After four years of living in Denmark, I left Copenhagen behind. My permanent destination was Canada, where I would start a new life as a PhD student somewhere in Quebec. My first flight took me to a familiar temporary stop in Reykjavík. Considering my incredible two-week adventure in Iceland a few years earlier, it felt like a fitting place to say goodbye to the last westward edge of the European continent. Looking back, I didn’t know it yet, but this journey would mark a rough landing in Quebec — the true beginning of my life in Canada.
A short stop in Iceland on my way to Canada
The transatlantic flight followed — hours above the ocean, then even more hours above the blinding white ice sheet of Greenland, followed by a long pass over the countless lakes and flatlands of northern Canada. Inch by inch, closer to my destination, until I finally landed in Montreal sometime during the night.
My first brief time in Montreal
Exhausted from the long flight, I jumped into a taxi as soon as I could and headed to the nearby hotel I had booked — Beausejour Hotel Apartments, from the 22nd to the 23rd of August. I still have it saved in my Bookings account. A simple room, but with an enormous king-sized bed — larger than anything I’d ever slept in before. I ordered myself a pizza and promptly passed out in that royal bed.
From Europe to the Fjordlands of Quebec
The following day brought the final leg of the journey: a local flight from Montreal to Saguenay. Saguenay is a region in Quebec, north of Quebec City, encompassing three towns spread around the Saguenay Fjord. Tucked into a bay to the east lies the small town of La Baie, while to the west stands the larger, more industrial-looking Jonquière. Between them sits Chicoutimi — the most populous of the three, and home to the Université du Québec à Chicoutimi (UQAC), my new workplace for the next four years.
The Université du Québec à Chicoutimi in Chicoutimi, Québec
Before leaving for Canada, I had tried to contact my main supervisor regarding my arrival date and accommodation options. In a previous email, she had mentioned that she could temporarily house me until I found a place of my own. However, despite several attempts, I never received a reply. I even reached out to my second supervisor in Montreal to ask if he knew anything, but he didn’t — suggesting she might be away doing remote fieldwork during that period.
This shot was actually from my trans-Atlantic flight. I just loved the sharp limit between land and glacier and thought to include it here
With nowhere to go, I decided to book a “cheap” hotel for a week. Surprisingly, it wasn’t very cheap at all for what seemed like a small, remote town in the middle of nowhere in Quebec. Apparently, Chicoutimi is a bit of a summer holiday destination for locals. Regardless, my options were limited. After landing in Saguenay, I made my way to Hotel du Parc in Chicoutimi.
Culture Shock, Served at Lunch
It was late morning or early noon when I checked in. I dropped my things and went down to the hotel restaurant to have lunch. This is where my cultural shock began.
Hotel du Parc in Chicoutimi
Despite being a hotel, the staff spoke very limited English — the restaurant staff even less. My French at this point was extremely basic, despite having theoretically learned some during early school years. I knew enough to ask for lunch: déjeuner. The waitress then began explaining that they no longer served déjeuner, only dîner.
Dinner? At noon?
What followed was a clumsy, drawn-out back-and-forth until I finally understood that in Quebec French, déjeuner means breakfast, dîner means lunch, and souper means dinner. Whereas in “standard” French, breakfast is petit-déjeuner, lunch is déjeuner, and dinner is dîner. Oh gods… even ordering food at a hotel was complicated. What a start.
Setting out in Chicoutimi for the first time, along the large Talbot boulevard
Another amusing detail from that first meal was noticing bottles of homemade ketchup for sale. Up to that point, I had only ever seen the standard processed red goop everyone calls ketchup — never the jam-like, artisanal-looking stuff. I was tempted, but this was not the time for ketchup.
Lost in Translation (and Hallways)
With Google Maps in hand, I slowly made my way toward the university. It was time to find out whether my supervisor was still alive.
On the way, I passed a local budget telecom shop and quickly picked up a cheap prepaid Canadian phone number. There, at least, they spoke English — giving me a brief sense of relief. That relief was short-lived.
Oh and there were a lot of Marmots all over the place. They should’ve just renamed Chicoutimi to Marmotville
At the university reception, I began explaining to the lady behind the desk that I was an international PhD student starting there for the first time and that I was looking for my supervisor’s office — Lucie Mathieu. Her eyes widened. She struggled to form a few words in English.
Oh no. Even here? At an international university?
I knew Quebec was French-speaking, but I hadn’t expected people to speak no English at all — especially within a university, in an otherwise majority English-speaking country. I slowed my speech and reduced my vocabulary to survival mode:
That, at least, she understood. She wrote down a floor and office number and attempted to explain how to get there. I only half understood that part.
I wandered through the labyrinth that was the UQAC building and eventually found Lucie’s office. I knocked, smiled, and introduced myself. She greeted me warmly.
And here are some campus marmots
After a light-hearted conversation about my failed attempts to reach her, my concern that she might no longer be alive, and my first impressions of Quebec so far, she gave me a few practical tips and suggested I take the next few days to settle in and find accommodation. She also introduced me to part of her research group — among them Adrien, the Master’s student responsible for posting the PhD position in the EUGEN group where I had first found it.
A Week of Adjustment
What followed was a week filled with further culture shock and growing frustration, mostly due to ongoing communication barriers.
Throughout the days, place after place, I kept running into the same language barrier. Stores. Restaurants. Service counters. Even when I went to schedule an appointment to open a bank account with Desjardins, I could barely get by in English. In the end, I asked Adrien to come with me to the appointment — because not being able to properly communicate with the person opening your bank account is, frankly, a bit much.
Ironically, that particular employee turned out to speak fluent English.
The bridge across the Saguenay in Chicoutimi
After having traveled through several foreign countries in Europe and being completely confident that English would always get me by, this experience became increasingly disappointing. More and more, in the coming months, I found myself reluctant to go anywhere or do anything at all — simply because of the language barrier. I never, in a million years, expected to experience culture shock in Canada of all places.
Quebec Is (and Isn’t) Its Own Thing
I considered saying now that I slowly learned Quebec was truly its own thing, separate from Canada — but that would be a lie. It wasn’t. Apart from the language, it felt as North American as anywhere else.
The spread-out residential neighborhoods. The “paper houses” — non-brick constructions that felt fragile compared to European buildings. The extremely car-centric town layouts, with multi-lane highways cutting straight through urban areas. The lack of sidewalks in many places. The enormous, one-story commercial buildings surrounded by seas of parking lots. And of course, the omnipresent fast-food culture.
Chicoutimi extending out on both sides of the Saguenay river
Yes, the Québécois had their local quirks — their own customs, expressions, and French heritage — but to me, they were still as Canadian as the rest of the country.
I should also add that, in my experience, the lack of English wasn’t due to people refusing to speak it, as some Quebec-haters like to claim. Not at all. Most simply didn’t know English well enough. From conversations I had with locals, they learned some English in school, but then never used it and gradually lost it — much like my own French.
The key point was that they didn’t need to. Most rarely traveled to English-speaking regions. A kind of cultural and linguistic self-isolation.
Saint-François-Xavier Cathedral, a familiar sight in Chicoutimi
I also never sensed any widespread English-hating attitude. Surely, such people exist — they do everywhere — but it wasn’t the general sentiment. On the contrary, many people, despite their broken and limited English, were kind and genuinely curious about me as a foreigner. Perhaps because I wasn’t their English-Canadian “enemy,” but rather someone clearly trying to integrate. I don’t know.
The Hunt for an Apartment
After stocking up on food from a not-at-all-nearby supermarket — because everything was so damn far thanks to that car-centric town design — I began searching for rental apartments online.
I quickly found the local classifieds website: Kijiji. From furniture to vehicles to apartments, everything was listed there. I started sending out inquiries.
At first, I wrote long, detailed messages in English explaining who I was and that I was looking to rent a studio apartment. None of them received replies. So I switched tactics and began sending much shorter messages in French, heavily assisted by Google Translate.
Days passed. Still no replies. My hotel stay was coming to an end, and desperation began creeping in. It was time to stop hiding behind messages and pick up the phone.
Phone Calls, Panic, and One Miracle
I started the calls the same way I always had — straight in English. That went nowhere. Then I adjusted again, opening in broken French and asking if the person spoke English. The answer was usually a simple: Non, désolé. Eventually, I wrote down a few French sentences for myself — just enough to explain my situation concisely over the phone.
Saguenay City Hall, one of the few nice stone buildings in Chicoutimi, together with the Cathedral
One of the listings was for a nice-looking, unfurnished studio apartment by the shores of the Saguenay. I called. The man on the other end immediately launched into several minutes of rapid-fire speech — in what must have been the thickest Saguenay French dialect imaginable. I didn’t understand a single word.
I had to cut him off.
Uh… oh… désolé… mon français n’est pas bon… euh… j’utilise Google Translate…
As hilarious and frustrating as the conversation was, I have to give the man credit — he didn’t hang up. Somehow, through repeated excuse-moi, requests to speak slower, and constant repetition, we reached a fragile half-understanding.
Walking along the Vieux-port de Chicoutimi, I encountered this chicken
Yes, the apartment was available. Yes, we could schedule a visit. The time… maybe 5 PM?
I wasn’t sure. Stress levels were high. But I decided: fuck it. I’d go there at 5 and hope for the best. And I got it right.
Carl, the Accent, and a Cheap Studio
Carl, the owner, greeted me with a warm smile — and an absolutely legendary Saguenay accent. One so thick that, as I later learned, not even French speakers understood it. In person, though, everything became easier. The hand gestures helped a lot.
The apartment was genuinely nice: one of four studio units on the second floor of a large house. Carl and his wife lived downstairs in a spacious, elegant first-floor apartment, while the studios above were all rented out.
The location was one of the best in Chicoutimi. The rent was dirt cheap — around 400 dollars. His only real request was simple: be tranquil. No parties. No noise. Perfect.
Walking out of the apartment, I’d be greeted with this view of the Saguenay and marina. Not too shabby!
Somehow, against all odds, I had navigated the language barrier and landed myself a solid place to live. Now all I needed was furniture.
A Furnished Beginning
I got a lucky break with one of my neighbors, who was preparing to leave the country and needed to get rid of everything he owned. For next to nothing, he sold me an entire kitchen setup — utensils, pots, plates, even a vacuum cleaner and an electric oven — all for a mere 100 dollars. It was a fantastic start.
For the rest, I went to one of the local furniture chains, MeubleRD. I could have gone the second-hand route again, but this time I knew I’d soon have a decent income and I wanted, for once, to build a place that felt intentionally mine rather than a random collection of leftovers from other people’s lives.
The last summer days at the end of August in Chicoutimi
There was also a practical constraint: I didn’t own a car, and I didn’t plan on getting one. Carrying furniture across Chicoutimi wasn’t an option. So after browsing the store, I bought a few small items and ordered the most important pieces online, including a bed frame and a mattress. According to the website, delivery would take about a week. Until then, I slept on a mat and a sleeping bag in my large, empty room. It felt like camping indoors.
That week stretched into three due to stock issues and delays. My back was not happy, but at least I had a roof over my head.
Brothers in a Rough Landing
Just before the semester began, the final member of our research group arrived from France: Alexandre, another PhD student under the same supervisor. Beyond our shared academic path, we quickly discovered we had strikingly similar tastes in music, humor, and outlook. He also arrived with a gigantic Maine Coon cat, which instantly impressed me. We became friends almost immediately.
My first time discovering Parc de la Rivière-du-Moulin in Chicoutimi
His own apartment turned out to be… interesting — a euphemism for a place that turned out to be riddled with problems and awful neighbors, the kind of situation that slowly wears you down. He also got screwed over by one of the telecom companies when first trying to get a Canadian number. Apparently even speaking the local language fluently was no guarantee of a smooth landing.
I helped where I could. We split the haul of kitchenware I’d acquired, and I gave him the electric oven since I had no use for it while he desperately needed one. My own apartment, meanwhile, lacked a washing machine. I tried doing laundry at the university for a while, but the constant security checks made it a chore. Eventually, I began doing my weekly laundry at Alexandre’s place, which turned into our regular ritual of shared meals, drinks, and evenings of laughter and entertainment.
Into the Archean
Not long after the start of the semester, our supervisor took us on an organized field trip north to Chibougamau. Beyond its academic purpose, I quietly looked forward to it for a far simpler reason — it would be my first time sleeping in a proper bed after nearly ten days on the floor of my empty apartment.
The vast wilderness of central Quebec, only interrupted by the occasional high powerlines
Lucie was in her element out there. As our minibus pushed deeper into the vast nothingness north of Saguenay — endless forests, swamps, and lakes stretching to every horizon — she excitedly pointed out that, according to the geological maps, we had just crossed from the Proterozoic into the Archean. Two entirely different chapters of Earth’s history, separated by hundreds of millions of years… yet outside the window, nothing seemed to change. The wilderness stretched unbroken in every direction, with not a hint of civilization. The realization that the rocks beneath our feet had quietly shifted by two billion years without any visible sign was fascinating.
We were based at a roadside motel at the entrance to Chibougamau. Alexandre and I shared a room and couldn’t stop laughing at how it looked like something out of a crime movie — the kind of place where a man on the run hides from the police, nervously peeking through the curtains every time a car passes. I even started doing it as a joke, scanning the parking lot for imaginary cops, which only made us laugh harder.
Strange new rocks of primordial times
This was our first real immersion into the geology of the Canadian Shield and the Archean world of the Abitibi Greenstone Belt. Having once gone through the same shock herself, Lucie knew what awaited us: rocks more than two billion years old, heavily deformed, weathered, and nothing like the fresh, black basalt I had seen in Iceland.
For example, the “basalt” she pointed out in the field barely resembled anything I thought I knew. We were about to spend a long time relearning how to think in geological terms.
Our field trip crew during that first visit to Chibougamau
It was also our first, very mild encounter with the local flying menaces known as black flies. Thankfully, this late in the season and with the cool temperatures, they were little more than a minor annoyance. At the time, I had no idea what kind of terror they would become once summer arrived.
The Work Ahead
My project would cover multiple Archean formations across vast regions — not only the Abitibi in Quebec, but also the equally enormous Wabigoon Greenstone Belt in Ontario. The scope was intimidating.
That first semester was about orientation: understanding the geology, defining the project, and keeping up with coursework. In December, I would have to give a formal presentation as part of an exam that would determine whether I would be officially accepted into the PhD program. Until I passed it, nothing was guaranteed.
A sulfide bearing felsic Archean rock. One of many more to come
So I buried myself in Archean geology, coursework, and the slow, awkward process of building a life in a new place. By then, I had finished running the gauntlet of my rough landing in Quebec — and was finally ready to dig in.
Late summer 2019. I was back in Copenhagen, Denmark — one final time.
Even writing that sentence hurts a little. Emotional soundtrack playing in the background, naturally. But jokes aside, this was it. After the most adventurous summer of my life, crossing Europe one last time, I returned to the city that had been my home for four years. Only for a couple of weeks. Just long enough to say goodbye.
Goodbye to friends. Goodbye to routines. Goodbye to a country that had shaped me far more than I ever expected.
The old pavilion by the castle lake at Frederiksborg Castle, Hillerød
Denmark is often described as cold — its people reserved, distant, hard to befriend. I found that to be mostly myth. What I encountered instead were warm, straightforward, quietly kind people who opened doors for a foreigner trying to find his footing. As I packed my final bags and counted down the days to my flight to Canada, I realized something painful and beautiful at the same time:
My farewells had begun long before August.
The Last Ride North
In truth, the goodbye started in early June. That’s when I took my final cycling trip north to Hillerød — a route I had ridden many times before, but one that felt different this time. The sun was high, gifting Denmark one of those rare, perfect summer days when everything feels briefly aligned.
Just a satyr splashing in the fountain
The ride began in Amager, cutting through Copenhagen’s city centre and past the familiar lakes of Brønshøj. Then came the long stretch along the forests hugging the lakes near Farum — another place I once called home — before the rolling hills of North Zealand took over. Small towns passed quietly. Forests closed in again. And finally, Hillerød.
Frederiksborg Castle, Hillerød
Jesper and I walked around the castle grounds as we had done before, talking about life, work, and whatever lay ahead. We wished each other the best — sincerely, without ceremony. I sometimes wonder if he stayed there, if he settled down, started a family like so many of my friends did, while I kept drifting across borders and oceans.
That ride felt like closing a circle.
Copenhell: Noise, Sweat, and Catharsis
Early summer held another goodbye I hadn’t yet written about.
After Wacken Open Air in 2018, 2019 brought something closer to home: Copenhell, Denmark’s largest metal festival — and its 10-year anniversary. A very different experience this time. No tent. No mud. I cycled in and out daily from my apartment in Amager, the festival grounds conveniently close.
Copenhell 2019 festival grounds
Two concerts stood above all others.
Slipknot
Slipknot was chaos in its purest form.
I forced my way to roughly the tenth row before the show began. The black curtain loomed above us, the band’s name stamped across it. Distorted noise filled the air — the intro track 515 from Iowa. The crowd screamed, compressed, surged. Then the drums hit.
I will never forget that insane intro to this concert
The curtain didn’t fall — it twisted upward violently, like it was being sucked into a vacuum, revealing the band already blasting at full force. The crowd exploded. I felt an insane pressure as bodies crushed forward. For a moment I thought I might lose my phone — or my breath. Then it clicked.
Slipknot it all of it’s glory, with big Mick Thomson in the center — Corey Taylor and Shawn Crahan flanking him
I was at a Slipknot concert. So I shoved back, found space, and gave in completely — screaming, jumping, laughing like my teenage self had been waiting years for this moment. Somehow, through the chaos, I ended up even closer to the stage.
Later, during Duality, I crowd-surfed for the first time in my life. Absolutely wild. Unforgettable.
Dimmu Borgir
Dimmu Borgir was something else entirely.
I claimed a front-row spot early and waited patiently, barely drinking so I wouldn’t lose my place. Worth every second. The atmosphere was darker, ritualistic, less primal but more intense in its own way.
Shagrath posing with the ram head in his ritualistic robes
During one of my favorite songs, I let out a loud long war cry — something that still makes me laugh when I think about it. I was finally seeing one of my all-time favorite bands, these legendary Norwegian musicians I’d admired for years.
Galder and Silenoz shredding hard during their concert
As the crowd dispersed afterward, I lingered near the stage. One of the crew walked by and handed me a guitar pick. A real Dimmu Borgir pick. I still cherish it to this day.
Winds of Change
On the final night, The Scorpions took the stage.
That’s when I met up with my old friend Lasse — drunk, hoarse, and gloriously exhausted. We sat on a small hill overlooking the massive crowd as the opening whistles of Winds of Change began.
The Danish flag shown proudly during the Scorpions concert
We whistled along. Then sang — badly, loudly, sincerely.
Candles lit up across the crowd as darkness fell. My voice was nearly gone. So was his. That moment — the song, the crowd, my friend beside me — felt like the perfect, unspoken farewell.
One Last Dinner
By August, it was time for quieter goodbyes.
My roommates and I planned one final group dinner with our computer scientist friends, and I suggested Folkehuset Absalon. I’d been introduced to the former church years earlier — repurposed into a community space filled with shared meals, conversations, and long wooden tables.
Every evening at six, strangers and acquaintances alike gathered for communal dinner — delicious, home-style food served family-style. Affordable, warm, human. It felt right.
The Machine and friends after our last dinner together in Copenhagen
Sitting there one last time, sharing food and stories, I realized how deeply Denmark had taught me the value of community — not loud or forced, but quietly present if you chose to participate.
What Denmark Taught Me
When I arrived in Denmark years earlier, my only real goal was to leave Romania.
To escape. To prove myself. To breathe.
I believe I did that. During my Master’s at Copenhagen University, I started behind my peers and ended up exceeding expectations. I learned discipline, independence, resilience. I even began dreaming of academia. But I also learned something harder: effort alone isn’t always enough.
One last evening stroll along the streets of Copenhagen
Financial instability followed me for years. Career opportunities came slowly. As much as I loved Denmark, there was no future for me there along my chosen path. So my thinking changed.
Idealism gave way to pragmatism. Stability, income, and long-term opportunity began to matter more than prestige. That shift shaped my decision to choose Canada over Switzerland, industry over academia, practicality over purity. It shaped my growing interest in investing, markets, and long-term independence.
