrong, except my precious family and a few friends who somehow saw through my walls to the core that they, God knows why, appreciated. I was lucky.

I’ve reached my autonomy quite closely in the past year, moving to a foreign country, Continue reading “Autonomy in all its glory”

The hidden pearls

That’s the thing with travel. The best and the most memorable moments catch and refresh you unexpectedly like a shower of rain on a steamingly hot day. They smooth your mood like the soft comfort of your own bed after a long series of hard-working hours. They are pearls found in the field of grass. Admittedly, it is the all-of-a-sudden-ness and the contrast that highlights their beauty.

I remember a grey day in the middle of October, somewhere between Cappadocia and Olympos, in a town with no other obvious landmark or a must-see sight than its own melancholic feeling, sneaking around the corners of blackened houses. I remember our own fatigue and weariness after a night spent on a bus that seemed to swallow the remains of our enthusiasm. The clouds were pressuring low on our heads and the raindrops had no sympathy for our clothes.

We expected nothing more, nothing worth mentioning. We were just waiting for the weather to pass, for the time to come when we would get on the road again, in thoughts already on the pretty beaches of Olympos. But we had to eat and fortunately enough our guide treasured in his soul the everlasting excitement — and the knowledge of the region. We let him lead us,  knowing there is no escaping following him: the hills and paths of Cappadocia taught us well.

He brought us to a small cosy restaurant on a not-really-busy street and we sat among the dirty walls, behind simple large tables with jars of water in the middle of every one of them (no one dared to drink it). Our laughter fuelled by curiosity filled the air between the seats. I remember looking at other girls, wondering who would check the toilet first (one of them later returned shaking her head with a smile). We had no idea what was about to be brought before us, we were only aware of our own longing bellies.

Two meals soon came, followed by murmuring response of a common ‘yuuum’. I was glad to be a vegetarian immediately after the first bite. Even others were for the first time envious when they tasted the non-meat option of the menu, despite the tasty chicken on their plates. It was simple baked dough with lots of melting cheese on top, but it left such a deliciously amusing sensation on my tongue, it left me wondering what else was in there. I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to know.

It still seems improbable, but this stayed in my memory as one of the most memorable meals of my life to this day. I sometimes ask myself if it can really beat the pad thai on Koh Lipe, the falafel with its amazing red sauce in a tiny Parisian shop, the veggie burger on one of the London markets, the uncountable flavours of Tuscany. It is definitely up there somewhere in my mind with all of them and more, locked as the symbol of hidden and unexpected treasures on the way to everywhere.

Oh yes it was a pearl found in the field of grass – of the dry yellowy one for that matter. But what travelling with a whole bunch of precious stones you came home with teaches you is that sometimes these stones are the grass itself, no matter what colour, size or thickness, doesn’t it? — Oh yes you do learn to be all sentimental about the meaning of life when you try to assemble these footprints of the past, but why avoid it? It spices up your life like that secret ingredient I’ll never know.


Joie de vivre

I’ll never forget that weird Saturday afternoon 8 years ago when I arrived to Paris, alone for the first time, driving with a stone in my guts to the 19th arrondissement where I was staying, but not sure how to feel really, me – a petite and timid teenage girl.

I just stood in the middle of the room that was meant to be my home for the next couple of weeks, looking at my own hands, not sure what to do next, somewhat nervous, yes, but mostly just confused. Should I unpack or go out, eat something or find the nearest metro station? After some time had passed without any kind of specific action from my side, I heard the old lady’s voice, shouting my name with her harsh tone and strong French accent, saying she was about to go to the market. ‘’Would you like to join me?’’ Continue reading “Joie de vivre”

The dark side of the thrill

There is a point in solo-travel when you get uncomfortably nervous. It only comes once in a while and you can recognize it right away by the feeling it leaves in all of your vital organs and on both sides of your limbs and you can separate it from sheer excitement by the squeaking sensitivity in the back of your head. And it’s not the same as simply being worried about missing your flight because of the bus delay and constantly checking your watch. It’s much nearer to the reaction of your guts when a somewhat odd guy sits next to you and just doesn’t stop talking and asking you for your phone number or time to meet-up. It’s the point when your desire to walk everywhere and get lost in the unknown streets turns against you.

It sometimes happens in Porto, on your first day there, only a few hours after you arrived and found an empty hostel bed at the last minute. It probably happens just when you start to love the rough side of the city, its messy mood and buildings with a character. It always happens after the night falls and when you still aren’t anything near your intended location. You know: when you come to the same place over and over again, not sure which turn you already took before, looking around for someone, but the square is empty and street lamps hardly shed a light on its corners. You have no idea where you are really. You realize your map (if you have one) is of no help at all. Then, your intuition plays a funny trick on you, saying you should take the darkest and the narrowest street of all.

