After a rocky first week of geology field work in Chibougamau, pun intended, our fortunes were about to improve. You could say we’d hit rock bottom… Okay, I’m pushing it now with the dad jokes. Just to recap some of our mishaps: we lost one of our GPS devices somewhere in the forest, we lost one of the truck’s side mirrors, and we got it stuck in deep mud, requiring the other team to come pull it out. At least we were being productive and getting some rock samples. Well, at least Alexandre was. I couldn’t reach one of my primary targets due to the thick forest and overgrown roads.
But field work has a funny way of balancing things out. Just when it feels like the forest is determined to humble you, something finally goes right.
Heavy Duty Sampling
As we got more accustomed to the terrain and our new sampling routine, we were becoming increasingly efficient with our time. Regular geological field sampling usually involves finding a good representative outcrop and hammering off a few fresh pieces of rock from it.
Sampling rocks using various tools
In the Canadian Shield, however, the outcrops are most often flattened, rounded, and polished by ancient glacial activity. That makes it highly difficult to hammer any decent rock pieces out of them. Even when using a chisel, we would usually end up with thin, superficial weathered chips that would yield poor geochemical results. Hardly representative of the magmas that had crystallized billions of years ago.
In Canada, however, we had an alternative method of sampling, something I had never seen, nor needed to use during field work in Europe: a rock saw. Or a concrete saw, as some call it. Essentially a hand-held motorized saw fitted with a large diamond cutting blade. A chainsaw for outcrops, if you will.
The rock saw and water pump backpack tank we used
This thing… was impressive. It was big, heavy, loud, and an absolute pain on the lower back to use. But boy, could it sample. Instead of hammering on a flat outcrop for half an hour only to collect a few useless weathered fragments, we could cut thick slabs of fresh, unaltered rock straight from the interior of the outcrop. As an added bonus, the vibration and exhaust during cutting kept most of the bugs away. Suffice to say, it quickly became our preferred method of sampling.
The rock saw did have two major downsides. It required a nearby water source to fill the cooling pump tank, and it was quite cumbersome to carry on longer hikes deep into the dense forest. However, for the easier-to-reach outcrops, it was a no-brainer. It saved us an incredible amount of time.
The Needle in a Haystack
One day, after becoming quite efficient with our rock saw, we managed to finish the day’s sampling targets surprisingly early. With plenty of spare time on our hands, Alexandre and I decided to head back to the forest where our GPS had gone missing during the first week. Maybe, just maybe, we could find it somewhere near the road.
Cattails swaying where the boreal meets the bog
We only had an approximate idea of the location since there were no GPS tracks to follow back. Alexandre parked the truck in roughly the same area where we thought we had stopped before. We headed into the forest and began searching. Pretty quickly, though, it became clear that this was a hopeless task.
The forest all looked the same. Thick bushes and tangled underbrush everywhere. The ground covered in a soft carpet of leaves, moss, and rotting branches. We wandered around for five or ten minutes before Alexandre finally gave up. It was the very definition of a needle-in-a-haystack situation. Defeated, we slowly wandered back toward the truck, still half-heartedly scanning the ground as we walked.
As I neared the road and slowly put one foot in front of the other, something caught my eye.
A faint flash of bright orange beneath the leaves, right where I was about to step.
THE GPS.
Against all odds, almost as if guided there by sheer luck, my foot nearly landed right on top of it. My eyes lit up. My jaw dropped. I bent down, grabbed it, and with a triumphant battle cry echoing through the forest, raised it high above my head like a long-lost trophy. We couldn’t believe it.
Fireweed in the endless green
It was a moment of pure disbelief, followed by sheer amazement and slightly manic laughter. It felt like a sign. Fortune had clearly turned in our favor.
“Pluton de France” the Second Attempt
After that stroke of luck, I decided to take another shot at Pluton de France on my project’s next field day. Since we had failed to reach the outlined polygon on my map by car the previous time, I wanted to attempt it on foot instead. This was going to be a bold undertaking, as the bush in this particular part of the Abitibi looked extremely dense.