The Next Chapter
If my Danish saga was about escape — about searching for an idealized happiness — then my Canadian saga would be about ambition.
The day I embarked on the next big adventure of my life
With my final bags packed and every goodbye said, I boarded the transatlantic flight that carried me away from Europe and toward an entire new chapter filled with its own radical ups and downs.
As my Danish Saga came to a close, my Canadian chapter was about to begin.
Mid-July 2019. Summer was in full swing, and I had just completed my two-week Odyssey across Greece—just in the nick of time, too. The brutal heatwave that followed would have likely ruined any attempt at traveling there afterward. My summer plans included one last adventure before leaving Europe, but first I needed some rest. I returned to Romania for the rest of July to spend time with family and old friends. With my new life across the Atlantic looming on the horizon, who knew when—or if—I’d see them again.
The Things That Stay Behind
This would also, sadly, be the last time I saw my beloved cat. The super-chatty Siamese little beast I had grown up with for nineteen years had visibly aged while I’d been away in Denmark. Silver-white strands dotted his once pristine black-and-beige fur. His high-energy, hyper-playful antics had been replaced by a sober, tired, and overly cuddly demeanor. By this point, he was no longer just a pet but an integral part of the family—and perhaps the strongest reminder of time passing.
My furry old friend with increasingly cloudy eyes and worsening hearing
He would have about one more year left to live before my mom had to make the tough decision—reluctantly, heart-wrenchingly—to put him to sleep due to organ failure. I would be far away in Canada when it happened.
Canada, however, was still a couple of months away.
I spent the rest of July trying to revisit some of my old hiking and cycling spots in Romania. Apart from one or two spots, I mostly failed due to the oppressive heatwave and the endless small things that kept popping up and eating away at time—a theme that would repeat itself every time I returned. Before I knew it, the month was over, and I was boarding a series of planes to embark on what would be my last European adventure of the year: EUGEN, Lithuania.
One Last Adventure Before Leaving Europe
This would be my fourth time attending EUGEN (the European Geoscience Network) summer camp, following the wildly successful 2018 event in Austria. Considering that the PhD position I had landed in Canada came from an advertisement posted in the EUGEN social media group I’d joined the year before, I felt like I owed the organization this trip.
Revisiting the Roman Valley in Maramureș county, Romania
Besides, one final week-long gathering—equal parts science, chaos, and celebration—with a group of like-minded geologists felt like the perfect send-off before leaving Europe. The only truly annoying part was getting to Lithuania.
When searching for flights from Romania, I quickly realized that most routes from the nearest international airport in Cluj were aimed at Mediterranean holiday destinations or Western Europe. Nothing toward Poland, nothing toward the Baltics. I eventually found myself flying in the complete opposite direction—to Turkey—spending yet another night in an airport (my third one that summer), and then catching a next-day flight to Vilnius.
The flashy Istanbul, or as some of us like to still call it – Constantinople, Airport
As far as overnight airport survival goes, Istanbul Airport was definitely better than Geneva, though still not quite on par with Athens. It was massive, with plenty of long benches to lie down on, but I couldn’t find a properly quiet, dimly lit corner the way I had in Athens. Still—Turkish Airlines was decent, the prices reasonable, and I eventually made it north.
And so began my Lithuanian chapter.
Arrival in the Baltics
I arrived in Vilnius a tired zombie. Poor sleep and a long chain of flights had taken their toll. I’d booked a small room for one night at Ecotel Vilnius, and with just a single day to explore Lithuania’s capital before heading to camp, I decided not to waste it napping.
Giant hand sculpture in Vilnius, Lithuania
The fresh, cool Baltic air was a gift after weeks of oppressive heat in southeastern Europe. It was sharp, clean, and quietly energizing — just enough to keep my tired ass alert and moving. Vilnius immediately felt different. Less rushed. Less loud. A city shaped as much by forests and rivers as by empires.
Gediminas Hill in the heart of Vilnius
Lithuania itself has a surprisingly complex history for such a compact country. Once the core of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania — one of the largest states in Europe during the Middle Ages — it later entered a long union with Poland, endured occupations by neighboring powers, and eventually found itself folded into the Soviet Union. Vilnius, sitting at the crossroads of Eastern and Northern Europe, carries traces of all of it in its architecture, languages, and rhythms.
Gediminas Hill and the Birth of a City
As I wandered the streets, occasionally checking Google Maps for nearby highlights, I slowly made my way toward Gediminas Hill — the symbolic heart of Vilnius.
At the top stands Gediminas’ Tower, the remaining octagonal brick structure of the 15th-century Upper Castle, crowned by the Lithuanian tricolor. According to legend, Grand Duke Gediminas dreamt of an iron wolf howling atop the hill — a sign interpreted as a call to build a great city whose fame would echo across the world. Whether myth or propaganda, Vilnius was born here.
Gediminas’ Tower overlooking the city
Small groups of visitors appeared near the tower. Judging by the languages floating around — mostly German and French, a few Nordics, and locals — it was busy enough to feel alive, yet spacious enough to breathe. Nothing remotely resembling the dense, relentless crowds of the Acropolis in Athens.
A Quiet Capital
Vilnius struck me as a genuinely calm city — easily the most relaxed capital I’d visited up to that point. The contrast with Athens’ chaos, and even Copenhagen’s perpetual tourist season, was stark and welcome.
St. Anne’s Church glowing in the Vilnius sunset
From the tower, the city opened up below me. Among the landmarks I could identify was St. Anne’s Church, a late Gothic masterpiece in Vilnius Old Town, built entirely from red clay bricks. Its intricate façade stood out sharply against the skyline, with modern buildings quietly receding behind it. As the sun dipped lower and my stomach began to complain, it became clear that sightseeing would soon give way to something more urgent.
Grand Duke Gediminas dramatically claiming the sky
On my way down the hill, I passed the Monument to Grand Duke Gediminas, depicting the city’s founder beside his horse, sword in hand, gesturing forward. Nearby stood Vilnius Cathedral, a neoclassical landmark with its grand columned portico and separate bell tower. Beautiful in the fading light, it somehow felt even more imposing once illuminated at night.
Sour, Dill, and Satisfaction
It was finally dinner time — and time to try some local cuisine.
I started with Šaltibarščiai — a very hostile-sounding dish, packed with angry-looking letters. As it turned out, it was simply a sour beetroot soup. Refreshing and pleasantly sharp, it proved far less aggressive than its name suggested. The ingredients included grated beets, kefir, cucumbers, dill, and green onions, often accompanied by boiled potatoes. Odd at first glance, but surprisingly fitting after a long summer day.
Šaltibarščiai — The classic unmistakable Lithuanian pink soup
Next came pickled herring, topped with onions, sauce, tomato, and greens. By this point, I was beginning to notice a clear pattern: Lithuanians seemed to have a strong and unapologetic relationship with sour flavors.
Finally, cepelinai — traditional potato dumplings made from grated raw and cooked potatoes, usually filled with meat or cheese. Served with sour cream and dill. Of course. Sourness and dill once again. I felt I had gotten the message.
A hearty cepelinas with sour cream
And honestly? I really enjoyed the new tastes. It was a stark departure from the warm, aromatic Mediterranean blends I’d grown used to — heavier, sharper, and deeply satisfying in its own way.
Vilnius Cathedral and bell tower shining after dark
With my belly full and sleep finally winning the internal argument, I returned to the hotel and passed out almost instantly. The following morning, I would board a bus heading southwest — toward endless Lithuanian forests and the EUGEN campsite.
Into the Woods
The campsite lay somewhere in southern Lithuania, in the Alytus region. I don’t remember the exact name — Lithuanian place names have a way of refusing to stick — though it may well have been Baublio Krantas campground. In any case, it was exactly what you’d want for something like EUGEN: dense forest wrapped around a lake, a large wooden cabin for cooking and gatherings, and plenty of space for tents scattered among the trees.
Our campsite by the lake, somewhere in southern Lithuania
That year we had around 120 participants from 15 countries. When introducing myself, I went with the returning Romanian–Hungarian from Denmark. There were plenty of familiar faces from the previous year. Among them were my two closest EUGEN friends: Moritz from Germany and David from Spain. Before long, a third joined our little orbit — a fun, down-to-earth English bloke named Magnus.
Brothers David, Magnus and I on our ritualistic prayer before Old Woody the Lithuanian Woodman in the background
The four of us quickly fell into an easy rhythm — less a gang and more a loosely organized alliance held together by shared humor, curiosity, and questionable decision-making.
First Night, Worst Night
We kicked things off the traditional EUGEN way: with a mandatory party that started sometime in the early afternoon and dragged on well into the night. Alcohol once again flowed like it had been tapped directly from a spring beneath the campsite.
The sunsets over the lake were quite something
I don’t remember exactly which night it was, but given my long-standing habit of getting absolutely plastered on the first evening, chances are it was that one. At some point late at night, I realized I had completely forgotten where I’d pitched my tent.
There I was — fumbling clumsily with my phone in the pitch-dark Lithuanian woods, shivering from the cold yet far too drunk to properly register it. I very nearly crawled into someone else’s tent before a sudden epiphany struck: I remembered exactly where mine was.
The Mystery Tent
To avoid being swarmed by late-night visitors — a mistake I’d made in Austria in 2018 — I’d intentionally placed my tent a bit further away, down a slope. Peace and quiet, I’d thought. Brilliant planning. I finally collapsed inside and fell asleep instantly… in the worst position imaginable. My head was on the downhill side of the slope.
There you were! You sneaky little orange dome you!
I woke up early the next morning nauseous, bladder bursting, and with what felt like the worst headache of my life. I stumbled out, relieved myself, crawled back in, and passed out again — still in the same position. This cycle repeated several times before I finally woke closer to noon, still feeling like death and slowly realizing that gravity had been sending every last bodily fluid straight to my skull all night.
I eventually flipped around, lay there motionless for a while, and attempted to reassemble myself. Recovery took most of the day, and from that point on I kept my drinking to a strict minimum for the rest of the week. Lesson learned. Again.
Field Trip I: Wood, Sand, and Swamps
As with every EUGEN event, we had three field trip days.
The first took us to the sandy plains of southeastern Lithuania around Marcinkonys, deep in Dzūkija National Park. We explored traditional pinewood constructions, local wood-carving practices, and an artist’s museum filled with large wooden sculptures.
Elaborate folk wood sculpture of a bearded forest guardian figure surrounded by animals
In this region, wood carving is still a living tradition. Villages like Marcinkonys preserve ethnocultural practices where elaborate carvings adorn homes, roadside shrines (koplytstulpiai), and public spaces. I remember visiting an outdoor gallery of striking wooden sculptures in an ethnographic village — works that blended pagan folklore, Christian symbolism, and nature motifs, typical of Lithuania’s dievdirbiai (“god-carvers”) tradition.
Detailed wooden carving of the Pensive Christ
Our final stop was the Čepkeliai State Nature Reserve, Lithuania’s largest bog and one of its most pristine wetland ecosystems. Spanning over 11,200 hectares near the Belarusian border, it protects a mosaic of raised bogs, fens, black alder swamps, and flooded forests. The peat layer reaches up to six meters thick, with small relict lakes scattered throughout — remnants of ancient glacial landscapes.
Panoramic vista of the expansive raised bog in Čepkeliai. The distant forest likely being on the Belorussian side of the landscape
Little did I realize at the time just how much bog and swamp I’d be traversing, cursing, and occasionally sinking into over the coming years.
Field Trip II: Kayak Warfare
The second field trip day involved a kayak journey down the Merkys River, in two-person kayaks. The goal was to observe wildlife — rare blue kingfishers, dragonflies, fish — while stopping at various geological points of interest: colored sand layers along the riverbanks, the abandoned Kukiškis chalk pit with its Jurassic chalk, flint, belemnites, fossils, glauconite sand, and black clay, and finally Baltulis Hill, where cliffs preserve geological records from the last ice age, including 13,700-year-old logs and folded layers shaped by earthquakes and isostatic processes.
Down the Merkys River, looking for fossils in the layered cliffs — photo by Alexandra Vaz
I had never kayaked in my life.
Fortunately, I was paired with a seasoned master of the seas — or at least rivers — none other than the infamous Captain Elmo. I picked things up quickly, and before long our mission shifted from peaceful observation to becoming the undisputed kayak-ramming terrors of the shallow streams.
With pinpoint precision, we made sure to tactically bump into every kayaker who dared cross our horizon.
Ramming Speed Captn’! — photo by Alexandra Vaz
It was an absolute blast. Sadly, I didn’t trust my balance enough to bring my camera or phone along that day. Thankfully, Alexandra from Portugal captured our aquatic misbehavior on camera and shared the photos afterward.
Field Trip III: Forests and Grey Skies
The third field trip took us to Nemunas Loops Regional Park, one of Lithuania’s most scenic protected areas. The park follows a dramatic 60 km stretch of the Nemunas River — Lithuania’s longest — where sweeping meanders carve deep valleys through steep slopes, cliffs, ravines, and erosional remnants.
Forest path with tall pines and mixed deciduous trees—ideal for exploring the park’s ancient woodlands
Nearly 70% of the park is forested, including the Punia Pine Forest, one of Europe’s best-preserved primeval pine stands. Some trees here — pines, spruces, and larches — reach up to 46 meters, particularly in the unique Degsnė larch grove.
The weather, however, was atrocious.
Nemunas River bend winding through thick pine forests, showcasing the park’s signature loops
A thunderstorm had rolled in the night before, leaving behind a full day of dark grey skies and relentless rain. We slogged through mud, some of us more hungover than others. Yet somehow, the murky conditions suited the ancient forest atmosphere perfectly — lush, dripping green, alive with biodiversity.
Thunderstorms and Cabbage Moonshine
Speaking of storms — one evening began with ominous clouds and a spectacular lightning show, followed by constant rain. This, unsurprisingly, did not stop the nightly party.
People drank, danced, and chatted in rain gear, briefly retreating only during the most intense lightning bursts. Highlights ranged from calm moments around the fire pit to a highly questionable nighttime boat crossing of the lake by four very drunk individuals. Those who know, will know.
Not the cleanest lightning shot ever, but I’m proud of it!
Another night — or possibly the same one — featured an incident involving a cabbage stew gone very wrong. From what the organizers later told me, someone had accidentally poured alcohol into the pot. Rather than throwing it out, they decided — in a moment of pure genius — to attempt turning it into some sort of Frankenstein cabbage moonshine.
It tasted absolutely awful. But it was free. And free alcohol, as any Romanian will tell you, must be consumed. I enthusiastically chugged it and soon became the unofficial poster boy for Lithuanian cabbage moonshine.
Druskininkai and the Long Goodbye
On the final day, we took a cultural trip to Druskininkai, a town famous for its spas, mineral springs, and artist markets showcasing Lithuanian crafts. Some of us skipped the spa — possibly due to missing swimwear, possibly due to price, or possibly due to lingering hangovers.
The Upside-Down House attraction in Druskininkai
What I do remember is eating some genuinely good pizza — surprisingly spicy — followed by a visit to the Upside-Down House, a fully inverted yellow building where everything inside is flipped. Slanted floors, furniture on the “ceiling,” disorienting perspectives, and endless opportunities for ridiculous photos.
David checking the plumbing
Back at camp, one final surprise awaited us: a local Dzūkija-style folk music group arrived, performed for us, and soon had everyone swept into a traditional Lithuanian dance.
Joyful trio of Dzūkija folk musicians serenading us at camp — photo by Alexandra Vaz
A perfect, joyful way to close the EUGEN week.
Endings
We slowly demobilized the following day, some leaving earlier than others. Magnus and I managed to hitch a ride with a few of the organizers, giving us a couple more hours to kill in Vilnius before our departures.
Departure day selfie with my buddies Magnus and Moritz
We stayed in touch online for a while after that, but eventually contact faded. I haven’t seen much of him on social media in years. I do sometimes wonder what became of him.
Magnus — if you ever read this — drop me a comment so I know you’re doing alright out there.
Lithuanian flag proudly blowing in the wind
With the end of EUGEN came the end of my grand European tour of 2019. A journey that had taken me from Switzerland to Greece, Romania, and Lithuania, before returning one last time to Denmark.
Only a few weeks remained now. A few weeks to say goodbye to all my friends in Copenhagen.
Picking up right where we left off, I had just wrapped up my stay in Patras. The long-awaited day had finally arrived. My ferry was scheduled for 1 PM, so I had time for a slow breakfast before heading down to the port. Boarding the ship to Ithaca, I soon found myself sailing the final leg of my Greek Odyssey.
From Patras to the Ionian
We left Patras behind. The journey was to take around four hours. Whenever I could — and for most of the crossing — I stayed out on the open deck to catch every sight as the sea journey unfolded.
By this point, I was pretty much listening to Symphony X’s “The Odyssey” on loop — my personal anthem for this trip. The cool wind whipped across the deck as the boat sliced through the Ionian Sea. Every time I spotted land on the horizon, I tried to guess which island it belonged to — more often than not, it was Kefalonia.
At one point, as I stood near the railing with my camera in hand, a sudden strong gust tore the lens cap right from my fingers. It vanished instantly — either flung straight into the sea or thrown far back across the ship where I couldn’t go. Damn it, Poseidon, I clenched my fist in abject annoyance. But if this was the price I had to pay to finally go home, then so be it.
Leaving mainland Greece behind
A few hours into the trip, the silhouette of a second, smaller island began to take shape on the horizon. Was it truly? Could it be? Ithaca, at last. In my mind, I imagined the kind of thrill one must feel after years — no, decades — adrift and far from home, finally glimpsing familiar shores again.
First, however, the ferry made its routine stop at the port of Sami on Kefalonia — a small tease before the epic conclusion.
Landfall on Ithaca — First Glimpse of Home
Not long after departing Sami, it was finally time to raise the proverbial sails and charge toward Ithaca. The crossing was straight as an arrow, the ferry ripping across the water with the wind howling in my ears. This was the final crescendo before landfall on the long-imagined homeland.
The final stretch of my journey to Ithaca
And then, just like that, the “song” began to settle as we arrived at Ithaki — Pisaetos. A small, unassuming ferry terminal greeted us: a few low buildings, a modest parking area, quiet and understated. It didn’t matter in the slightest. After the emotional build-up I had carried all this way, I could have landed anywhere and still felt exhilarated.
Arriving at Pisaetos ferry terminal in Ithaca
My hotel in Vathy offered car pickup from Pisaetos, so all I had to do was message them and wait. Within minutes, my driver arrived — a super chill, middle-aged Greek guy with long wavy hair and aviator sunglasses just like mine. If it weren’t for his impressive Super Mario mustache, I might have thought I was looking into a mirror.
We chatted easily about life in Ithaca as he drove us up the rugged southern cliffs. Then, at the very top, came one final bend in the road — and suddenly the island revealed itself in full. A breathtaking paradise: lush valleys unfolding in a sweeping semi-circle down gentle mountain slopes toward the shimmering bay of Vathy. That moment nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Arriving in Vathy
I arrived in Vathy, the main port-town of Ithaca, and from the moment I stepped into its calm harbor light, I felt the weight of homecoming. Vathy is a compact, picturesque town — whitewashed houses with colorful shutters, narrow alleys sloping down to the water, small fishing boats bobbing gently in turquoise coves, and lush hills circling the bay.
My first glimpse of Vathy, Ithaca
I was staying at the cozy Mentor Hotel, right in the town center. My room came with a small balcony that overlooked the bay — an ideal perch to watch the soft changes of light on water, and to breathe in that salty Ionian air as I settled into this new little slice of paradise.
Once I’d dropped my bag and taken a long glance out over the water, I couldn’t wait to stretch my legs and feel the island underfoot.
Sea, Sand & Solitude — Late-Afternoon at Loutsa
After a quick refresh, I set off for Loutsa Beach, about thirty minutes’ walk from my hotel. The path wound out of Vathy, climbing gently through forested coastal hills and offering shimmering glimpses of the Ionian Sea beyond. Near the top, I found an old Venetian cannon, still perched toward the bay — a silent sentry once guarding the narrow strait that leads into Vathy’s harbor, now watching over carefree hikers and daydreamers instead of warships.