So, you do. And guess what: it was right, as always. In ten minutes or so, you’re already taking a shower, forgetting about the intimidating feeling you had not so long ago, improving your mood by mute whistling. Because that’s how it goes: if you’re lucky enough to pass that point smoothly, you never think of it again with that same nervous feeling. While remembering it, you always confuse it with the exciting bits and believe they are all the same. Your memory only keeps the thrill.

The Mysterious Ways of Intuition

Do you ever wonder how intuition works in mysterious ways? How you can sometimes just know things after the first glance and sometimes the first impression completely misleads you…

I couldn’t see my best friend when I saw a shyly vivid blond girl sitting in the first row on our first day of high school, but then I immediately knew I had to speak to a guy I met in a hostel just by observing his movements on my first night there. I’m still glad he did two evenings later, because he was one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.

I almost didn’t send my application for the job (and was near to cancelling the interview later) which I at the end got and am still very grateful for, because it was the reason I was able to stay in Paris for a whole year (and counting…).

However, I knew from the very first step that the street I was walking on would once be my home. And indeed, a year later I’m doing my groceries and laundry right there and living just around the corner from it.

So, how does it work?

Is it just us not listening to it? Does it sometimes mislead us on purpose? Or, is it sometimes simply not there?

Or maybe it’s never there and it’s just us believing in something and working for it, making it a reality, our reality?

I can’t decide.

And maybe, it doesn’t really matter in the end. If we just let life be.

What Chile gave me

”This is what happens when you travel.” ”No,” he said. ”This is what happens when you open up.” I didn’t answer, because what he said was so right it stood strongly on its own. I needed to come all wrecked to this desert, to this magic little place in the middle of South America to see the stars in all their clarity for the first time in my life.  And in their shining tirelessly and obliviously to our attention, I heard a conclusion to a certain story. Atacama, this is for your gifts.

I was merciless to Santiago atacama2during my first week in Chile, finding a few places I adored and feeling a strong apathy towards everything else. I came wounded and the city buzz and violent chaos couldn’t cure my fragile weakness and mental emptiness. Not this time. Markets, street art and a certain hill attempted bravely to do their thing, but their powers faded after a couple of concentrated moments. And then came the Monday I happily left it, but feeling the knot of anxiety growing inside of me all along the 24-hour ride to San Pedro, I thought to myself I was getting into something I was even less ready for. I do not have the energy for dealing with all the unavoidable tourism agencies, I’m a self-organized solo-traveler, please no. When I think I almost canceled it and went straight to Valparaiso, I can only be grateful for my occasional stubbornness.

Because I came, I saw, and I was conquered. Continue reading “What Chile gave me”

I realized why I like Paris better than London.

It’s far more honest – it doesn’t hide its ugly truth from you by a series of misleading disguises. Here, you see the dirty side of the city every day on your way to work, home, party… you walk past it and can never avoid it, no matter how fancy the quartier is supposed to be. You can smell it on the public transport and on the streets, it hits you right in the face when you least expect it to, you hear it blazing through your headphones, ever more loudly, getting harder and harder to ignore. No one really tries to erase or cover it. They can only try to push it aside, but it always stays in sight. It might be hard to bear this two-faced metropole, but at least there is no pretending, no artificial curtains to make you believe, to let you live in an illusion that the brilliant show is all there is.

So, yes, I choose this brutal reality in all its duality over ”one-sided” hypocrisy anytime.

Pushing through the blizzard

A post written on a frenzic day (so excuse the errors) in May that sort of got lost…

A personal reminder, in a way.

Maybe it’s usual and something everyone goes through to have a personal crisis about 6 months after you leave home and start a life someplace new. The initial enthusiasm wears out a bit of course and then you feel that even though the many basic things are already figured out, too much – everything is still missing. Where’s life, you know? Someone I met here defined that as ”lack of structure” of any kind, because everything you have and do seems to have a temporary or insecure nature. I’m not sure what brought it up for me, since I’ve already had so many crisis in my life and with all their differences they are all in some point or another just a repetition of an ancient story. As always it burst out at the least appropriate moment and as always it hangs around much longer than you think it would, long after you think ”you’re good now”. Even the lessons stay the same, but still you feel the urge to shout them out loud. So, I will.

I’ve been living my dream for half a year already and a part of me still feels like I’m stuck at the same place I was last year. When I’m lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the newly discovered favourite French band and thinking about the past day, there is always this strange surreal feeling about something being somehow off. Is it true? For real? Isn’t that just a bit too much? Would you believe it if somebody told you? …

Because that part truly is still stuck in the past. And I need to say to it every day: ”No, you’re here with me, in Paris, in your own room, with a job that actually pays the rent and all the other costs, you walk the Grands Boulevards every day to work, you go for a walk on an easy Sunday afternoon by the Seine and buy your books at Shakespeare&co … you, you, you. Right f*** now!” Continue reading “Pushing through the blizzard”

Why Paris?