Venetian canon — forever defending the entrance to Vathy
Reaching the beach felt like arriving at another world: fine, pale sand, sun umbrellas shading small clusters of sun-seekers, and eucalyptus trees swaying gently in the breeze. The water was warm and welcoming. For the first time in weeks, I had no immediate plans. No rucksack, no ruins, no hurry. I just relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil beach.
The tranquil beach and gentle sea at Loutsa Beach
The golden-light late afternoon, the gentle sea, the slow rhythm of waves… I don’t know if it was my overloaded imagination after all the myth and history, but I truly felt like I belonged. No objectives, no ticking off historic sites — just being. For some reason, it seemed like Ithaca was meant for such moments.
Sunset Stroll & Island Memories
Later, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, I wandered back into town along the bay of Vathy. I read somewhere that the Ionian Islands — including Ithaca — were among the few parts of Greece that never fell under full Ottoman control, instead spending centuries under Venetian or British influence. Perhaps because of that, the old ways, the local customs, and a certain quiet charm feel more preserved here than in many more touristic corners of Greece.
Strolling back to Vathy through the forest path
I found myself thinking back to the conversation with my driver earlier that day. I’d been bubbling with questions about Ithaca and what it must feel like to live on a legendary island like this. He spoke of the quiet, familial rhythm of life here — how locals and visitors alike drift to the same bars at the same hours, seeing the same faces night after night. Conversations start easily, not as strangers, but almost as neighbors.
I dreamt that the next time I returned to Ithaca, it would be by boat
Even for outsiders. Ithaca has a way of folding you into its slow, familiar heartbeat, and I was already feeling it — not even a day in.
The ancient King of Ithaca
As I continued walking, I had one final mission in mind: to find the statue of the legendary hero himself. And soon enough, there it was—the statue of Odysseus, King of Ithaca. Modest in size, yet to me still larger than life.
Nearby, a small group of English-speaking tourists were loudly confessing their ignorance about who the figure was meant to represent. I couldn’t resist politely intervening, offering them a quick rundown of Odysseus—king, wanderer, cunning hero—and a few words on why this little island matters so much. It felt good. It felt right.
Odyssian and Odysseus — Two travelers, one island
As my first day on Ithaca wound down, I felt like I was floating — carried by the sea breeze, the soft unhurried rhythm of the island, and a quiet sense that, for once, I had truly arrived.
Choosing a Direction on a Small, Wild Island
Come morning, map in hand, I realized something important about Ithaca: it may look small on a screen, but it does not unfold small under your feet. The island’s strange, broken shape hides steep hills, long distances, and very little in the way of convenient public transport. The western side, pinched off by a narrow strip of land, rises sharply into rugged, serious terrain—beautiful, but no casual stroll. A full crossing there and back would have been ambitious even for me.
The winding paths up the hills of Ithaca
So I chose to stay on my side of the island—the east—and roam southward at my own pace, letting the day decide the details. Somewhere along that stretch waited one of Ithaca’s eastern beaches. Whether it was Talaros, or Kaminia beach, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Above Vathy, Between Sky and Stone
Climbing the hills behind Vathy was quite rewarding. From above, the town hugged the curve of the small gulf, spreading only sparsely inland, cradled by tall, rolling, lush hills. The calm sea stretched outward in layered blues, and in the hazy distance, Ithaca was framed by faint islands resting on the horizon. One of those “stop walking, just stand there” views.
Panoramic view of Vathy and the bay from the top of the hill
Nearly every path climbs, dips, and climbs again. Somewhere along the way—either going up through Perachori or passing back through it later—I wandered through its steep streets: quiet, sun-washed, almost suspended in time. A few locals zipped past on scooters, which felt not just practical, but essential in a place shaped like this. Another sleepy village, another reminder that life here moves without spectacle.
Some of the scattered ruins I came across
Scattered along the route were traces of older lives: fragments of stone walls in the brush, half-swallowed by earth and shrubs. One cluster was clearly the remains of a small church. No signs, no plaques, no tidy explanations. Just stone, silence, and imagination filling in the centuries. Alongside them stood several newer chapels—whitewashed, modest, still breathing with quiet purpose. Old faith and living faith sharing the same paths.
Rock, Shade, and Turquoise Silence
By noon or early afternoon, I finally reached the beach. No sand this time—just pale rocks and worn stone sloping into impossibly clear turquoise water. By the time I arrived, the sun had slipped behind the tall cliffs at my back, leaving the entire cove in cool shade. The water still glowed.
Arriving at either Talaros, or Kaminia beach—I can’t recall which one this was
I didn’t swim. It felt too rugged, too sharp for that. Instead, I stayed with the theme that Ithaca had gently imposed on me: no objectives, no milestones—just sitting, looking, breathing. Letting the scenery do the work. It was enough.
The typical rocky beaches of Greece
Later in the afternoon, I turned back toward Vathy, retracing the hills for another hour or two—time loosens its grip out there. By evening, I was back where I had started, carrying that pleasant, full-body tiredness that only long walks earn you.
My final dinner on Ithaca deserved its own quiet ceremony: swordfish, perfectly cooked, a glass of crisp white wine, and the slow burn of sunset spilling across the bay. The water caught fire in golds and soft reds, boats drifting like commas in a sentence that didn’t want to end.
Final sunset dinner in Ithaca—waiting for the swordfish to jump into my plate
I already knew—I felt it in the way I lingered over every bite—that this was goodbye. My last night on the island. And even now, writing this, I feel that same gentle ache in my chest. Not sadness exactly. More like gratitude stretched just far enough to hurt.
From Ithaca to Kefalonia
Before leaving Ithaca, I treated myself to one final stroll around Vathy. The ferry to Kefalonia wasn’t until around noon, and the hotel driver would take me to the port, so there was no rush.
I wandered through the narrow streets, pausing at small shops and cafes, imagining what it might be like to retire here one day — to simply live in rhythm with the gentle pace of the island, with the bay and hills outside your window every morning. A new dream added to the file.
A miniature trireme riding painted waves on solid ground – some boats prefer pavement to the Ionian Sea
By noon, I boarded the ferry bound for Kefalonia, likely docking at Sami. From there, I caught a KTEL bus to Spartia — a journey of over four hours, giving me plenty of time to reflect on the fragmented patchwork of memories and photos that make up this trip. Arriving late afternoon, golden hour was already painting the village in soft warm light.
Arriving in the small village of Spartia in Kefalonia
In Spartia, I checked into an Airbnb apartment, my fourth style of accommodation in Greece — after hostels, camping, and hotels, now a small, cozy flat. I half-joked to myself that I was living like a professional travel reviewer: rating, reviewing, and documenting everything with meticulous care each night.
Dinner at Cavo Liakas
That evening, I found the village’s lone open restaurant, Cavo Liakas — a small, family-run patio place. The food here was a revelation. Generous portions, expertly prepared, affordable, and utterly delicious.
I discovered two new favorite dishes: feta me meli, a phyllo-wrapped baked feta with honey, and lamb kleftiko, slow-roasted lamb with vegetables, cooked in parchment paper. These meals legitimately made me pause, fork in hand, and sigh in sheer appreciation.
A Godly meal at Cavo Liakas: feta me meli and lamb kleftico
Greece continued to surprise me, even after Ithaca.
Spartia Beach
The following morning I picked out the nearest beach with a high rating on google and went for it. Thus far, I had visited a couple of beaches here and there, like the two on Ithaca and the one in Kira, but most of these were small, rocky, and I was just passing by. This time, I decided to dedicate a full day to a proper sandy beach.
Spartia Beach — the best sandy-beach I’ve seen in Greece
Spartia Beach didn’t disappoint: fine sand stretching out for hundreds of meters below the eroding cliffs, a real contrast to the rocky stretches I had endured before. Everywhere I looked, seashells were embedded in the limestone cliffs, a tangible reminder that this entire land had once rested beneath the sea before tectonic uplift transformed it into the islands I now explored.
Shells of all shapes and sizes in the eroding rocks of the old sea bed
Even with a few families and small groups dotting the sand, Spartia Beach never felt crowded. The people there moved with the same unhurried rhythm as the island itself: some reading under umbrellas, a few wading in the shallow turquoise water, others collecting shells along the shoreline.
A Day of Sea and Sun
I found a quiet spot and settled in, letting the warm sun and gentle sound of the waves sink in. Between the limestone cliffs, the glint of seashells, and the calm Ionian waters, the beach became a perfect blend of nature, history, and human rhythm — the ideal setting to just be, to do nothing but soak in the day.
Spartia beach from on top of the cliffs
The water itself was pure delight: warm, clean, and only occasionally tangled with a stray bit of algae. I alternated between long dips in the turquoise Ionian Sea and lying on the soft sand, slowly evening out the tan lines from days of hiking under the Greek sun. In the hotter hours, I’d retreat to the shade of the cliffs, only to return to the water as soon as the sun eased. For a few hours, I felt like a child again, fully immersed in the simple joys of sun, sea, and sand.
The Greek Orthodox Church in Spartia
Late afternoon, as the sun softened over the village, I returned for another memorable dinner at Cavo Liakas. The smiling host highlighted the day’s fresh catch — today it was bass — and I indulged, accompanied by crisp roasted zucchini as an appetizer. Simple, fresh, and gloriously Mediterranean, it was the perfect ending to a day devoted entirely to enjoyment and rest.
The Castle of Kefalonia
For my final in Spartia, I decided it was time for one last proper trek. My goal was the Castle of Agios Georgios, standing roughly an hour and a half away on foot.
The route led me along quiet countryside roads, the kind traced only by the occasional car and the slow passage of locals going about their day. For a long while, the scenery unfolded as wide open farmland with distant mountains sitting low on the horizon. Pleasant, but subdued. It wasn’t until I neared the village of Peratata that the views truly began to open up.
Castle of Agios Georgios view from the village of Peratata
Perched high above the lush Livathos valley, the Castle of St. George crowns a 320-meter hill in southern Kefalonia. From below it already looked imposing, but once inside the walls, the scale of the place really set in.
This was no lonely watchtower — it had once been a full-fledged fortified town. From the ramparts, the view stretched in every direction: over rolling olive groves, toward the endless blue of the Ionian Sea, and across to the distant bays of Lourdas and Trapezaki. A clean, sweeping 360° panorama that made the climb instantly worthwhile.
Old Stones and Epic Views
The heart of the fortress still bears the elegant stamp of its Venetian rulers. Above the main entrance, the ornate Venetian pediment remains proudly intact, even if the heavy wooden doors beneath it are now held together with modern supports.
The grand (and slightly patched-up) Venetian gateway into Kefalonia’s medieval past
The site itself traces back to the 12th century under the Byzantines, but it was the Venetians who transformed it after 1500 into the island’s capital — a self-contained city with mansions, cisterns, prisons, and even legend of a secret tunnel leading down to the sea. At its height, some 15,000 people once lived within these walls.
Looking out over the castle’s weathered walls: a sea of green rolling hills and the distant peaks of Kefalonia under an endless blue sky
The castle remained the island’s administrative and political center until 1757, when the Venetians relocated the capital to Argostoli to boost trade, leading to its gradual abandonment. Wandering along the uneven cobblestone paths between crumbling bastions, I once again found those familiar silhouettes of Venetian cannons — rusted, silent, but still defiantly aimed over the valley as if guarding a long-forgotten frontier.
A lone Venetian cannon still guarding the endless Ionian views
The site suffered further damage from wars, occupations (including French), and the devastating 1953 earthquake, which destroyed much of the island.
Quiet, Untouristy, Perfect
High on the fortress walls, a tattered Greek flag snapped in the wind against the rugged outline of Mount Ainos, Kefalonia’s highest peak. Below it, the simple stone façade of the old Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos stood in quiet contrast, its weathered sundial and arched doorway catching the light.
The weathered Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos inside the castle walls – sundial, stonework and all
What struck me most, though, was how wonderfully untouristy the place felt. The entrance fee was modest — under five euros if memory serves — and for views like these, it felt almost symbolic.
A truly unforgettable journey was coming to a close
Leaning over the fortress walls, the warm wind rising from the valley below, I couldn’t help but think how fitting this moment was. Standing atop ancient stone, overlooking sea and mountains alike, it felt like a proper, epic punctuation mark at the end of a journey rooted in legends.
Echoes of the Bronze Age
As I left the castle behind, I took a small detour on my way back to Spartia to visit another historical landmark I had spotted on Google Maps: the Mycenaean Necropolis of Mazarakata, the largest and most important Mycenaean cemetery in the Ionian Islands.
Stepping back 3,400 years through the doorways of Mycenaean chamber tombs at Mazarakata
Dating to the Late Bronze Age, roughly 1400–1100 BC, this site belongs to the same dramatic era as the palaces of Mycenae and even the legendary Trojan War. This was the time of the Odyssey — my ancient times. The site was free to enter and wrapped in a deep, unbroken calm. If the castle had been untouristy, this place felt almost completely off the radar, which only made it more special.
An entire Mycenaean city of the dead
The necropolis consists of seventeen rock-cut chamber tombs carved into a gentle hillside and arranged in three separate clusters. These were family vaults, used over generations, with some tombs containing up to thirty burials. Standing there among those silent stone chambers was yet another reminder of just how densely layered Greece truly is. Even in what feels like a quiet, rural corner of Kefalonia, you can still stumble upon traces of lives lived over three thousand years ago.
The ancient dromos (passageway) into a silent Mycenaean family vault
As a small side note, my review of this site ended up becoming my most viewed one on Google — probably helped by the low number of reviews at the time, which pushed mine right to the top. Every now and then I still get an email saying how many people saw it, and it always makes me smile, knowing that this tiny, peaceful place continues to ripple quietly through other travelers’ journeys.
Argostoli — Wandering Between Departures
On my day of departure, I had a late-night flight from Kefalonia to Athens, followed by an early-morning connection out. There was no rush to the airport just yet, so I took a morning bus from Spartia to Argostoli to spend my final hours roaming the island’s capital one last time.
Walking along the promenade in Argostoli
Even though Argostoli is the beating heart of Kefalonia, it never felt overwhelming. Within minutes I had walked along the northern promenade by the shore, watching boats idle in the harbor and the town ease into its daily rhythm. As the day warmed up, I drifted toward the park and spent a few slow, quiet hours migrating from bench to bench, updating my mom on everything I had seen and felt over the past days. It was one of those soft pauses in travel where nothing spectacular happens. An epilogue to the story I guess.
Victorian-era bandstand in Napier Park, Argostoli
When hunger finally set in, I picked a small, family-run taverna near the port and ordered a spread that felt like a farewell feast to Greek home cooking. There was gemista — stuffed tomatoes heavy with rice, herbs, and a hint of sweetness — imam baildi with its glossy, olive-oil-soaked aubergines, and a generous plate of horta, simple wild greens dressed with lemon and olive oil. Nothing fancy. Just honest, comforting food. Exactly what I wanted on my last afternoon.
Walking the Long Goodbye
By mid-afternoon, I had completely run out of plans. Even though I had loved my days in Kefalonia, I’d already been saying my internal goodbyes to Greece ever since Ithaca. I still had hours to fill, but no more destinations to chase.
So I did what I had done best for two weeks straight — I walked. This time slowly. Toward the airport. Letting memory after memory drift by with every step: Athens, Delphi, Patras, Ithaca, Spartia. The excitement had softened into something heavier now — not sadness exactly, but that gentle ache that comes when an adventure is truly ending.
Makris Gialos Beach with daily flight’s overhead
At some point along the way, it hit me that if I still had time, I might as well spend it properly. The road toward the airport followed the southern coast of Kefalonia, and just like that, Makris Gialos Beach presented itself as my final refuge. Big rucksack and all, I settled into the sand and watched the waves roll in under the golden evening light, planes carving quiet arcs overhead as they came in to land. It felt like the island itself was escorting me to the end.
Full Circle
A few hours and one short flight later, I was back in Athens, spending the night once again on an airport floor — just as I had before this entire journey began. Only this time, the conditions were far kinder. Athens Airport, with its dark corners and surprising pockets of quiet, earned a quiet victory over Geneva in my internal ranking of places one can actually sleep.
A pleasant overnight snooze awaited in a dim-lit corner of the Museum Section in Athens Airport
And just like that, the circle closed.
Greece had delivered everything I had hoped for — and more. This truly was my personal Odyssey. One I know I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. Somewhere between myth and memory, sun and stone, sea and ruin, Greece had become more than a destination. It had become a distant, familiar home in my heart.
My Odyssey in the Mountains began after three full days in Athens, when my journey carried me northwest toward the ancient sanctuary of Delphi. For any traveler drawn to the spirit of classical Greece, Delphi is almost a pilgrimage. Delphi was once revered as the navel of the world, where seekers came to receive the oracle’s cryptic guidance before facing the unknown. Following the old paths through the rising slopes of Mount Parnassus and down toward the Gulf of Corinth, I set out to trace a small part of that ancient landscape myself.
The rugged mountains unfortunately did not offer any respite from the heat
It was an Odyssey in the Mountains shaped by history, mythology, and a fair bit of summer heat—an experience that unfolded slowly, step by step, as I left the city behind.
But first, I had to reach and board a bus in Athens…
From Athens to Delphi
The KTEL bus terminal was about an hour’s walk from my hostel, and with my departure set around noon, I had the entire morning to burn. So I did what I always do in these moments: I walked. No rush, no plan—just letting the city reveal itself one last time before I traded the concrete sprawl for mountains and myth. It felt good to wander through the lived-in streets of Athens once more, soaking up that final dose of frantic capital energy. Still, part of me was already leaning toward the other side of the journey, eager for the slower rhythm of the Greek countryside.
The cats are back!
At the terminal, finding the right bus turned out to be surprisingly easy thanks to the drivers—every single one of whom seemed to speak enough English to cut through any confusion. Within minutes, I’d settled into my seat, ready for the three-hour ride northwest.
The journey out of Athens slipped by with Greek-vibe music in my earphones, matching the unfolding landscape outside the window. Between glances at the passing hills, I went down a rabbit hole of ancient myths and stories on the internet—because what else does one do on the way to Delphi, the legendary source of prophecy?
Myth and Reality
Somewhere between Athens and the mountains, the sense of adventure really hit me. I started chasing increasingly bizarre theories online, trying to see what scholars, dreamers, and conspiracy-enthusiasts had cooked up about The Odyssey. And then I found it: a delightfully unhinged theory proposing that Odysseus didn’t merely wander the Mediterranean for twenty years, but had actually circled the entire world. The author had charts, maps, astronomical guesses, linguistic acrobatics—everything but a sworn affidavit from Homer himself.
Cruising through the gorgeous Greek countryside
Ridiculous? Absolutely. Entertaining? Extremely. And for anyone curious about the sort of thinking that fuels these ideas, it was likely a twist on Enrico Mattievich’s Journey to the Mythological Inferno (2010)—a book that attempts to reframe Greek myth through far-flung global explorations. Whether brilliant or bonkers depends on your tolerance for speculative archaeology.
For a good hour or two I let myself fall into the “what ifs,” imagining Odysseus navigating oceans far beyond the known world, his legend stretching continents.
My first glimpse of the Gulf of Corinth in the distance
And somewhere in that swirl of mountains, myths, music, and madness, I realized just how ready I was for Delphi.
Arriving in Delphi
The bus dropped me off in the modern town of Delphi in the afternoon, and from there I made my way toward the campground I’d booked—a bit of a walk outside of town. When I checked the map, I realized it was almost an hour on foot from the ancient ruins. Bah… who cares? Every day is leg day.
The Oracle of Delfi awaits
Apollon Camping turned out to be the perfect choice for me. It had everything a traveler could want: affordable accommodation ranging from simple cabins to shared tents, a small restaurant, showers, laundry facilities, and even a swimming pool. But what really made it special was the view. On one side, the landscape opened into an endless sea of olive orchards cascading down toward the Gulf of Corinth. On the other side, the rugged slopes of Mount Parnassus rose like a stone fortress.
A lovely little corner at Apollon Camping
I was also surprisingly lucky with my shared tent. It was technically meant for four people—two bunk beds squeezed into a canvas shelter—but I only remember having a roommate for a single night. The rest of the time, I had the entire tent to myself, which made it feel more like a private little hideaway than a shared backpacker setup.
And no place in Greece is complete without at least one cat
By the time I’d settled in, the day was slipping into evening. I didn’t have the time to explore much beyond the campsite, so I simply wandered the grounds, and soaked in my surroundings. As night fell, the stars sharpened above the valley, bright and countless, stretching across the sky like ancient lanterns guiding travelers on their Odyssey in the Mountains—mine included.
Morning in Delphi
The following morning, after a simple breakfast at the campsite, I set off toward the Delphi Archaeological Site—about an hour’s walk along the winding road. The air was still cool, and the town had not yet fully stirred awake. By the time I reached the entrance, the place was quiet; none of the big tour buses had arrived yet, giving the sanctuary that rare early-morning stillness that lets you imagine what Delphi might once have sounded like before crowds, cameras, and guidebooks.
Bronze votive animals, 8th–5th centuries BC on display at the Delphi Archeological Museum
I began at the Delphi Archaeological Museum, a compact but brilliant collection that frames the entire site with context. Inside, the first rooms were filled with delicate gold trinkets, bronze figurines, and small votive offerings—objects gifted to Apollo in hopes of favor, prophecy, or redemption. Many were shaped like animals, warriors, or abstract symbols of wealth and devotion.
Display of the surviving gold and ivory items from life-size chryselephantine statues dedicated at Delphi
There were also helmets offered by victorious generals, ornate tripods dedicated by cities, and fragments of statues whose presence must once have overwhelmed ancient visitors. It’s one thing to imagine people seeking the oracle; it’s another to stand inches from the physical gifts they left behind to secure the god’s ear.
Bronze infantry helmets dedicated as war booty or personal offerings
What struck me most was how these artifacts weren’t simply religious items—they were political messages. In antiquity, city-states sent offerings not only to honor Apollo but to signal alliances, advertise victories, and compete for prestige. Delphi wasn’t just a spiritual center; it was a Panhellenic stage where power was displayed in bronze and marble.
Into the Ancient Sanctuary
Leaving the museum, I followed the stone path upward into the archaeological site. Early on, I passed one of Delphi’s most remarkable surviving structures: the famous curved polygonal retaining wall supporting the eastern terrace of the Temple of Apollo.
Polygonal retaining wall of the Temple of Apollo terrace, Delphi
At first glance it looks almost decorative. Its stones cut into irregular multi-sided shapes, fitted together like an ancient geometric puzzle. But standing close, you realize how extraordinary the craftsmanship is. Each limestone block was carved with many precise angles and then fitted into its neighbors with no mortar at all. The joints are so tight that even after 2,500 years—and countless earthquakes—you still couldn’t slip a sheet of paper between most of them.
The Athenian Treasury that used to house dedications and votive offerings made by their city and citizens to the sanctuary of Apollo
Further up stood the remains of several Treasuries, small temple-like buildings constructed by Greek city-states to store their offerings to Apollo. The most famous among them—the Treasury of the Athenians—once held war spoils, gilded statues, and lavish gifts meant to showcase the city’s power. Many of the items in the museum’s collection were originally displayed in structures like this, framed by political rivalry as much as religious devotion.
The Temple of Apollo
Soon after, the path opened onto the grand centerpiece of the sanctuary: the Temple of Apollo. Though only foundations and a few towering columns remain, the scale of the temple is impressive. This was the heart of Delphi, where the Pythia—the oracle—delivered cryptic prophecies believed to come directly from the god. Delegations came from all corners of the Greek world to seek answers here, paying hefty fees, bringing extravagant gifts, and hoping Apollo would tip fate in their favor.
Sanctuary of Apollo with gorgeous scenic view in the background
Just beside the temple stood another remarkable survivor of the ancient sanctuary: the bronze Serpent Column, one of the most famous war memorials in Greek history. Dedicated in 479 BCE by the 31 Greek city-states who united to defeat the Persians at the Battle of Plataea, the column originally stood nearly eight meters tall. Three intertwined serpents spiraled upward, their heads supporting a golden tripod and cauldron—an offering to Apollo in gratitude for victory. Unfortunately, only the bronze spiral remains today, the golden parts and the serpent heads having been looted centuries ago.
The Serpent Column with the Temple of Apollo in the background
Near the temple, I noticed a stone covered in worn Greek inscriptions. After a bit of research, I learned it resembled the Lyttian Inscription, originally from the ancient city of Lyttos in Crete, dating to around 500–450 BCE. The idea that a Cretan inscription stood here might seem odd, but in reality it makes sense: Delphi was a diplomatic theater.
The Lyttian Inscription at Delphi, dating to around 500–450 BCE
City-states erected inscribed stones to commemorate alliances, grant asylum, or declare political stances. In the case of Lyttos, such a stele might have been placed at Delphi as a public diplomatic message, invoking Apollo’s authority and broadcasting their decisions to the wider Greek world. Delphi mediated disputes, legitimized treaties, and symbolically “blessed” political acts—far more than just a mystical shrine, it was the nervous system of ancient Greek interstate relations.
The Theatre and the Stadium
Continuing uphill, the path eventually brought me to the Ancient Theatre of Delphi, perched dramatically on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. From the upper tiers, the view was almost unreal—terraces of stone seating overlooking the valley of olive orchards and the shimmering Gulf of Corinth in the distance. Here, festivals, hymns, and performances honoring Apollo once echoed through the mountains. The theatre wasn’t entertainment in the modern sense. Instead it was part of the religious calendar, a way to celebrate the god through art.
Ancient Theatre of Delphi with increasingly epic landscape views
A little higher still, at the very top of the sanctuary, lay the Stadium of Delphi. This elongated arena hosted the athletic competitions of the Pythian Games—the second most important games in the ancient world after the Olympics. Footraces, music contests, and displays of strength and skill all unfolded here. Standing on its stone starting line, surrounded by pine trees and cliffs, one could imagine the cheers of thousands filling the space during festival years.
The Stadium of Delphi where athletic displays unfolded
Yet even after reaching the stadium—the topmost structure at the archaeological site—I knew something was missing. That iconic round building associated so strongly with Delphi, the one that appears in documentaries, photos, and every pop-culture reference to the oracle…
The Tholos of Athena Pronaia
The structure I was thinking about wasn’t actually inside the main sanctuary at all. It sat a short walk down the road, past the remains of the Ancient Gymnasium, in the sanctuary of Athena Pronaia—the “Athena Before the Temple,” meaning this was the precinct pilgrims first encountered before reaching Apollo’s oracle.
I had finally found the iconic Tholos of Athena Pronaia
And there it was: the Tholos of Athena Pronaia, a circular structure with elegant columns arranged in a perfect ring. Even in ruins, it radiates an unmistakable mystique. No one is entirely sure what ritual purpose the Tholos served—perhaps a hero shrine, perhaps a place of offerings, perhaps something more symbolic—but its presence is powerful. Standing before it, I finally felt that familiar image of Delphi snap into place.
Blessing received—my journey could continue
This was the kind of spot I imagined ancient heroes visiting before setting off on impossible quests—seeking the oracle’s blessing, hoping a single prophecy might tilt fate in their favor. And now here I was, halfway through my own Odyssey in the Mountains, smiling at the timeless architecture and imagining the oracle nodding her approval for the rest of my journey.
Heat, Hills, and a Quiet Afternoon
With my pilgrimage complete, the mid-day sun began to press down with its full force. Temperatures were now climbing past 35°C. After a brief wander through modern-day Delfi, I decided it was time to make my way back to the campsite.
It was nap time for the friendly felines
Unlike my packed, power-walk days in Athens, the Delphi leg of my journey felt more balanced—part exploration, part recovery. Something about the mountains, the quiet, the air thick with history and stories, made the days feel like a kind of mental reset. Maybe even a subtle, ancient spiritual cleansing.
Even the Greek-ets were resting in the afternoon
By the time I reached the campsite, the heat had become overwhelming, so I spent the rest of the afternoon in much calmer fashion: swimming, resting in the shade, and letting the weight of the morning settle in. Sometimes travel is about movement; Delphi reminded me that it can also be about stillness.
An Ancient Pilgrimage
My following day in Delphi was dedicated to walking a part of an ancient Greek pilgrimage road. Thousands of years ago, when people crossed the Greek world to consult the Oracle of Apollo, their journey didn’t end in Delphi itself. They would first arrive by ship at the coastal city of Kirrha, the ancient harbor of Delphi on the Gulf of Corinth. From there, the sacred path led through a vast, centuries-old olive grove and slowly climbed the slopes of Mount Parnassus until it finally reached the sanctuary.
The Gulf of Corinth seen from the road near Delphi
Most visitors stopped at Delphi — after all, they had reached the world’s spiritual center — but the pilgrimage road continued even higher into the mountains, winding through forests and ravines until it reached the Corycian Cave, a place with a long, mysterious history. In myth, it was sacred to the nymphs and to Pan; in the real world, it was deeply tied to Delphi’s ritual landscape. Pilgrims, priests, and initiates came here for ceremonies long predating the Temple of Apollo, and some ancient writers even hinted that ecstatic rites connected to the oracle took place within its depths.
On this second day, I planned to walk the road all the way down to the Gulf and back. Then, on my last full day, I hoped to follow the other half — the steep path up to the cave.
The Guardian Cerberus
My journey began with a zig-zagging road descending the mountainside. There was a small village to cross before reaching the rugged “ancient Greek wilderness.” But as I would soon discover, the path was guarded by Cerberus, the hound of Hades himself.
Church of Agios Georgios Chrisso (ancient Krissa), Phocis Region, Greece 19th–20th century
I was walking through this quiet village, music in my ears, when a dog erupted from a house whose gate stood wide open. And this was not the “tail-wagging hello stranger!” bark. No. This was the “YOU SHALL NOT PASS, O MORTAL INTRUDER” kind — full territorial mode.
I stopped. Hesitated. Whipped out my phone and checked Google Maps for an alternate route. There wasn’t one. Of course.
The beast stood its ground, delivering occasional growls to remind me that mortals have limits. There was no owner in sight; no obvious escape; no diplomatic channel. My frustration rose.
A Mortal’s Resolve Before the Gate of Hades
Finally, I told myself: No mutt is going to stop Odyssian from completing his legendary journey. So with one slow, steady breath, I walked forward — calm, confident, and acting as if the underworld’s guardian wasn’t right there barking his judgement upon me.
Cerberus did not appreciate my aura of divine-level indifference. His protests grew louder as I passed, refusing to acknowledge him. I kept my stride firm. Then, suddenly — WHUMP. The hound head-butted my butt.
Not a bite. Not even a nip. Just a firm, exasperated shove from the snout, the canine equivalent of: Yeah, that’s right, keep moving, monkey. This is MY realm. I burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, tense, and utterly mythological all at once.
Descending the ancient path after my close encounter with Cerberus
We had both achieved our victories: I left his sacred territory, and he successfully defended it. And with that peace treaty sealed, the ancient path toward Kirrha lay open.
The Modern Lifeline of the Pleistos Valley
A little further down the mountain, just as the last houses of the village faded behind me, the trail crossed a curious sight: a narrow concrete water channel cutting across the hillside. It felt oddly out of place in the dry, rugged terrain — a quiet reminder that even in landscapes steeped in ancient history, modern Greece still threads its necessities through the mountains.
Coming across the Mornos Aqueduct on my journey
This was an exposed section of the Mornos Aqueduct, part of the vast Evinos–Mornos system that carries drinking water all the way to Athens. Most of the aqueduct runs hidden through tunnels and underground conduits, but here in the upper valley it surfaces briefly before disappearing back into the slopes. The terrain around it was still harsh and sun-baked, all rock, scrub, and brittle grass — no shade, no olive trees yet, and the day was already beginning to heat up as noon approached.
Scuba diving trip all the way to Athens?
For a moment a moment I contemplated having a sip. It looked clean, cool, and almost inviting. But then I remembered the long lasting downstairs consequences of drinking tainted water once. I later learned, this channel carries treated drinking water bound for Athens, part of a tightly monitored system that supplies a huge portion of the capital. Locals sometimes splash their hands in it to cool off, but it’s not meant to drink from directly.
A Chapel in the Highlands
Leaving the aqueduct behind, I continued toward the edge of the highlands and soon came upon the small Byzantine church of Agios Georgios. A 10th–12th century chapel perched quietly on the slope, it watches over the pilgrims’ trail much like it has for a millennium. From here the view spilled wide into the Pleistos Valley and out toward the Corinthian Gulf — a perfect spot for a short break in the rare patch of shade.
The Byzantine church of Agios Georgios on the ancient path
About a kilometer downhill lay Chrisso, gateway to the vast Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa — also known as the Krisaean Plain or Amfissa Olive Grove. A UNESCO-protected landscape of 5,500 hectares and more than 1.2 million olive trees, it is the largest continuous olive grove in Greece. Some of its trees date back centuries, even a thousand years, and the grove itself has roots reaching over 3,000 years into the past. This is the “Sea of Olives” the ancient pilgrims crossed on their way from the coast at Kirra to the Oracle of Delphi.
The Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa stretching out in every direction
By this point, however, I had made a rookie mistake: I’d run out of water. I was still operating on “Transylvanian / Norwegian mountains” where clean springs and streams appear regularly. Greek wilderness, as I quickly learned, is not that. Arid, sunbaked, and largely waterless — the kind of terrain that reminds you, unmistakably, that hydration isn’t optional.
Crossing the Sea of Olives
Luckily, Kirra was not far. With the steep hills behind me and the terrain flattening out into the endless olive grove, I pushed onward. The trees offered bursts of shade here and there, enough to keep me going even as thirst clawed its way up my throat.
Walking — or would it be swimming? — in the Sea of olives
One quick stop at a small store later — blessed cold water! — I had officially reached Kirra, the ancient port of Delphi. After nearly a week in Greece, I finally touched the Mediterranean Sea. The water was astonishingly warm, and the whole town felt quiet and unhurried, maybe because it was midweek, or maybe because Kirra simply is that kind of sleepy coastal place.
The rocky beaches of Kirra
After a refreshing dip, I found a nearby restaurant for lunch. I ordered chicken, which was excellent… but I immediately regretted it when the local at the next table began bragging — between blissful mouthfuls of crab — that this was the best seafood restaurant in the region. My heart (and stomach) sank. Next time, I suppose!
The Sun Strikes Back
By now, daily temperatures were climbing toward their brutal peak. My plan had been to hike all the way back up to Delphi, completing the full pilgrimage loop… but reality was setting in fast. Water would be an issue again, shade would be almost nonexistent, and the afternoon heat felt like stepping into an oven.
The Harbour of Kirra where ancient pilgrims would start their 12-14 km Sacred Walk up to the Oracle of Delphi
Eventually, I decided it was wiser — and safer — to find the bus station and catch a ride back. This also gave me the chance to buy my onward ticket to Patras and see where the Delphi bus stop was located. A practical detour in my otherwise mythical journey.
The Kiss sculpture by Kostas Varotsos on the Kirra seaside promenade
As I waited, hiding in whatever sliver of shade I could find, I checked the forecast: extreme heat warning, likely close to 40°C. No water sources, no shelter, and a steep mountain hike? More and more it looked like my plan to hike up the mountains the next day was not a great idea. After my unexpected brush with Cerberus earlier that morning, I wasn’t exactly eager to challenge Hephaestus’ furnace as well.
Pool lounging time with some serious tan lines
Back at camp, I mulled it over, but the conclusion didn’t change. And indeed — the next day was ferocious. So instead of the planned hike to the Corycian Cave, I spent most of it by the pool, dipping in and out to survive the scorching air. A little disappointing, sure, but pushing into hazardous conditions for the sake of stubbornness would’ve been foolish.
The rising moon at dusk over the Pleistos Valley
With my last day in Delphi drawing to a close, the soundtrack of my journey began rising again — that familiar hum of anticipation — as I boarded the bus toward the port city of Patras. My Odyssey in the Mountains was officially behind me.
Across the Bridge to Patras
Following a two-hour bus ride along the coast, we eventually crossed the impressive Rio–Antirrio Bridge (Charilaos Trikoupis) — a modern engineering marvel stretching almost 3 km across the Gulf of Corinth. It links mainland Greece with the Peloponnese, not far from where the ancient lands of Achaea, Elis, and the wider sphere of classical Sparta once lay. The city of Patras, Greece’s third largest, came shortly after. Not a classic tourist hotspot, but that only made me more curious about what this coastal metropolis really had to offer.
Coming up on the Rio–Antirrio Bridge
I had booked a cheap two-star hotel somewhere in the center. Out of all my accommodations during the trip, this was the most run-down looking, for sure — cracked tiles, peeling paint, a fridge that hummed like an angry bee. But it served its purpose. And the city itself, from first glance, felt rougher around the edges: lived-in, gritty, but unmistakably authentic. A glimpse of everyday modern Greece rather than a curated postcard.
After settling in, I picked out the first major attraction highlighted on Google Maps — the Church of Saint Andrew — and headed straight there.
The Church of Saint Andrew
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras is one of the largest churches in Greece and one of the most significant pilgrimage sites in the Orthodox world. The current basilica was completed in 1974, built to complement an older 19th-century church standing beside it. Its enormous central dome, crowned with a shimmering cross, is visible from a distance — a beacon rising over the western edge of the Peloponnese.
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras
Saint Andrew himself holds a special place in both Christian tradition and local Patras identity. According to early accounts, Andrew was the first of the Apostles called by Christ, earning him the title “Protoklētos” — the First-Called. His missionary journeys eventually led him to Greece, where he preached across the Peloponnese. It was in Patras, tradition says, that he met his martyrdom: crucified on an X-shaped cross at the order of the Roman proconsul Aegeates. This distinctive form — now known globally as “St. Andrew’s Cross” — became one of the Apostle’s enduring symbols.
Preserved fragments of Saint Andrew’s cross
Because Patras is believed to be the site of Andrew’s final days, the church holds several relics directly connected to him. Inside the basilica — richly decorated with icons, mosaics, chandeliers, and sweeping arches — you’ll find some of its most treasured objects: portions of the Apostle’s skull, returned to Patras from the Vatican in 1964 in a historic gesture of goodwill; fragments of the cross on which he was martyred, preserved in ornate reliquaries; and even a section of the rope believed to have bound him during the crucifixion.
The main reliquary of Saint Andrew’s head
These relics draw thousands of pilgrims each year, especially on November 30, the Feast of Saint Andrew. Even for someone simply passing through the city, the atmosphere inside feels heavy with history — layered centuries of faith, devotion, and legend.
Among Ruins and Relics at Sunset
After leaving the grand basilica behind, I wandered through the surrounding streets as the evening light turned warm and golden. The area around Saint Andrew’s Church is dotted with layers of history, and as I meandered downhill I kept stumbling across ruins almost casually embedded in the modern city — a random Roman-era retaining wall here, the excavated foundations of an early Christian basilica there.
Roman-era retaining wall near the Cathedral in Patras
These remains belong to the ancient martyrium complex built directly over the spot where Saint Andrew is believed to have been crucified around 60 AD. Just beside the archaeological site stands the Old Church of Saint Andrew, a much smaller 19th-century structure that predates the modern basilica. Once it housed relics of the Apostle himself, but since the consecration of the new cathedral in 1974, those relics have been relocated to a special shrine in the larger church.
Excavated remains of the ancient basilica and martyrium
Patras basically built its entire religious identity around this exact patch of ground where the apostle was killed. Pretty powerful place to stumble across while just wandering the city!
With the sun now sinking behind the Gulf of Patras and the light softening into twilight, I finally turned back toward my hotel, ready to continue exploring the city with fresh energy the next day.
Walking Through the Roman Heart of Achaea
My day in Patras started with a long city walk up toward one of its most distinctive landmarks: the Roman Odeon. Patras may not have the same immediate name recognition as Athens or Corinth, but what it does have is a remarkably intact Roman layer — and the Odeon is the crown of that stratum.
The restored Roman Odeon of Patras
Dating from the 1st or early 2nd century A.D., the Odeon once served as a venue for musical events, small theatrical performances, and public ceremonies. Its size may feel modest compared to the great imperial theatres of the east, but that’s exactly what makes it so interesting: it’s a Roman building scaled to the needs of a thriving port city on the edge of Greece.