At the first glance, one of the easiest questions one can ask me is: ”Why Paris?” It seems so obvious and intuitively self-evident, that I can’t help but hear a rhetoric tone in it. It’s when I try to answer it that I find myself in trouble. I start uttering nonsense after nonsense, feeling pretty naive, thinking I must have fallen for a tourist attraction or some cliché or the artistic history… But after a minute or two, I realize the question gets the answer it deserves and satisfy myself with a stereotypical rebellion: ”Because it’s simply stunningly beautiful and I feel good here!” However, isn’t there more, much more? To be perfectly honest, isn’t there everything here?

I so often find myself walking through some random streets I usually don’t know the names of and couldn’t specifically point to on a map, mutely saying with a sigh or almost singing: ”This is why I love Paris.” Of course knowing quite well what I mean by it, but would find myself in the same muttering predicament if someone approached at that precise moment and suspiciously demanded: ”What is this this you’re talking about?” I would probably feel the same old sentiment that words don’t quite do it justice and just pathetically point to everything that would pass us by, to the buildings and the cars, to the people and the birds, the clouds above and asphalt ground below us, even to the dirty air surrounding us. And that is all I could really do. Continue reading “Why Paris?”

But — why?!

What does traveling or moving to a foreign city/country change? Can it change anything, really? Isn’t it just an escape, a temporary illusion that your problems might resolve themselves there, that you might get to be a better and saner person in another place?

A lot of people were asking me these questions when I started talking about moving to France, just because I feel better here. ”Why do you? I mean – it’s just a change of scenery, how can that change you? You are still the same unstable emotional wreck…” But — wait, no: I’m not. Well, I am in a way, because it’s never possible to truly escape oneself. I still have my downs as well as my ups, I still feel melancholy as f*** most of the time, I still have to fight with my passive aggressiveness, I still feel stupid and silly and weird and well not normal and mostly just out-of-place… But I change. Something in the deep shadowy place at the bottom of my personality shifts. Something hidden before lifts up towards the surface and takes its place under the sun. Continue reading “But — why?!”

Take music to the streets!

I have to ask: Do you imagine London markets without music? Port Vell in Barcelona? Lisbon or Paris metro? Jardin de Luxembourg? Sacré-Cœur? Prešeren square, Tromostovje, Čevljarski most in Ljubljana?

I know you can, but I don’t want to. After seeing and experiencing them with awesome melodies and rhythms, that is how I always remember and hear them.

Folk on Brick Lane, salsa and reggae at Barcelona docks, a girl with an acoustic guitar at Terreiro do Paço station, l’accordéon in a metro train, classical piano in one of the pavilions, a high-powered Italian guy on the stairs that lead to the basilique and countless acts at my best known places in Slovenia: from gypsy to country, from African drums to jazz saxophone, from people who have it – that special something, the energy – to the ones that… well not so much.

I have to admit: I’m not a huge fan of Barcelona. It’s a lovely city with fantastic energy, but I prefer Paris or London. But it’s the best city as far as street musicians are concerned. The best, really! All the tourists in Park Güell drove me crazy, but the fact that there was an interesting or excellent musician/band on every single corner captivated me. And I still remember every single one of them: the fado band, the bossa nova guitarist, the blues singer, the crazy hippy electric-guitarist, the trio with the most passionate and charismatic female voice I heard in a while.

Music is what defines the city’s atmosphere for me and leaves the long-lasting impression on my personal vision of the place I’m in (hometown included). And after all the lessons in walking through various, mostly European cities, a fascination with street musicians and their quality has only grown bigger and higher in my soul. I might be biased because of the adorable acoustics of charming streets, but aren’t artists in truth the ones who make them so delightful?

Mundus or Why I travel

There are a lot of things that impress me in life. A melodic song on the radio that stays in my ears all day long and makes me smile every time I whisper its tones, makes me want to dance in the street. A simple sentence that conveys the sense of beauty in just a few words. A cheese-pie, especially my grandmother’s one, sweet, crispy … mhm … delicious. A magnificent cathedral, pyramids, Buddhist temples, mosques… Faithful people who can believe and pray to something never seen, never heard, never touched. Or sometimes it is just a simple glass of water after a long hot summer day.

But still – there is nothing like nature, despite the comfort, convenience, accessibility, accommodation and luxury of the human world. A scent of meadow in spring, daily sunrises and sunsets, all blushed, frozen trees, covered in snow, extraordinary shapes of clouds, blueness of the sky, waves, lonely island in the middle of a huge ocean with a small palm for its charming decoration. It seems so effortless, but so incredibly fascinating, marvelous, divine.

—- And here I was, somewhere in Africa, few kilometres from Mombasa,savana standing in a van while driving on a bumpy and dusty road, watching the landscape, trees and grass of savanna, flying birds, termite mounds. Continue reading “Mundus or Why I travel”