The stage building of the Roman Odeon
The Odeon was buried under earth for centuries and only rediscovered in 1889 when a landslide revealed part of the seating. Since then the structure has been impressively restored — the cavea, the stage buildings, and even the backstage complex have been reconstructed enough to give a genuine sense of how it functioned. Its red brickwork, marble seating edges, and compact proportions make it feel almost intimate.
View towards the ancient agora from near the Odeon
As far as I recall, entry here was free, and that aligns with older guides, though fees may change. Either way, it was a great first stop and set the tone for the rest of the day: Patras unfolds its history piece by piece, and most of it sits right out in the open.
The Castle of Patras
High above the modern city, on the pine-covered hill that once guarded the ancient acropolis of Patrai, stands the Castle of Patras (Kastro Patras). Built by the Byzantine emperor Justinian I in the 6th century AD on the ruins of a Roman-era temple of Artemis, it was later strengthened by Franks, Venetians, and Ottomans – every conqueror leaving their own layer of stone and story. The triangular inner keep, the deep moat (now a green garden), and the six bastions still feel like a living timeline.
The park-like alleyways within Patras Castle
The castle inner part provides pleasant walkways among its ruins with a the park-like feel to it. From the ramparts you get sweeping views of the old town and the Gulf of Patras. The mix of stonework styles makes it a good example of how cities like this evolved in cultural layers.
The sea through the castle gate
Walking around the battlements, though, was undeniably refreshing after the city streets. If Patras’ Roman side shows you its internal world, the castle gives you its vantage point. I also vaguely remember this site being free as well, but I might be mistaken.
The Archaeological Museum of Patras
After exploring the old town and castle heights, I walked about three kilometers across the city to the Archaeological Museum of Patras. Built relatively recently, with the modern building inaugurated in 2009, the museum showcases artifacts from the region spanning from the Neolithic era (4th millennium BC) up to late antiquity.
Mycenaean zoomorphic vessels (askoi), 12th century BCE. These duck-shaped ritual containers were likely used for oils or libations.
Inside, the permanent exhibition is organized into three major halls: Private Life, Public Life, and Cemeteries. The collection includes Mycenaean-era pottery, Roman-era mosaics from wealthy villas, daily-use tools, sculptures, tomb artifacts, and remnants from various aspects of private and public life. These items together offer a vivid glimpse into how people lived, worked, and celebrated life in Patras across millennia.
A young girl’s skull crowned with delicate terracotta blossoms, 300–200 BC
Among the museum’s most striking pieces were several Hellenistic-period skulls adorned with delicate terracotta or gilded myrtle wreaths, dating to roughly 300–275 BC. These decorated crania, originally part of funerary rituals, convey a deeply personal and almost haunting glimpse into ancient beliefs surrounding death and remembrance.
The Beauty of Patras mosaic (2nd century AD) — She’s still putting on her makeup.
In the Public Life and Private Life halls, mosaics from Roman-era villas depict scenes of daily activities, mythological motifs, and geometric patterns, while other objects — lamps, jewelry, household tools — make the past feel surprisingly immediate and tangible.
Mycenaean Octopus Bathtub (ca. 1300 BC) — I wouldn’t mind one of these
Compared with the National Archaeological Museum in Athens, which overwhelms with scale and monumental treasures, the Patras museum feels more personal and eclectic. Its mix of unusual and intimate pieces — from the skulls with wreaths to the Mycenaean octopus bathtub — offers a glimpse into everyday life and local practices that you won’t get in the capital. Visiting both museums gives a richer perspective on Greece’s layered history, making Patras well worth the stop.
Lunch, Late-Afternoon Wander
After the museum, I treated myself to a late lunch — paidakia (lamb chops), a hearty and well-earned meal after all the walking and sightseeing. The late afternoon sun was slowly leaning west, casting the city in warm, golden light.
Paidakia with garlic mashed potatoes
I continued my stroll through Patras through the scattered Roman ruins, including what remains of an ancient Roman stadium. The ruins lie amid the city’s winding streets; while they’re not as well preserved or grand as some major ancient stadia, they provide another layer of Roman presence beneath the modern city fabric.
The End of This Leg of My Journey
As I walked among the stones, mosaics, and fragmented walls, I felt the weight of a very different kind of history than the one I’d absorbed back in Athens. The capital overwhelms you with its grand Hellenic past — the kind of iconic, marble-crowned scenery that needs no introduction. Patras, by contrast, doesn’t deliver that same postcard-perfect Greek antiquity. Instead, it reveals its past in quieter, rougher layers: Roman arches half-swallowed by modern streets, broken mosaics exposed under patches of wild grass, and scattered ruins almost casually embedded in the city’s everyday life.
Remains of the Roman Stadium in Patras
Yet that contrast made it all the more compelling. Here, I wasn’t walking through curated monuments but through a city that had been built and rebuilt over centuries, each era leaving traces without fully erasing the last. Patras may not have Athens’ classical grandeur, but it offered a vivid sense of the Roman world lingering beneath the surface.
Patras and the Ionian Sea viewed from Patras Castle
Having now explored the legendary Athenian capital, traversed the foothills of Parnassus and the sacred olive groves, paid my tribute to the Oracle of Delphi, and delved into the rich Roman and Christian heritage of Patras, I felt the full weight and wonder of this leg of my Odyssey in the Mountains. With each step, I had moved through layers of history, myth, and modern life, and now I was ready to embark on the final stretch of my journey — a voyage across the sparkling waters of the Ionian Sea toward the storied isles of the west, to Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus himself.
From the moment my future PhD position in Canada was confirmed in early May 2019, I knew I was going to spend that summer on a long-awaited holiday in Greece. After the surprising personal discoveries and new friendships I’d written about in earlier posts, the idea of exploring my distant ancestral roots had grown too powerful to ignore. And with my long-standing, tongue-in-cheek claim of being a modern reincarnation of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, I felt a genuine urge to embark on my own quest across the country. Thus, the planning for my 2019 Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca began.
Eternal sunshine and hot days await!
Even though I had already travelled to quite a few countries and lived abroad for several years, this was going to be my first true solo adventure — the prototype for how I’d plan all my future travels: set my key destinations, book the essentials, and then wing everything else along the way.
Planning and Logistical Challenges
My approach to this solo trip was simple. I had a starting point, Athens, and a final destination, Ithaca. Athens was the obvious place to begin: the capital, the largest airport hub, and the gateway to any Greek adventure. When searching for flights, I found a direct option from Geneva, conveniently close to Lausanne, where my friend Eddy had recently moved for his PhD. Perfect — I could spend a few days in Switzerland visiting him before heading down to Greece.
The only downside was that the flight was at 6:00 a.m. Brutal. Even worse, I wasn’t coming from Lausanne itself, but from a small village outside the city — meaning I had to get to Geneva Airport for one of the earliest departures of the day. My only option was to take a late-night train and spend the entire night at the airport.
A miserable long night in the Geneva airport…
Unfortunately, the terminals were closed overnight, so all early-morning passengers had to wait in the public area, where there wasn’t a single comfortable seat. Every bench had metal armrests to prevent people from lying down, so those hoping to rest were forced onto the cold, hard floor. I joined them. It was not a comfortable night… not at all. My overnight experience rating of Geneva Airport: 1 out of 5 stars. Terrible.
Time Allocation
Next I had to figure out how much time I would allocate to Athens, Ithaca, and any places in between. Athens is huge and overflowing with things to experience — but also expensive. I decided on around four days, staying in a shared hostel dorm to keep costs low while staying right in the center of the city.
Oh man, I’m becoming quite the map artist over here…
Looking at the map, I realized that the legendary sanctuary of Delphi was almost exactly on my route. Having been fascinated by Greek mythology through books, documentaries, and visually immersive games like Titan Quest, I felt compelled to stop there and finally see those landscapes in person. Modern Delphi is quite pricey, though… but for the adventurous budget traveler, I discovered a campsite within walking distance of town that offered shared tent accommodation for a tiny fraction of the price. Three to four days there sounded just right.
Down the stairs, straight to the sea – Patras
Further west lay the larger city of Patras, at the mouth of the Corinthian Gulf — and the port from which I’d have to catch a ferry to Ithaca. I managed to find a really cheap hotel option, so I figured I’d take two nights and give myself some time to explore the city. As for Ithaca itself, accommodation options were limited, so I splurged on a proper hotel room for a couple of nights. By far the most expensive stay of the trip — but since I was “going home”, it felt like the right move.
The Plan Takes Shape
After some digging, I found bus and ferry connections for each leg of the journey. Some routes, like Athens–Delphi or the Patras–Ithaca ferry, I could book in advance. Others, like Delphi to Patras, were impossible to reserve online, meaning I simply had to trust that tickets would be available when I arrived. So be it — improvisation was part of the charm of this adventure.
As I’d soon discover, Greece has one of the largest populations of surprisingly happy stray cats… so expect plenty more random cat cameos.
The last challenge was finding a quicker route back to Athens without retracing the entire journey. The only realistic option was a domestic flight from the nearby island of Kefalonia. Not wanting to skip the chance to explore somewhere new, I booked two nights in an Airbnb in the small village of Spartia on Kefalonia as well.
Mount Ainos doing its dramatic thing, Kefalonia summer vibes
With every accommodation sorted — hostels, tents, hotels, and rural Airbnbs — and an itinerary that wove together ancient ruins, museums, mountain hikes, beaches, islands, and quiet village life, the plan was complete. I was finally ready for the adventure of a lifetime: my Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca.
Arrival
Memory of the flight and the journey from Athens Airport to my hostel is a bit fuzzy—mostly because of how exhausted I was. I remember flashes of being impressed by the well-decorated Athenian airport and a surprisingly smooth bus ride into the city. The moment I reached the hostel, I crashed straight into bed and slept for four hours.
A nightly walk around the neighborhood
I finally woke up sometime in the afternoon. After a desperately needed shower, I headed out for my first Greek meal: moussaka. The restaurant was right next to the hostel—kind of attached to it, but also its own thing. That meal was on a completely different level, better than anything I’d tasted before. I was instantly convinced of the superiority of Greek cuisine and ended up returning to that same spot every day. That’s also where I befriended Nikos, a cool, friendly, constantly-smiling waiter who turned out to be a fellow metalhead and music connoisseur.
Starting off strong, with a staple Greek dish: Moussaka
Once I finished that heavenly dish, I took a quick walk around the neighborhood to get my bearings. The rest of the evening I just chilled—attending the newcomers’ event, having a drink with other travelers, and enjoying the incredible view of the Acropolis from City Circus Hostel’s rooftop terrace.
Day One Detour
After a long, glorious night of sleep, I woke up fully charged and ready to walk the hell out of Athens. But before I could start exploring, I had a pretty important side quest to complete. Actually, it was more of a main quest.
At the time, I was in the middle of applying for a Canadian student visa, and for that I needed to get my biometrics done at a Canadian embassy. Luckily, it didn’t have to be done in my country of residence or citizenship. So while planning this Greek adventure, I made sure to book an appointment at the Canadian Embassy in Athens for the first day after arrival.
Panagia Kapnikarea: 1000 years old Byzantine gem casually sitting in the middle of Athens’ busiest street since forever
This meant my first morning in Greece started with a taxi ride to the northeastern part of the city, to a quiet residential neighborhood where the embassy was located. The whole process was smooth and quick, and soon enough I was free—with the entire day ahead of me. So I thought: Well… might as well start exploring from here and walk my way back downtown. Just about 10 km. On foot.
This is where one of my staple solo-travel habits was born: walk until my back breaks and my feet fall off.
Modern day Athens
So I started walking—down quiet residential streets, taking in the hot-climate architecture I’d never seen before. White and light-colored buildings everywhere, decorated with intricate grill-style window and balcony designs. Pointy rocky cliffs in the distance. Lush parks scattered along the way. Orange-tree-lined streets glowing in the sun.
Walking along Athenian busy boulevards
Orange trees. In the middle of the city. This was completely new to me. Naturally, I had to try one. Instant regret. I later learned they’re decorative, not edible.
The forbidden Athenian street oranges
But the surprises didn’t stop with the oranges. Soon I began spotting Greece’s famous olive trees. Then I passed a particularly ancient one—girthy, fenced off, standing proudly in the center of a busy boulevard. The plaque said fifteen centuries old. Fifteen centuries. Holy-oldy.
This 500-year-old olive’s seen more drama than a Greek tragedy
Nearby towered a massive modern sculpture rising above the traffic like some kind of metallic-glass titan.
Dromeas (The Runner) sculpture by Costas Varotsos, central Athens
By then, I was really feeling the midday heat. My water bottle was empty, and after hours of walking I desperately needed a boost. I ducked into a gas station and spotted a Gatorade-style drink. I normally never buy those, but if there was ever a time for electrolytes, this was it. And oh boy, did it work. Ten minutes later, I was fully recharged and marching ahead at full speed.
Athenian War Museum
Even with my energy restored, the midday sun was getting a bit too enthusiastic, so I started searching for a place where I could cool down before melting into the pavement. Since I was already close to central Athens, I had plenty of museums within reach, but it was the Athenian War Museum that caught my attention. Something about the combination of ancient Greek lore and modern warfare just clicked with my overheated, curiosity-fueled brain.
Greece’s first warplane (1912), the Daedalus, flying high in the War Museum
The museum itself was founded in the 1970s to showcase Greece’s long, turbulent military history—from classical hoplite warfare all the way to the 20th century. Walking in, it felt like stepping into a compressed timeline of the country’s battles, heroes, and strategic obsessions. Greece has basically spent several millennia fighting off everyone from Persians to Ottomans to Nazis, and the museum doesn’t shy away from any of it. If anything, it seems proud to lay out its entire warrior résumé in chronological order.
The Execution of Patriarch Gregory V on Easter Sunday (1821) by Nikiforos Lytras
Inside, the first thing that hit me—apart from the heavenly, life-saving burst of cold air—was a wall of iconic medieval shields. Round ones, kite-shaped ones, Maltese-style crosses, all neatly arranged like some kind of “Choose Your Fighter” selection screen from a medieval RPG. Nearby were tables and displays full of swords, halberds, axes, and all kinds of pointy objects that would make even a fantasy dwarf proud. I probably spent way too long just staring at steel.
Replica medieval weapons and shields (Byzantines, Franks, Hospitallers, and Teutonics)
From Ancient to Modern
Further in the exhibits jumped forward in time. Suddenly I was surrounded by WWI and WWII-era weaponry—machine guns, flamethrowers, uniforms, radios, and other gear from Greece’s involvement in the wars. There’s something surreal about seeing the evolution from bronze shields and hoplite helmets to gas masks and belt-fed machine guns under the same roof.
From Medieval times to German WWII weaponry
Somewhere between these halls of steel and gunpowder, one quieter but far more emotional piece caught my eye: The Execution of Patriarch Gregory V on Easter Sunday (1821) by Nikiforos Lytras. The painting portrays the moment the Patriarch was executed by the Ottomans at the start of the Greek War of Independence — despite the fact that he had publicly denounced the uprising. Lytras captured the tragedy with stark intensity: the tension of the ropes, the muted horror in the surrounding faces, the clash between spiritual authority and authoritarian power.
German naval guns from 1940s cruisers
Back outside, the museum courtyard delivered an entirely different vibe: a lineup of full-size military hardware from the modern era. Helicopters, artillery pieces, and sleek fighter jets stood silently under the blazing sun — an open-air gallery of 20th-century firepower contrasting sharply with the many ancient and medieval artifacts inside.
A Stroll Through the National Garden
Once I left the cool comfort of the war museum behind, I instantly felt oppressed once more by the scorching afternoon sun. Luckily, a nearby grand park offered just the right shaded environment for a gradual reacclimatisation to the high temperatures — the Athens National Garden.
Chilling with the Kri-Kri goats in the shade at the Athens National Garden
Originally commissioned in the 19th century by Queen Amalia, the first queen of modern Greece, the garden still carries her imprint everywhere. As I wandered in, exhausted but determined, the shift from blazing concrete to deep, lush shade felt almost magical. Tall palm trees, winding gravel paths, and dense greenery wrapped around me like a cool oasis in the middle of the capital. It was the perfect place to slow down, rehydrate, and give my legs a fighting chance after hours of constant walking.
The National Garden’s deep green shade felt heavenly in the blazing afternoon heat
At one point I reached Queen Amalia’s Pergola, one of the garden’s most iconic structures — a long walkway lined with tall Corinthian pillars, once covered in vines and still carrying that mix of royal elegance and Mediterranean charm.
Queen Amalia’s Pergola in the Athens National Garden
Between the shade, the occasional breeze, and the pockets of history tucked into the greenery, the National Garden became the perfect intermission in my long Athenian march. After exploring a more modern setting of Athens, it was now time to slip much back in time again — all the way to the birthplace of the first modern Olympic Games. With renewed energy and curiosity, I set off toward the legendary Panathenaic Stadium.
The Marble Furnace of Athens
From the shady park back out into the blazing sun, the Panathenaic Stadium ended up being only a brief stop. I’m pretty sure the closed metal gate didn’t allow casual visitors to waltz right in, but honestly, it could just as well have been the desolating sun blasting the entire stadium without a single ounce of shade. As impressive as that horseshoe-shaped arena looked from outside, the idea of stepping onto a giant marble heat magnet in 30-plus degrees was a level of suffering I was not keen on enduring.
The marble summer heat magnet that was the Panathenaic Stadium in Athens
The Panathenaic Stadium, though, is undeniably iconic. Originally built in the 4th century BC for the Panathenaic Games, it was refurbished entirely in white marble by Herodes Atticus in Roman times — a unique feature it still boasts today. Centuries later, in 1896, it became the venue of the first modern Olympic Games, symbolically linking ancient athletic tradition with the rebirth of the global sporting event. Even from the outside, its gleaming tiers of marble radiate a kind of timeless grandeur… and also, on that day, enough heat to cook a gyros.
Aristotle’s Lyceum
Moving on, I finally headed to my first major archaeological site in Athens: the Ancient Gymnasium — Aristotle’s Lyceum. It was here that I bought the unifying 7-site Athens pass for the incredibly reasonable price of 30 euros, granting access to the major archaeological sites across the city. A true bargain… and sadly one that was discontinued in 2025.
Statue of Aristotle in the National Garden
The Lyceum itself isn’t a grand towering ruin but rather a quiet, open archaeological space — the foundations of ancient training grounds, lecture areas, and courtyards that once buzzed with brilliant minds. This was the very place where Aristotle taught his students while strolling through the peripatos, shaping ideas that would echo through millennia. Walking through it, with the dusty outlines of old walls, one could imagine the philosophers debating under the same Athenian sky thousands of years ago.
Ruins of the Ancient Gymnasium: Aristotle’s Lyceum (Lykeion)
Despite its modest size, the site has a uniquely contemplative atmosphere. The shaded patches of trees and the soft hum of cicadas gave it a peaceful, almost academic calm — fitting, considering this was one of the birthplaces of Western philosophy. I lingered for a while, soaking in the blend of ancient intellect and having another shady bench-rest, before heading out toward my next stop.
Temple of Zeus
With the worst of the afternoon heat finally easing, I continued onward to the Temple of Olympian Zeus — a site that, despite being mostly open to the sky, felt surprisingly manageable in the mellowing light. The approach led me first through the ornate Hadrian’s Arch, which still stands like a proud ceremonial gateway separating old Athens from the new. Passing beneath its marble frame felt like stepping through a threshold in time.
Passing under Hadrian’s Arch, straight into the shadow of the colossal Temple of Olympian Zeus
Beyond it stretched the vast archaeological grounds of the temple itself. Even in ruin, the sheer scale of Olympian Zeus’s sanctuary is staggering. Only a handful of its towering Corinthian columns remain standing, but those that do rise with such improbable height and elegance that it’s easy to imagine the full colonnade dominating ancient Athens.
Only 15 columns left of what was once the largest temple in Greece – yet they still dwarf everything, with the Parthenon watching from the hill
The fallen drums lying around them add to the dramatic sense of age, as if the gods themselves had toppled the temple in slow motion over the centuries. Apart from these striking remnants, the archaeological grounds were a relatively brief walk — a final open-air stretch before I moved on to the last target on my day’s ambitious hit list.
National Archaeological Museum
After hours of wandering through the layered story of Athens—its streets, its gardens, its memories—I made my final stop for the day: the National Archaeological Museum. The building exudes the gravitas of a place that guards not simply artifacts, but identity—centuries of artistic vision, religious devotion, war, myth, and memory distilled into stone, bronze, and clay.
Odyssian approves of these vases
Inside, the first items that spring right up are the pots. Those ancient Greek vases—depicting hoplites, centaurs, scenes of war, and countless other figures and activities—crafted in such precise, elegant forms that they immediately drew me in. I simply adore the effortless balance of the silhouettes, the way the clean black lines capture motion, tension, and personality with such economy. I could really see myself owning a few of those one day, decorating a fancy kitchen in a hypothetical future home of mine—One day…
Beyond the Artefacts
As I moved deeper into the galleries, the sculptures took center stage. The serene faces of the korai, with their almond eyes and faint, enigmatic smiles, radiated a stillness that felt almost alive—like they were quietly observing each visitor, deciding whether to reveal their secrets.
Archaic korai (550–480 BC) from the Acropolis standing guard in the museum
A remarkable piece that stood out to me was the relief of a centaur in violent combat with a Lapith man. A relief sculpture that used to adorn the Acropolis depicting a powerful mythological scene. The scene likely belongs to the mythological cycle of the Centauromachy, symbolizing the conflict between order and chaos, civilization and barbarism.
Relief sculpture of a centaur in violent combat with a Lapith man
Finally, there were the pigments — a vivid wake-up reminder that these statues and reliefs were once drenched in color. As modern-day visitors wandering among bleached-white archaeological sites, temples, and sculptures, it’s easy to forget that in their own time these places were alive with striking, saturated hues. The fragments and ruins we see today are really just the outlines of an empty coloring book, their details long washed away and eroded by the passing millennia.
Ancient pigments: raw minerals and powdered dyes used by the Greeks to create paints for pottery, sculpture, frescoes, and decorative objects
After walking nearly 20 kilometers on my first day in Athens, I was more than ready to return to the hostel for a hearty meal and a well-earned rest. As the sun began to set, I paused by one of the museum’s high windows and gazed out at the Acropolis glowing on its rocky throne above the city. With a tired grin — and a spark of anticipation — I looked forward to finally standing up there the following day.
Another day, another 20 km walk
Fast forward to the next day, my lower back was slightly sore from the long march of the day before, but I wasn’t going to let something like that slow me down. In fact, if memory serves, the second day I ended up somehow walking even more than on my first. And it all starts with the hike up to the Acropolis.
The final steps up to the Propylaea of the Acropolis
The ascent begins with a steep climb of roughly 157 stone steps, each one worn smooth by thousands of years of footsteps. At the summit, you’re greeted by the Propylaea, the monumental entrance gate of the Acropolis, with its grand Doric columns and majestic symmetry. Walking through this ancient portal feels like stepping directly into the past, each stone a silent witness to the rise and fall of civilizations.
Temples, ruins and swarms of tourists—welcome to the Acropolis
Once inside, the Acropolis reveals itself as a sprawling complex of temples, monuments, and sacred spaces. Originally built in the 5th century BCE, this citadel has been a center of religion, politics, and art for over two millennia. Today it’s the center of the daily swarms of tens of thousands of tourists.
The flag of Greece flying proudly atop the Acropolis hill
The Acropolis survived Persian invasions, Roman occupation, and centuries of decay, yet its elegance still commands awe. The view of Athens sprawling below is breathtaking, a mosaic of terracotta rooftops and bustling streets framed by the distant mountains, with the Greek flag flying proudly above as a reminder of resilience and heritage.
Temples and Monuments of the Acropolis
From the summit of the Acropolis, the ancient city unfolds in every direction, dotted with temples, monuments, and reminders of the religious life that once thrived here. One of the most striking is the Temple of Athena Nike, a small yet exquisitely preserved temple that sits gracefully on a bastion overlooking the city.
Temple of Athena Nike with its kore sculptures frozen in time
Dedicated to Athena as the goddess of victory, it’s renowned for its elegant Ionic columns and the kore figures adorning its friezes. These finely carved maidens, which I also encountered the previous day in the National Archeological Museum, depict both ceremonial processions and mythological scenes, giving a vivid sense of the devotion and artistry that characterized ancient Greek worship.
No amount of scaffolding or 20,000 daily visitors can steal the Parthenon’s thunder. Timeless, crowded, perfect
At the heart of the Acropolis stands the Parthenon, the temple dedicated to Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. Constructed between 447 and 432 BCE, this masterpiece of Doric architecture is famed for its perfect proportions and intricate sculptures, particularly the friezes that once depicted the Panathenaic Festival in vivid detail.
One of the most beautiful ancient structures on Earth still standing today
Walking around it, you notice the subtle curvature of the columns and the optical illusions built into the design, a testament to the genius of ancient Greek architects. During my visit in 2019, the a large portion of the structure was blanketed by a web of scaffolding as it underwent reconstruction. I’m not sure of the state of it today.
The Acropolis skyline
From atop the Acropolis hill, Athens becomes a treasure map of ancient ruins among the modern day labyrinth. For example the massive ruins of the Temple of Olympian Zeus stand clearly in the distance. After my visit there the previous day, seeing the entire site from above was quite rewarding.
Temple of Olympian Zeus viewed from the Acropolis hill
Nearby, the Philopappos Monument crowns its own hill, visible from many points on the Acropolis. This grand funerary monument, built in the early 2nd century CE, commemorates Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos, a prominent Roman consul and benefactor of Athens. Its commanding position makes it an integral part of the Acropolis skyline, a reminder that even outside the citadel proper, ancient Athenians celebrated civic pride and personal legacy with impressive architectural statements.
Philopappos Monument for Gaius Julius Antiochus on Philopappos Hill
Another striking temple, the Hephaisteion, or Temple of Hephaestus, rises atop the ancient Agora. This Doric temple is one of the best-preserved classical Greek structures in existence, its sturdy columns and well-defined proportions hinting at the craftsmanship and reverence for symmetry that defined the period.
Temple of Hephaestus (449–415 BC)—the best preserved ancient Greek temple in the world
Though I would visit it later, even from afar its presence reinforces the richness of Athens’ sacred landscape, a testament to centuries of religious devotion woven into the very fabric of the city.
The amphitheaters
After spending a good chunk of time soaking in the sights atop the Acropolis, I slowly made my way down on winding paths descending the slopes opposite of the many stairs and grand entrance. Smaller temples and sanctuaries decorate the path on the way down. Below, two grand amphitheaters are carved into the side of the hill.
Hidden beneath the Parthenon: a tiny Mycenaean shrine from 1300 BC, quietly carved into the cliff
The Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a stone theater built in 161 CE, still hosts concerts today, its acoustics as perfect now as they were nearly two thousand years ago. Likewise, the Theater of Dionysus, the birthplace of Greek tragedy, is occasionally used for performances, connecting the modern city with its dramatic past.
Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the 1,900 years old open-air concert venue
Walking these paths, it’s impossible not to feel the hum of history beneath your feet, as if the whispers of philosophers, playwrights, and citizens long gone linger in the air
From the Acropolis to the Agora
After leaving the Acropolis behind, I made my way to the next big target on my checklist: the Agora. Basically the big public gathering space for ancient Greek city-states, the Agora was where everything happened. It was the beating heart of civic life—athletic competitions, artistic performances, political debates, philosophical arguments, business transactions, religious processions… if the Acropolis was the sacred realm of the gods, the Agora was the everyday realm of the people.
Ancient meets Modern—Stoa of Attalos with train tracks and graffiti walls
One of the first structures to command attention is the Stoa of Attalos, a long, brilliantly reconstructed 2nd-century BCE colonnaded building that now runs along the eastern edge of the site. A stoa was essentially an ancient Greek shopping arcade and public meeting hall—a covered, open-sided walkway designed for merchants, philosophers, and everyday Athenians seeking shade or shelter.
Walking beneath the roof of the Stoa of Attalos
The Stoa of Attalos is one of the most striking reconstructions in Greece. Restored in the 1950s by the American School of Classical Studies, it gives a rare and vivid glimpse of what ancient Greek architecture actually looked and felt like when it was new. The polished marble columns, smooth wooden ceilings, and symmetrical two-story layout make it easy to imagine bustling stalls, citizens debating the latest decrees, and students gathered around their teachers. It’s one of the few places in Athens where the ancient world feels almost tangible again.
Exploring the Agora and its Museum
Inside the Stoa lies the Agora Museum, home to an array of artifacts unearthed from the site. The collection is filled with more of my favorite painted vases, some depicting mythological battles and others adorned with simple everyday scenes—athletes training, women preparing for festivals, men at symposia.
Theatrical masks and small votive figurines inside the Museum of the Ancient Agora
There are also terracotta figurines and theater masks, tokens of the city’s artistic spirit, alongside jewelry, tools, coins, and personal items that once belonged to the Athenians who walked these very streets. Each display case offers small windows into daily life 2,500 years ago—objects touched, worn, and used by people whose names history has long forgotten, yet whose lives helped shape Western civilization.
Walking among the residential ruins of the Agora, with the Acropolis in the background
Stepping out of the museum into the large Agora, I walked along the maze of scattered low ruins of Classical and Hellenistic period houses, their red-brick courses still clearly visible. These foundational remains outline courtyards, workshops, kitchens, and living spaces, giving a sense of how densely packed and vibrant the neighborhood once was.
Humble foundations of an ancient Athenian home in the foreground with the flawless Temple of Hephaestus in the back
The walls are low now, barely knee-high, but they trace the footprint of an entire community that thrived here centuries before modern Athens rose around it. In the distance, rising above the tangle of ancient streets, the Temple of Hephaestus stands like a sentinel—unyielding, unmoved, and utterly intact. Two and a half millennia have slipped by, yet the god of fire and metal still watches over the Agora from his marble fortress.
The Temple of Hephaestus
And then, of course, there is the Temple of Hephaestus—the jewel of the Agora. Dedicated to Hephaestus, the god of metalworking and craftsmanship, this temple is one of the best-preserved ancient Greek temples in the world. Built around 449 BCE, its sturdy Doric columns and marble entablature have survived millennia of earthquakes, wars, invasions, and weather.
Inside the Temple of Hephaestus
What makes it especially magical is that it remains almost entirely intact: the friezes, the cella walls, even the original roof structure are still in place. It’s one of the only places in Greece where you can stand inside a 2,500-year-old temple and look up to see the same beams, the same interlocking marble slabs, that ancient Athenians walked beneath.
Panoramic view from the northwest corner of the Agora
Just a short walk downhill from the Temple of Hephaestus stands another remarkable structure—much younger, yet still centuries old—the Church of the Holy Apostles of Solakis. Built around the 10th century CE, it’s one of the earliest surviving Byzantine churches in Athens, marking the transition from the classical world to the Christian era.
Church of the Holy Apostles (11th-century Byzantine gem)
Its compact, cross-in-square design, graceful arches, and weathered stone walls give it a quiet charm, as if it has been tucked into the Agora to watch over the ruins with gentle patience. The church’s interior is small and intimate, but the frescoes and icons echo the devotional life of medieval Athens, reminding visitors that the Agora didn’t simply vanish after antiquity.
Agora hopping
Having finished exploring the ancient Greek Agora of Athens, I made my way toward another agora close by—the Roman Agora, along with a neighboring archaeological site: Hadrian’s Library.
As if it were indignantly saying: What are you looking at, monky?
On the way, I encountered more of the happy stray cats that Athens has in abundance. Completely unfazed by the endless traffic of people and vehicles, they lounged in the sun, stretched on marble blocks, or dozed in the shade of ancient stones. These are their lands, and we are mere servants passing through their kingdom.
Gate of Athena Archegetis—entrance to the Roman Agora
The Roman Agora is smaller and more compact than its grand Greek predecessor. Built in the late 1st century BCE and early 1st century CE—after Athens became part of the Roman Empire—it served as a new commercial hub for the city. Unlike the sprawling, multifunctional Greek Agora, the Roman one was more purpose-built: a tidy marketplace framed by colonnades, shops, and administrative buildings.
Today’s surviving ruins of the Roman Agora
One of the highlights here is the Gate of Athena Archegetis, an elegant marble entrance supported by towering Doric columns. It feels like the gateway to a miniature city within the city. A few scattered ruins stand beyond it—broken columns, fragments of workshops, and paved walkways that hint at the bustle of Roman-era trade.
The Tower of the Winds
Another interesting structures within the Roman Agora is the Tower of the Winds, an octagonal marble clocktower built in the 1st century BCE by the Macedonian astronomer Andronikos of Kyrrhos. Part scientific instrument, part architectural curiosity, it’s essentially the world’s first multifunctional weather station.
Horologion of Andronikos Kyrrhestes—the Tower of the Winds
Each of its eight sides is carved with a relief of a different wind deity, representing the cardinal and intercardinal directions—Boreas, Notos, Zephyros, and the others—each depicted with their own personality and symbolism. Inside, the tower once housed a complex water clock powered by a system of aqueducts, while the exterior featured sundials to mark the hours throughout the day.
Interior of the Tower of the Winds. The circular floor shows the line where the bronze water tank stood
Despite its age, the structure is impressively intact, and its sharp geometric form stands out beautifully against the surrounding ruins. It’s one of those buildings that feels ahead of its time—a reminder that ancient Athens wasn’t just about temples and philosophy, but also about engineering, science, and ingenuity.
Hadrian’s Library
Just next door lies Hadrian’s Library, commissioned in 132 CE by the Roman Emperor Hadrian—a famous Hellenophile who adored Greek culture and tried to revive Athens as an intellectual capital of the empire.
The library wasn’t just a place for scrolls; it was a grand cultural complex. It once held lecture halls, reading rooms, gardens, and a central courtyard lined with 100 columns. Today, only portions of the massive outer walls and a line of restored columns remain, but they give enough shape to imagine its former scale.
Stepping through the grand Propylon of Hadrian’s Library
Nearby are the remains of the Tetraconch Church, a Byzantine addition built much later. Its four-apsed design is still visible in the foundations, marking yet another layer of history stacked onto this compact patch of Athens.
Despite their modest size, both the Roman Agora and Hadrian’s Library feel like a small microcosm of the city’s long story—Roman ambition, Greek legacy, Byzantine faith—all coexisting within a few hundred meters.
Six down, one to go
With these two last sites being much smaller, I had now managed to tick off six of the seven major archaeological ruins of Athens on my pass. And with one and a half days left, I had plenty of time. So, to avoid the deadly noon heat, I retreated to the hostel for lunch and a bit of rest.
The only drawback of Greece in the summer were those deadly hot hours of noon and early afternoon
The cool interior was a welcome relief from the sun-baked streets, and I refueled with a hearty lunch: a chickpea stew to start, followed by osso buco with orzo and parmesan. Absolutely delicious, the rich, tender flavors of the osso buco paired with the creamy, cheesy orzo made it an instant favorite—so much so that it ended up becoming one of my staple “learned” Greek recipes together with the traditional moussaka.
Top: chickpea stew. Bottom: osso buco with orzo grated with parmesan
After the meal, I rested for a couple of hours, letting the midday heat fade and enjoying a bit of downtime. During that quiet period, I reviewed the photos I had taken so far, reliving the incredible sites I had explored that morning. With the seven major archaeological sites of Athens almost behind me—save for the final stop—I also began planning targets for the next day, which I envisioned as a more relaxed city exploration walk, capped with a hike up another of Athens’ iconic hills.
Once rested and recharged, I was ready to head out to Kerameikos Archaeological Site, the last of the seven, to complete my archaeological journey through the city.
Kerameikos Archaeological Site
The rest helped for sure, but the moment I got up to walk, my back and legs felt sore as hell again. Luckily, the Kerameikos Archaeological Site was just 10 minutes away from the hostel. By the time I arrived, it was golden hour. The slowly setting sun cast a warm, honeyed light across the ruins, illuminating the city and creating the perfect conditions for photography. This was, without a doubt, my favorite time to explore and capture Athens.
Kerameikos ancient cemetery in the early evening
I still had about an hour to wander before closing, and after the bustling crowds at the Agora and Acropolis earlier in the day, Kerameikos in the early evening felt like a quiet, almost meditative oasis.
Kerameikos was ancient Athens’ main cemetery, active from as early as the 12th century BCE and continuing through classical times. It also encompassed part of the city walls, including the impressive Dipylon Gate, where funerary processions would begin. Walking through the site today, low stone walls and fragments of tombs create a park-like landscape, blending solemnity and serenity in equal measure.
Tombstones of different sizes with ornate sculptures
The remnants of funerary steles, altars, and columns rise here and there, whispering stories of Athenians long gone. Some are elaborately carved, others simple markers for everyday citizens, yet each carries the weight of centuries of memory.
Olive Trees and the Kerameikos Museum
Interspersed among the ruins, I spotted olive trees heavy with green fruit—a first for me! After the whole bitter orange experience earlier, I wisely didn’t try these either, but it was fascinating to see them thriving among the tombs.
Ancient pots and gold bracelet at the Kerameikos Museum
Nearby, the Kerameikos Museum offered one last dose of artistry for the day. Inside, beautifully preserved vases, figurines, and sculptures illustrated the funerary practices and everyday life of classical Athens, a perfect complement to the outdoor experience of the site.
Nearing closing time, I left Kerameikos and decided to explore some more of the neighborhood in the twilight.
Reflections on the Troubles of Modern Athens
On my way out, I remained a little wary—Athens in the evening had its charms, but also its hazards. Earlier in the afternoon, back at the hostel, I had a brief adventure that reminded me of this. A Japanese girl staying at the hostel was on the verge of tears: her wallet, containing money and ID, had been stolen somewhere near the Acropolis.
I offered to walk her to the nearest police station to file a declaration. At the station, the officers were all very serious, tough-acting types, and I had to clarify that I was just a friend helping her out. Eventually, one of the more approachable officers softened, and we had a short conversation about petty crime in the city—a reality of Athens in 2019, with immigration waves and economic pressures often creating friction.
Funky street art on the Athens Retro festival building
Another encounter earlier in the day had been equally vivid: a group of street vendors approached me, aggressively offering bracelets for charity, insisting I pay for them, and creating a tense-but-absurd moment. After a mix of small change and a 5-euro note, the situation resolved itself, but it reminded me to stay vigilant while exploring.
An Evening in Athens
With these experiences in mind, I walked carefully through the streets of Athens, passing residential areas, parks, and canals, heading toward a local metal bar recommended by a girl at the hostel after noticing my rocker bracelets and long hair. By this point, I wasn’t much of a night owl anymore, so my goal wasn’t to drink heavily or mingle late; I just wanted a glimpse of the city at night and maybe discover some new music.
Small outdoor concert in preparation?
The bar was quiet—9 PM still early by local standards—but perfect for a relaxed beer. I chatted with the bartender at Intrepid Fox about Greek metal bands, and this is where I first learned about the deviously delightful Septic Flesh, a symphonic death metal band that would become one of my favorites. After finishing my beer and soaking in the early evening ambiance, I headed back to the hostel, letting the city settle into its nocturnal rhythm.
Intrepid Fox Rock/Metal bar and club in Athens
Day two had been long, packed with history, exploration, and a few minor adventures. According to my pedometer, it also held the record for my longest daily walk thus far—around 22 km—a title it would keep for a long time. As I climbed into bed, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated—ready for whatever the next day in Athens would bring.
Day Three – A Different Kind of Exploration
The next day was my last full day in Athens. Since I had already visited the seven major archaeological sites—along with a couple of major museums—I felt like taking things a bit easier. No more racing between ruins with my pedometer having a nervous breakdown. Instead, Day Three would be a leisurely city walk, rounded out by one final hike up one of Athens’ great hills.
Athens from the Acropolis hill
Athens, after all, is a city built on hills as much as around them. The most famous, of course, is the Acropolis—but two others rise prominently from the urban landscape as well. To the southwest sits Philopappos Hill, topped by the impressive Philopappos Monument, while further northeast stands Lycabettus Hill, the tallest of the three, crowned by a small whitewashed chapel visible from nearly anywhere in the city. For today’s adventure, I decided to set my sights on Philopappos.
But before heading toward its green slopes and winding footpaths, I wanted to explore some of Athens’ more modern landmarks—its neoclassical heart.
A Leisurely Morning in Modern Athens
I began my morning stroll toward the Hellenic Parliament, one of Athens’ most recognizable and symbolically important buildings. Though it’s relatively modern by local standards—completed in 1843 as the royal palace of King Otto—it still carries itself with an understated authority. Its long, symmetrical façade and the colonnaded front entrance feel like a respectful nod to the city’s ancient DNA.
The Hellenic Parliament (former Old Royal Palace) on Syntagma Square
In front of the parliament building I came across one of the Evzones—the elite Presidential Guard—standing at his post in the iconic blue-and-white guard shelter (known as a “phroura” or sentry box). Their traditional uniform is striking with a red feathered cap, a white fustanella kilt with 400 pleats symbolizing the 400 years of Ottoman rule, embroidered vest, white leggings (perahan), and tsarouchia (pom-pommed shoes).
An Evzone of the Presidential Guard stands in solemn vigil before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Syntagma Square, Athens.
Witnessing such a meticulously preserved tradition right in the heart of the city made me notice something else too: Athens doesn’t just hold on to its past in ceremonies and uniforms—it does so in stone. As I continued walking, I realized that even its “modern” architecture is threaded with echoes of antiquity. Columns, pediments, and careful symmetry aren’t merely stylistic flourishes here; they feel like a natural continuation of the city’s identity.
The Academy of Athens designed by Theophil Hansen in the 1870s–1880s
A short walk away, the neoclassical style becomes even more striking. Buildings like the National Archaeological Museum and the Academy of Athens show just how willingly the city embraced its ancestral aesthetic.
Where Modern Stones Wear Ancient Shapes
The Academy, especially, looks like a temple that simply decided to time-travel into the 19th century—complete with Ionic columns, a sculpted pediment, and statues of Athena and Apollo standing guard from atop tall, elegant pillars. It feels deliberate, almost defiant: a country reclaiming its heritage after centuries of Ottoman rule, rebuilding its identity not with glass and steel but with marble, myth, and memory.
The polychrome frieze and sculpted figures embodying the Academy’s dedication to science, arts, and the enduring legacy of Hellenic culture
Yet the closer you look, the more the building reveals itself as something more than a neoclassical homage. The pediment above the entrance depicts the birth of Athena, rendered in a beautifully balanced composition that echoes ancient temple sculpture without ever pretending to be ancient itself. The figures—gods, goddesses, and divine attendants—are frozen in that solemn, harmonious moment when the goddess of wisdom emerges fully formed, the centerpiece of the scene. Along the façade, traces of soft polychromy survive, giving hints of how vibrantly such sculptures once looked in antiquity.
Athena Promachos, guardian of wisdom and war, stands eternal atop the left column of the Academy of Athens, her spear and shield raised against the sky
Flanking the staircase, the tall columns carrying Athena and Apollo add a sense of ceremonial grandeur. Athena stands poised with spear and shield, the eternal protector of the city, while Apollo holds his lyre, patron of the arts—together embodying exactly what the Academy aspired to cultivate: knowledge, creativity, and the spirit of Hellenic culture. With the Greek flag waving above it all, the building becomes almost symbolic, a physical assertion that modern Greece chose to root its future in the language of its past.
The Quiet Hill Overlooking Athens
I then left behind the neoclassical district and marched across towards one of Athens’ hills again. I wanted to end my Athenian journey somewhere a little quieter—somewhere above the noise, away from the crowds, with a final wide-angle look at the city I had just spent days exploring from the inside out. So I turned southwest, toward the green rise of Philopappos Hill.
Passing by the Acropolis crowds on my way to Philopappos
Philopappos Hill—one of the trio that shapes Athens’ skyline—sits right across from the Acropolis, close enough to share its breeze but far enough to escape its chaos. Unlike the marble crown across the way, this hill is free to climb, covered in wandering footpaths, shade trees, and pockets of silence. The ancient Athenians knew it well too: scattered across the slopes are remnants of old roads, meeting spots, sanctuaries, and caves woven into philosophical lore.
Caves and tranquil trails
My first stop was Socrates’ Prison, a small stone-cut chamber carved directly into the bedrock. Historically, unconfirmed whether Socrates was ever held here, but tradition is stubborn and the place has become a symbolic site connected to his final days. One could imagine the philosopher’s calm acceptance of his fate—the cup of hemlock, the arguments about the immortality of the soul, the devotion of his students gathering around him as he turned his own death into one last lesson. Whether or not this was truly his cell, the atmosphere carried the weight of his story: a reminder that Athens wasn’t only a city of temples, but a city of ideas, lived and died for.
Socrates’ Prison on Philopappos Hill
Further up the slope I came upon the Fountain of the Pnyx—or at least, what remains of it. Today it’s sealed behind a metal door, but historically it was part of a larger waterworks system connected to the ancient political gathering place of the Pnyx, where Athenian democracy was literally spoken into existence. The fountain once supplied water to the area, serving the citizens who met here to debate, vote, and argue their way into political history.
The entrance to the Fountain of the Pnyx was unfortunately closed
Past the cave, the path softened into a leafy park-like trail—palm fronds, pines, shrubs, and that bright Mediterranean glow reflecting off everything. After two days of battling crowds at the Acropolis, Agora, and every other major site, this felt like discovering Athens’ hidden breathing room. I walked slowly, enjoying the shade and the breeze, letting the soreness in my legs spread out and settle.
A Final Gaze Over a Legendary City
The final ascent brought me to the summit, crowned by the Philopappos Monument, the grand Hellenistic mausoleum dedicated to Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos. The same monument I had seen the previous day from the Acropolis hill.
Enjoying the tranquility up to the summit
Today however, the tables were turned and I beheld the perfect, unobstructed view of the Acropolis. From this angle the entire complex stands proudly: the Parthenon blazing in the sun, the Erechtheion’s caryatids in silhouette, and the long procession of tourists crawling up the marble steps. I finally got my perfect view and shots of the legendary ancient ruins completing my checklist of Athens. I lingered for a while, taking in the panorama. It felt like a fitting farewell.
The crown jewel photo—The Acropolis in it’s full splendor, with Lycabettus Hill behind
After descending the hill, fatigue finally hit me. Rather than push myself further, I returned to the hostel and spent the rest of the evening resting, sorting through all the photos and planning the next leg of my journey. This was my final night in Athens, and although I didn’t do anything noteworthy after the hike, I didn’t need to. The city had given me more than enough.
The following morning, I would board a bus to Delphi—leaving the sprawling metropolis behind in exchange for mountains, myths, and the whispers of the ancient oracle. My odyssey was far from over.
After the memorable spring of 2019, with a new future awaiting me in Canada that fall, I was determined to make the most of my summer holiday cravings. Following a short stop in Romania, my first destination was once again Switzerland. But not Zurich this time. Instead, I was heading to the western French-speaking part of the country — Lausanne. And as I would soon discover, it felt like stepping into unexpected tropics in the heart of Switzerland.
I went there to visit Eddy, my close friend from university back in Denmark. He had recently moved to Lausanne to begin a PhD at the local university.
Tropical Switzerland
The weather was blisteringly hot. Not just hot, but humid-hot. Tropical hot. This was June 25th, and summer was already in full swing. I had just landed in Geneva, and the heat hit me like I’d stepped into a steam room. I’m guessing the 30 degrees and the massive lake had something to do with that. Still… it was Switzerland. I hadn’t expected such heat in Switzerland of all places. Back in the summer of 2008, when I went camping in the mountains, I didn’t recall it being anywhere near this intense.
Arriving in Lausanne on a hot summer day
In any case, I arrived in Lausanne and quickly met up with Eddy at the university. He gave me a tour of the campus and introduced me to some of his new friends before wrapping up his work for the day. Soon after, we made our way to the Lausanne Aquarium.
Diving Into AQUATIS: A Freshwater Odyssey
After our walk and settling in, Eddy suggested we visit AQUATIS Aquarium-Vivarium in Lausanne, where I hoped we’d get to cool off a bit. The aquarium was split into different sections reflecting different biomes, and we started out in the tropical one which felt just wonderful: more heat, more humidity, waves of warmth and mist pressing in…
Eddy was in his element and I looked like the crazed uncle—the humid heat was getting to me.
Just what I dreamed of after escaping the scorching sun outside. Stepping through that door was like entering a steam room of nature. On the bright side, when we emerged from it, the Swiss heat suddenly felt much more tolerable.
Free me, human, and I will grant you your heart’s desire!
AQUATIS is Switzerland’s large freshwater aquarium-vivarium, a place that doesn’t just show fish, but builds entire environments. The building spans some 3,500 square meters over two levels, with dozens of aquariums, terrariums, and vivariums.
A prehistoric grin under the waves
The biomes take you from the Rhône’s glacial sources, through Alpine rivers, along Lake Geneva, and all the way to tropical wetlands, mangroves, Asian rivers, African Great Lakes, Amazonian rainforest—and even Oceania’s ecosystems.
Mongoose/Meerkat pups
Among the many species on display they even had one of my personal favorite reptiles. The King of all living lizards today—Big daddy Godzilla himself… or herself… I guess she might have been a female. Regardless, none other then the famous Komodo Dragon!
Look at that cute little dino-face giving me the sass!
It had been forever since I’d gone to any aquarium, and seeing all those colorful aquatic species—fish flashing, tropical plants dripping moisture, amphibians perched or creeping, reptiles sliding through their tanks—was a real treat to behold.
A colorful display of shallow sea life
After sweating through the tropical greenhouse, the cooler Alpine and freshwater biomes felt wonderfully refreshing. The shift in temperature and atmosphere was immediate—soft blue lighting, rippling reflections, a calmer rhythm in the air. It was a relief after spending so much time in the heat outside, and it made the experience even more immersive.
A shy axolotl peaking from around the corner
We lingered over the axolotl display for a while trying to find the critter. After a while the fella peaked around the rocks with a goofy grin and frilly gills sticking out like antennas. It looked part dragon, part cartoon character. Just another Pokémon.
Preparing for the Next Day
After the aquarium, we headed to the train station to catch a ride to where Eddy was living — a quiet spot just outside Lausanne in the countryside. I also had to figure out what to do the following day since Eddy would be working. There was no shortage of things to see in the area, but to get around I’d need a travel pass.
Walking through Lausanne
Like everything else in Switzerland, the cost of the pass was steep. Still, it offered unlimited access to all sorts of transportation: trains, buses, and even ferries. As stingy as I could be, my trip there was a once in a lifetime experience, so I could convince myself to forget about the cost that time.
Beautiful old castle remnants all over the city
With the pass in hand, I pulled up Google Maps to get a sense of the landscape and attractions nearby. And there were plenty! The railway line along the shores of Lake Geneva promised a scenic ride through several picturesque towns, stretching from Lausanne all the way to Veytaux. Castles, museums, famous casinos and more awaited.
Sunshine & Exploration: Arriving in Montreux
The next day was just as hot. On the flip side, you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful, sunny day to spend wandering the Swiss coast of Lake Geneva. Early morning, I hopped on the train in Lausanne, heading to Montreux.
Lake Geneva with the Alps in the background—what a sight!
I had no real idea what the place was all about. On the map it just looked like a resort-y town you get off the train in, soak up sun, maybe eat ice cream. As it turned out, Montreux had a seriously rich history. It’s made up of three formerly separate communities (Le Châtelard, Les Planches, and Veytaux) that merged in 1962, and lies along several kilometres of lake shore, protected by mountains that shelter it from strong winds. Because of its setting, natural beauty, and mild climate, Montreux long ago became one of Switzerland’s most fashionable health resorts.
Montreux—must be an amazing place to live in
To top it off, Montreux is famous in my book because it was a favourite haunt of (among others) Freddie Mercury. Yes, that Freddie. He frequented Montreux and was deeply connected to the Casino Barrière and the old recording studio there.
Casino Barrière Montreux & The Queen Studio Experience
Naturally, I felt compelled to visit the casino—to walk in Freddie’s footsteps. The Casino Barrière Montreux isn’t just a pretty building by the lake; it played a part in rock history. I wasn’t there to gamble, simply to soak in the vibe. Fun fact: this was the first casino I’d ever stepped foot into… and of course it had to be a place that’s been graced by rock royalty.
Statue of Freddy Mercury in Montreux
Inside the Casino is Queen: The Studio Experience, which used to be Mountain Studios, the real deal where Queen recorded many of their albums from around 1978 through the 1990s. The studio was theirs between 1979 and 1993.
‘A Kind of Magic’ vinyl and iconic stage costumes
The museum is a gem. Memorabilia everywhere—handwritten lyrics, costumes worn on stage, instruments, promos, photos, tape boxes (some marked with early, even abandoned titles). The control room is preserved more or less as it was (there’s even a reproduced Neve mixing desk so visitors can try remixes of Queen classics).
‘Made in Heaven’ memorabilia at the Queen Studio Experience
One cool highlight: in the “Made in Heaven” room, you stand in the very spot where Freddie laid down his final songs. It’s emotional but in a grounded way—less shrine, more quietly powerful.
Freddie Mercury’s handwritten lyrics and heartfelt reflections on Montreux
One surprise after another, Montreux was impressing me more and more by the minute. My next stop would be a lakeside castle on the far-eastern end of town, Château de Chillon.—but more on that in a bit.
A Medieval Break: Château de Chillon
One thing I absolutely love about travel passes is that you can constantly hop on and off rides. This definitely made my day a lot easier rather than having to walk long distances in that merciless sun. Still, by the time I reached Veytaux at the far eastern tip of Montreux, I was sweating buckets. What better way to cool off and escape the glare, than by stepping inside a medieval lakeside castle?
The bridge entrance to Château de Chillon, Montreux
Château de Chillon sits on a rocky islet just off the shore of Lake Geneva, connected to the mainland by a wooden bridge that creaks slightly underfoot — charming, a little rustic, and perfect photo material. The castle has been there for a very long time: the first written records go back to around 1150, though archaeological digs show that its rocky base was used even in the Bronze Age.
The little moat-like part of the lake surrounding the castle
Walking over the wooden bridge you pass by the surrounding moat-like defenses (though it’s more of a lake boundary than a full moat in the stereotypical sense). You enter into the inner courtyard — stone walls, towers rising overhead, a hushed kind of grandeur. Inside, there are underground rooms with Gothic vaults built into the rock itself; these were used as armories, stores, and then later dungeons.
A historic cannon stands guard in the ancient stone halls of Chillon Castle
Beneath the elegant towers and stone courtyards lies a dungeon where countless prisoners once languished in the damp shadows. The walls are etched with names, prayers, and perhaps curses—ghostly echoes of people who never made it out. Iron grates, thick chains, and a single wooden pillar with a shackle still stand as chilling reminders of what went on below.
The Castle of the Counts of Savoy
One room that stuck with me was the prison of François Bonivard, a Genevan monk and political prisoner who was chained to a pillar for years by the Duke of Savoy. The pillar is still there—simple wood, scarred and old—with a single iron chain dangling from it.
Wooden pillar in the castle dungeon that shackled François Bonivard
Lord Byron later immortalized Bonivard’s story in his poem The Prisoner of Chillon, even carving his name into the wall himself when he visited in 1816. Standing there, I couldn’t help but picture the flicker of torchlight, the echo of chains, and a poet scribbling notes in the dark.
The view from the uppermost tower was quite something
Chillon wasn’t always a prison, though. For centuries, it served as a luxurious lakeside residence and strategic fortress for the powerful Counts of Savoy. Its position—guarding the narrow road between Lake Geneva and the Alps—made it a key checkpoint for trade and defense.
Centuries old wall murals highlighting the French heritage of the castle
These days you’ll find a surprising blend of military architecture and aristocratic elegance in the castle museum—inner courtyards lined with Gothic arches, murals still faintly visible on faded walls, and massive oak barrels once filled with Savoy wine.
I assume these barrels were decorative, but they sure looked yummy!
Somewhere in a corner room, I stumbled upon a guestbook and couldn’t resist signing it—adding my name to the long list of travelers, dreamers, and history nerds who’d been captivated by the same walls.
I wonder if they still have this old guestbook laying around there
Before leaving, I caught a view through the barred prison window: the lake shimmering outside, and a little French ferry sailing past. For a moment, the castle’s past and present felt intertwined—centuries apart, yet somehow connected by that same stretch of water.
French ferry of freedom seen trough the oppressive grate of the dungeon
With half the day behind me, I had learned so much about Montreux and its history, both old and more recent. However, my tummy was rumbling, and I had to find a place to eat soon. Not an easy task when you’re on a budget in one of the most expensive places in the world! Those exact thoughts running through my head, with travel pass in hand, I suddenly had a crazy idea: since ferries were included, why not hop across the lake to France and eat cheaper? The ship was right there, showing me the way from between the dungeon grates!
Bonjour France!
As soon as I made my way back to Lausanne, I headed straight for the port to catch a ferry. Ferries across Lake Geneva between Switzerland and France ran quite frequently, so I didn’t have to wait long at all. The crazy twist came when I realized where in France I’d end up—it wasn’t just any border town, but one of the most famously pricey spa resorts in the country: Évian-les-Bains.
Even the ferries there had this retro-luxurious look to them. What a place…
Yes, that Évian—the birthplace of the world’s most overachieving bottled water. Nestled at the foot of the French Alps, Évian is a charming lakeside town known for its Belle Époque architecture, therapeutic springs, and air of old-world elegance. A place where people once came “to take the waters,” and where today, the waters come to you—in a plastic bottle with a designer price tag.
I did not see this coming when I started planning my summer travels
Still, no matter how expensive, France was cheaper than Switzerland! And here I was—a soon-to-be humble PhD student, still unemployed at the time, somewhat thriving on savings from my old student cleaner job and Danish unemployment benefits (thank you again, Denmark)—casually ferrying across Lake Geneva to have lunch and explore Évian. I couldn’t believe it. It all felt so surreal!
Another ornate casino on the opposite side of Montreux, across the lake
Yet there I was, strolling along the sunlit resort streets, then sitting down at a lovely patio on a cobblestone lane, ordering my meal. Man… life was good. Such a powerful feel-good memory—one that still makes me smile from ear to ear as I write this years later.
My cheap late lunch in France after a day of exploring Switzerland
After a leisurely late lunch, I started feeling thirsty. And being in Évian, what else could I do but find the public spring of the famous water itself and fill up my bottle straight from the source? The taste was incredible—fresh, crisp, and delightfully pure. Hydration never felt so poetic.
The holy fountain of fresh liquid wealth. Even the statue can’t handle it
Now that I knew what liquid luxury tastes like. I was ready to become a millionaire!
Late in the Day
I spent a bit more time exploring Évian before heading back to Lausanne. Soon enough, I met up with Eddy to relay my wild adventures of the day. He absolutely loved it—especially the part about taking a boat all the way to France just to find a slightly cheaper meal. The stingy student spirit never dies.
Walking back to the ferry dock on the French side, Alps in the background
We spent the rest of the evening hanging out at his place. If I’m not mistaken, I had a plane to catch super early the next morning from Geneva—and since trains didn’t run all night, my options were limited. I’d have to catch the last train around midnight and spend the night at the airport.
One last look across Lake Geneva—wondering if I’ll ever go back there again
That night marked the beginning of many airport sleepovers to come. I even started ranking airports by “overnight comfort level” later on. Midnight came sooner than I expected, and by the skin of my teeth I managed to catch the last train. Would’ve been pretty stupid to miss that one!
Although my time in French-speaking Switzerland was short, it was wonderfully sweet. If it weren’t so bloody expensive, I’d go back in a heartbeat.
It was around early May, 2019. I was nearing the final stages of my two PhD applications — one in Canada, the other in Switzerland. By then it was clear: my time in Denmark was coming to an end. Nothing lasts forever, after all.
Soon enough, I would have to make a choice between the two opportunities. The Canadian PhD already felt like a done deal — the contract was practically ready for my signature. The Swiss path, however, required one last step: traveling to Zurich to meet the ETH team in person and leave a strong impression.
The Canadian option
The Canadian project was funded by Metal Earth in Sudbury, Ontario, but the primary supervisor — and thus the position — was based at the Université du Québec à Chicoutimi (UQAC).
At first, only the “Université du Québec” part registered with me, and I mistakenly thought it meant I’d be moving to Quebec City. I still laugh when I think back to those early days, googling images of the city and imagining what a beautiful place it would be to live for the next four years.
This is where I thought the University of Quebec was
It was only later in the process that I realized the truth: the Université du Québec system was split into several subdivisions scattered across the province. None of them were actually in Quebec City. UQAC turned out to be in Chicoutimi, a smaller northern town along the Saguenay Fjord. Not quite as grand as Quebec City, but still charming enough in photos.
This was actually where the UQAC was located
One clear downside: Chicoutimi is in the heartland of French-speaking Canada. The courses I would need to take were all in French — a language I hadn’t touched since some basic lessons in middle school. Thankfully, the PhD research itself could be done in English, but the expectation was that I’d learn French along the way.
Weighing the Two Options
Even though the Swiss PhD wasn’t a done deal yet, I began weighing the two options early.
From an academic and research perspective, ETH was the clear winner. It was world-renowned, offered unparalleled networking opportunities, and operated with a much larger budget. The project itself — a study of pegmatites in Colorado, USA — was fascinating (and ironically, quite relevant to what I would end up doing in later years). Best of all, everything would be in hassle-free English.
The Canadian PhD, however, was more industry-oriented. Its focus was on intrusion-related gold systems, knowledge directly valuable to mining and exploration careers. And honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted a purely academic future. Research was fun, yes, but the uncertainty of postdoc cycles and the slim odds of landing a professorship were discouraging. My ideal academic path might have been a government research position in Europe — but those jobs were rare and fiercely competitive.
Fiery sunset views from my apartment room in Copenhagen
If I was willing to sacrifice a little on the “prestige factor” during the PhD years, Canada offered something ETH couldn’t: a strong chance of a stable career afterwards. Opportunities in North America were simply far more abundant. Plus, I had family in Alberta. Even if not close to Chicoutimi, the thought of finally living in the same country after decades apart carried its own weight.
Still, ETH had a unique pull. With a PhD from Zurich, maybe — just maybe — I’d have the credentials to crack into those coveted European research positions too.
I wasn’t ready to decide. Not yet.
All Expenses Paid
Julien, the supervisor for the ETH Zurich PhD project, explained that the two finalists would be invited separately to campus. The task: meet staff and students, and deliver an open presentation of our Master’s thesis. All expenses paid.
By that point, the Canadian PhD was basically secured, so I felt unusually relaxed. I wasn’t yet certain which offer I would ultimately choose, but I wanted to take the Swiss process all the way. And so, I found myself flying to Zurich for the first time in my life, on my way to visit one of the most prestigious universities in the world.
Zurich, Switzerland. May of 2019
I was booked into a cozy hotel in the city center, just a short walk from campus, for two nights. The weather was overcast and a little drizzly, but I made time to wander Zurich’s streets and take in the sights. Not much preparation was needed for my presentation — I had spent months after graduation working on a scientific paper based on my thesis with my former supervisor in Copenhagen, so the material was second nature. And best of all, there was no stress. I had a safety net.
ETH Zurich
For those unfamiliar with it, ETH consistently ranks among the very top universities worldwide. With cutting-edge facilities, near-limitless funding, and some of the brightest minds on the planet, it’s an institution that sets the gold standard. In Geology, the gap was staggering: ETH ranked #1 globally. My Canadian option, UQAC, showed up somewhere in the deep hundreds.
Zurich University, main entrance
The welcome in Zurich reflected that prestige. When I arrived on campus, I met Julien and soon it was time for my presentation. Professors and researchers filed into the room. Under different circumstances, I might have been a bundle of nerves — but with Canada as a sure backup, I felt calm, almost professorial myself.
I delivered my talk with confidence, even channeling some of the pedagogical style of one of my favorite KU professors, Tod Waight. The session went beautifully. A handful of questions followed, which I answered with clarity — and when I didn’t have a precise answer, we dove into back-and-forth discussions as if I were already a peer in their academic circle.
It felt incredible.
University vibes
After my presentation, Julien introduced me to several professors and students from the geology department. The students then gave me a tour of the campus. Everything was state of the art. I could feel, even in their tone, that the expectations here were sky-high — but none of them would have had it any other way. The environment at ETH seemed perfect for this kind of work.
Walking around Zurich
One of the last students I met turned out to be Romanian — a fellow geologist from Iași. He described his first year as a nightmarishly steep learning curve, necessary to catch up to ETH’s academic standards. It sounded eerily familiar to my first semester at Copenhagen University. But he emphasized that he wouldn’t trade the experience for anything and that he wanted to stay in Switzerland long-term.
And yet — this was where a flaw in the Swiss system revealed itself. Despite welcoming top-tier students from around the world, Switzerland didn’t seem to want them to remain afterwards. In fact, even Swiss graduates themselves couldn’t apply for postdocs at ETH after completing their PhD there.
The dim evening sunrays on Liebfrauenkirche
This was a serious concern for me. I wasn’t just choosing the next four years of my life. I was trying to choose what would be best for the long term.
Torn Between Two Paths
I spent the rest of the day mingling with students and wandering the vast campus, soaking in the splendor of what could be. All the while, my mind kept circling back to the decision that weighed on me.
Streets of Zurich on a slow Sunday afternoon
Friends and family I had consulted agreed with my pragmatic view: Canada seemed like the safer choice. More industry ties, more opportunities, and a long-term career path. But after the warm welcome at ETH — the people, the prestige, the sheer weight of being there — I couldn’t stop asking myself: How could anyone say no to all of this?
Water fountain in Platzspitz along the Limat river
Maybe those thoughts slipped into my subconscious, subtly influencing how I carried myself for the rest of the visit. Later that afternoon, Julien invited me for a beer in town. Although I had mentioned alternatives before, it was during that conversation that I opened up more fully about my hesitation. Maybe too much. Looking back, I think he picked up on my uncertainty about ETH.
Zurich train station
Still, the evening ended on a warm note. By then, our conversation felt less like supervisor-to-candidate and more like a friendly outing.
No Going Back
A week later, fate made the decision for me. Julien wrote, regretfully, that ETH had chosen the other candidate.
I wasn’t disappointed. By that point, I had already leaned toward Canada. In fact, I felt relieved — spared from having to say no to such a prestigious offer. I wrote back warmly, thanking him for the opportunity and expressing hope that our paths might cross again in the future.
Back in Copenhagen
Now there was no going back. Canada was my path forward. The only question was: had I truly made the right choice? Only time would tell.
Regardless of what lay ahead, I knew one thing for sure: my last summer in Europe had begun. My final months in Copenhagen were awash in waves of nostalgia and emotion. Denmark had given me so much — friends, experiences, growth. A whole chapter of my life was closing, and a new saga was about to begin.
The Final Summer
This summer wouldn’t be spent quietly, however. Months earlier, I had promised myself and my Greek friends that if things worked out for me, I’d go visit Greece. This went back to my comical discovery that I might be up to 5% Greek — enough for me to start proudly declaring myself a descendant of Odysseus, forever searching not for my birthplace, but for that elusive place that would one day truly feel like home. So I wasted no time planning a two-week solo adventure across Greece.
Lighthouse off the shores of Copenhagen
And there was more. I couldn’t miss EUGEN that year — the gathering that had indirectly led me to this opportunity in the first place. Plus, one of my best friends, Eddy, had recently moved to Lausanne, Switzerland. This was my last chance to see him before leaving Europe.
In the end, the summer of 2019 turned out to be one of the most adventurous and joyful times of my life — travel, friendship, laughter, and discovery. A legendary summer to mark an equally legendary year. One that I’ll rave about forever.
Last selfie in Copenhagen before the big summer extravaganza
Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Switzerland — each of them had dangled a possible future before me. Some were set aside early, others carried me further along the road, but they all left me wondering about the lives I might have lived. And then there was Denmark, at the center of it all. The country that had been my home for over four years. A place I wasn’t leaving behind lightly. Yet I was at peace with my choice. The time had come to move on. Perhaps that is my destiny — like a descendant of Odysseus, or as I like to call myself Odyssian, forever searching for that elusive place I can finally call home.
April 2019 — A year and a half had passed since completing my Master’s degree in Geology at Copenhagen University, and still no job in sight. I had applied locally and abroad, sent out countless CVs, and heard nothing but silence. Near the end of my patience, I was ready to give up on geology altogether and follow the path so many of my classmates had taken: switching into IT. Then, in the span of just one week, everything changed — five job offers arrived after eighteen months of nothing.
This was one of the great crossroads of my life: the moment that closed my chapter in Denmark and opened the next big phase of my journey.
A Few Weeks Earlier
It was just another ordinary day, the kind that usually gets lost in memory. Late March, 2019. Then, on Facebook, something unusual caught my eye: a post in the EUGEN (European Geoscience Network) group.
Just an ordinary spring day in Copenhagen, 2019
Remember EUGEN? The student-run network that organized annual summer geology camps? After the great time I’d had at EUGEN Austria the year before, I had joined their Facebook group. And half a year later, that decision proved unexpectedly valuable.
A fellow “Eugeneer,” Adrien — someone I’d never met — shared an opportunity: his supervisor in Quebec, Canada was looking for PhD candidates. I thought, why not? It was worth a shot, though I didn’t expect much after so many applications that had gone nowhere.
The imposing Grundtvigs Kirke in Bispebjerg, Copenhagen
To my surprise, just a few days later I heard back. Professor Lucie Mathieu was not only interested but eager to set up an interview. The conversation went very well, but questions remained: tuition fees, grant coverage, and whether the stipend would be enough to live on. It wasn’t a done deal yet — but it was the most promising lead I’d had in months.
Exploring Every Possibility
As I continued to look into the tuition situation in Quebec, I never stopped pursuing other paths. If there was one thing I had learned since graduating, it was that nothing was certain until the deal was signed. Among those other paths were two more PhD applications — one in Dublin, Ireland, and one at ETH Zurich in Switzerland. I also stayed in touch with my former supervisor from my 2018 internship at GEUS, hoping that one day, if a lab-tech role opened, he might have me in mind.
The sea of uncertainty was finally narrowing
None of this was new. I had been applying since 2017, endlessly sending CVs into the void. The only fresh tactic I tried came after a job-seeking course suggested I reach out directly on LinkedIn. Late that March, I gave it a shot, writing to an executive at Boliden, the Swedish mining company, to ask about summer fieldwork.
The Week Everything Changed
Up until mid-March 2019 — until that Canadian PhD interview — I had not received so much as a single interview invitation. Then, suddenly, everything flipped.
The financial uncertainties in Quebec were resolved: tuition would be minimal, and the PhD stipend more than enough to cover living costs. Professor Julien Allaz at ETH invited me first to a Skype call and then to Zurich for the final stage of selection, expenses paid. Tonny Thomsen from GEUS reached out with a one-year lab technician offer. Peter Svensson from Boliden called me to offer a summer job in Sweden after my speculative LinkedIn message. Even the Dublin professor wrote to express interest — though by then, overwhelmed with concrete options, I politely declined.
Cherry blossom at Bispebjerg Kirkegård
It was absolutely surreal. After nearly two years of silence, within a single week in April, everything was happening at once. I was ecstatic, but also frustrated and confused. Why now? Why all at once, after so long?
That week remains one of the most surreal of my life — the week I went from feeling invisible to standing at a crossroads of extraordinary opportunities. I knew whichever path I chose would shape not only the next few years, but the course of my life. And I wasn’t going to make that choice lightly.
Choices… So Many Choices
So many choices indeed. I had to pause and collect my thoughts. The spring days were warm and golden that year, and I spent as much time as I could cycling through the city streets. In the back of my mind I knew it would likely be my last spring in Denmark.
A melancholic visit to Amager beach park
The lab-tech position at GEUS was a solid opportunity, but it was only a one-year contract — hardly the stable future I was searching for. The Swedish mining job was tempting too: a real foot in the door of the exploration industry. Yet, it was only a summer contract, nothing permanent.
I couldn’t help reflecting on how much I would miss this place. Copenhagen had become my city — the city that gave me my first real chance to prove myself. And prove myself I did. My new apartment, right in the heart of town, felt like home again, especially living with two close friends. The sunsets from my window were spectacular and the apartment vibe was top. Well… except for that time when our ceiling sprung a leak and the landlord’s “solution” was to jam in a couple of metal rods and suspend two buckets in the middle of our living room. Still, the laughter, the company, and those views made it one of my happiest homes.
Newly built modern building. Great job guys! 6/10 – IGN
But choices had to be made. The path forward was narrowing. It would come down to one of the two PhD offers: Switzerland or Canada. Not an easy choice by any stretch.
January 2019—I was still living in Farum, Denmark—still unemployed, and feeling the mounting pressure to find a job. Any job, at that point. I was even ready to give up on my career as a geologist. Despite all the studying, all the effort, and even an internship, nothing concrete had come of it. The frustration was real. But nothing lasts forever, right? Not the good times—but not the bad ones either.
A rare snowy Nyhavn
As a last resort, just to avoid moving back to Romania, I started considering a move to Hungary later that year. A fresh start: new country, new career, new opportunities. Hopefully. Maybe.
Then came an unexpected turning point.
Nostalgia Comes Knocking
Half way through January, I went to see the movie Glass with two of my friends, Venko and Abdalla. As we left the cinema chatting about the film, the conversation drifted—first to life, then to housing. Not abroad. Within Denmark. I admitted how tired I was of Farum. It felt like ever since I moved there, I’d left the best parts of my Danish life behind in Copenhagen. I missed the city. I missed the memories.
Exploring The Citadel during my early days in Copenhagen
Coincidentally, both Venko and Abdalla were also thinking about moving out of their apartments. That’s when I threw out a suggestion—half joke, half serious: “What if we moved in together?”
It made sense. Renting a larger apartment for several people was often easier—and cheaper—than finding a one- or two-bedroom place alone. The idea stuck. Before long, we were actively looking, even attending open houses. I only had one request: to take the smaller room, and pay a little less. They both had full-time jobs, while I was still unemployed. Our financial situations were very different, and I wanted to be fair.
The Apartment That Lit a Spark
We visited an apartment in a newly built complex in Amager, on Faste Batteri Vej. The area still had that “fresh construction” feel—unfinished corners in the courtyard, patches of gravel where grass would eventually grow—but the apartment itself? It was lit.
Three bedrooms, a spacious living room with an open kitchen, and even a balcony. Best of all, one of the bedrooms was slightly smaller, but it had large floor-to-ceiling windows that flooded the space with light. I loved it instantly. The rent, when split three ways, wasn’t bad at all. Even though I’d be paying less than my friends due to my financial situation, it was still going to be more expensive than what I was paying in Farum. But honestly, it felt worth it.
Walks along the canals in Copenhagen
At that point in my life, I desperately needed a morale boost. Moving back to Copenhagen and living with close friends felt like exactly the right call. After thinking it over for a few days, we all agreed: We’d take it.
The move
The move could honestly be a story all on its own. We were three guys—none of us with a car, and I don’t think any of us even had an active driver’s license—trying to move into one apartment, all on the same day, from three different directions. To make things even more chaotic, we had plans to pick up various pieces of second-hand furniture along the way.
To bring some order to the madness, we called in our friend Bogdan—our unofficial strategist and logistics master. The plan was simple-ish: Bogdan would rent a large van, pick up Venko first, then come grab me and all my stuff from Farum in the afternoon. From there, we’d spend the evening and night picking up furniture, grabbing Abdalla, and collecting a second-hand couch and TV. We would move in that very night.
One last look at my room in Farum
The day arrived. My luggage and few pieces of furniture were packed and ready to go. The guys showed up a little behind schedule, but we loaded everything quickly. I vividly remember watching a beautiful sunset as we drove toward Copenhagen.
I was leaving Farum behind for good—and it felt symbolic. The stagnant, sour winds were finally shifting. Something new was beginning. A rebirth.
By the time we’d picked up Abdalla and loaded everyone’s belongings, it was already nighttime. The van was getting full, and we started to worry. How were we going to haul beds, tables, and a huge couch up several flights of stairs? The elevator in the building was tiny—it clearly wasn’t going to cut it.
The Couch: A Battle of Willpower
Ah yes, the couch.
It was big. Which was perfect for our spacious new living room—but a total nightmare to carry. To make matters worse, it couldn’t be disassembled. Still, we bought it. We’d figure it out somehow.
And figure it out we did—through sheer Balkan willpower, brute force, and a lot of swearing. We pushed, pulled, and wrestled that massive thing up a tight, winding staircase—floor by floor—until we finally reached the top (I believe it was the 5’th) floor. By the end, we were drenched in sweat and completely exhausted. It was around 3 a.m., but we had pulled off the unimaginable: moved three people, furniture and all, across greater Copenhagen, in less than a day.
The night of the big move in. Couch successfully in place and all.
We capped off the night with a celebratory meal at a nearby Chinese fast-food spot that was open all night. Sitting there, utterly wiped out but smiling, it was clear this would be the beginning of a beautiful new chapter.
Finally back in Copenhagen
After two years away from my favorite city, I was finally back in Copenhagen. This time, I was living in a fairly central neighborhood, which meant I could once again enjoy all the familiar places I used to frequent as a student—and, more importantly, spend more time with friends.
Not long after moving in, my flat mates and I began inviting friends over. Some evenings were for food and drinks, others were guitar jam sessions. It felt like life was finally falling back into place. Even if my career situation hadn’t improved yet, I felt more grounded, more at home.
Bogdan impressing us with his skills during one of our guitar jam sessions
But being back also meant new bureaucracy. Because I’d moved municipalities, I had to register with the local Copenhagen job center. That’s when they enrolled me in a mandatory six-week job search course—standard procedure for anyone newly unemployed in the city. The ironic part? I wasn’t new to unemployment. I had already been out of work for well over a year. But apparently, in the eyes of the system, I was “new” to being unemployed here—so off to class I went.
As absurd as it seemed at the time, that course ended up being one of the best unexpected turns in my life. Not because it helped me land a job, but because I met some truly unforgettable people—specifically a couple of hilarious Greeks who would end up leaving a real mark on my journey.
Greek Blood Runs Through Our Veins
Not long before this, I had taken one of those at-home DNA tests. Pure curiosity. My family has a pretty complex and scattered history, with a lot of missing pieces and unanswered questions. I just wanted to know more.
Spring was in the air in Copenhagen once more
The results were mostly what I expected: a strong Balkan, Central, and Eastern European mix. But two things stood out. One was a notable percentage of Ashkenazi Jewish ancestry. The other—more surprising to me—was a small spark of Greek heritage. Just about 5%.
That 5% fascinated me the most. Maybe because, in the months before, I’d already been drawing a kind of poetic parallel between my own journey and that of Odysseus—leaving behind my country of birth, wandering in search of a home, navigating obstacles, always hoping for a happy resolution. The idea that there might be a literal Greek connection hidden in my blood somehow made the metaphor feel more real.
Team Greece
It was right around this time that I met Makis and Anestis—two over-educated, unemployed Greeks who were stuck in the same job search course as me. From the first conversation, things escalated quickly: we went from casual small talk to deep dives into politics, philosophy, and history like it was nothing.
We became fast friends. It started as a joke—I called ourselves Odysseus, Achilles, and Agamemnon—but soon we were actually hanging out outside of class. One day, poor Makis had a full-on meltdown after spending hours arguing with a call center agent from DR (Danish Broadcasting). What started as a bad day turned into one of the funniest, most memorable rants I’ve ever witnessed. It lasted the whole day. Poor man had to eat a couple of cheap, shitty Frikadeller because the “DR mafia” had stolen his money. We laughed until our stomachs hurt.
Agamemnon, Achilles and Odysseus enjoying a BBQ
That late winter and early spring were filled with moments like that—serious conversations, endless jokes, and a bond that made the bleakness of unemployment more bearable.
It also sparked something deeper in me: a genuine curiosity to one day visit Greece, explore the culture, and connect—however loosely—to that little 5% of me. Not just to understand my heritage better, but to honor the strange and wonderful twists of fate that brought me to that job center classroom, and to the friends I met there.
Perhaps it was the move, or the change of the season, but I could almost feel the winds of change beginning to stir—gently carrying the scent of opportunity and better days. Life, as it turns out, was already setting the stage for an unexpected turn.