Alexandre wasn’t too keen on the idea of a long, arduous hike through the boreal jungle. Fortunately, Adrian happened to be free that day and was willing to join me. So for one day I swapped partners and headed back northeast toward the elusive intrusive rocks somewhere near the edge of the Abitibi Greenstone Belt.
We drove as far as we could, essentially until we reached one of the old roads that had once led toward my target area. The road, however, had long since been reclaimed by nature. It was completely overgrown by dense alder thickets.
Right this way, sir… your target awaits just a couple of kilometers ahead. Enjoy your refreshing swim through the green foliage. Don’t forget your goggles… and a prayer
These alders seemed to thrive anywhere the forest had once been disturbed. Where logging had opened the canopy, they quickly took over the landscape. They grew like a strange hybrid between bushes and small trees—clusters of multiple thin trunks sprouting from a single base in the ground. Their branches were flexible, tightly packed, and tangled together into nearly impenetrable walls of vegetation.
Ironically, pushing through these alder thickets was often far more difficult than walking through the untouched forest. At least beneath the mature spruce and pine trees there was space to move. In the alder patches, however, every step became a battle against springy branches and dense foliage that refused to let you pass.
Swimming in Trees
We powered through as best we could, large tool-filled backpacks and all. This was easily the worst forest trekking of the entire field trip. We were legitimately fighting the forest inch by inch. Roots constantly tripped us up, while dense branches grabbed at our clothes and gear. This was the moment when I coined the phrase “swimming in trees.” The large sledgehammer sticking out of my backpack kept snagging on branches every few steps, which certainly didn’t help.
At least the trees provided shade from the mid-August sun
Still… we pushed on. Slowly. Extremely slowly. Fighting for every meter through an endless wall of dense bush. After a couple of hours of this, we finally reached the Pluton de France polygon according to the geological map.
And of course, there wasn’t an outcrop in sight. However, further ahead we noticed what looked like a small rise in the terrain. A hill meant there was a chance that bedrock might be exposed beneath the soil. So we pushed on. Eventually we reached a small incline and decided to start digging. We removed thick layers of leaves, branches, and soil until we struck rock. Finally!
The problem was that it looked… strange. Dark, heavily weathered, and altered by the soil to the point that I couldn’t immediately identify it. So we kept digging, clearing away more of the surface. When we finally managed to hammer off a few pieces, the truth became obvious.
A proud Adrien after we found and unearthed that first outcrop
It wasn’t what I was looking for at all. Not even close to what the map had suggested.
Pluton de Lies
Blasted inaccurate map, I thought. Still, we were close to the edge of the polygon, so I took a sample anyway and suggested we push a little farther toward the nearby lake that covered much of the mapped area.
Somewhere around that time another thought crossed my mind: this would be an absolutely terrible place to have a wildlife encounter. If we ran into a bear here, there would be no easy way to escape the sea of trees surrounding us. Then again, perhaps a bear would be smart enough to avoid pushing through such thick forest. Unlike us.
Some time later, deeper inside the target area, we finally found a small clearing near the top of the hill. To my relief there were even a couple of outcrops exposed there. Of course, they were perfectly flat and glacially polished—impossible to sample properly without the rock saw.
Hammering rock, only to find disappointment
And worse still… It was once again the wrong rock type. Dark, heavily altered basalt everywhere instead of the light-colored granitoids I had been hoping to find. What a disappointment.
More than anything, I was frustrated with the map itself. These geological maps, after all, are produced by the Québec Ministry during annual field campaigns. But even those teams can only cover so much ground, and sometimes the boundaries of geological units end up being… educated guesses. I marked the location on the map to note the discrepancy and kept the token sample from the previous location as reference.
Lucie later appreciated the effort, but she still had me discard the sample since it wasn’t useful for the project. All that effort. All that struggle through the forest. For nothing. But that’s field work. You win some. You lose some.
Roaming the Chibougamau Region
We continued our sampling campaign well into August. Alexandre’s project took us all around the Chibougamau area—from the high cliffs northeast of the lake to the far western stretches near Oujé-Bougoumou.
And once more we were close to a temporarily restricted area
On the western side of the Chibougamau pluton, we stumbled across several piles of trash near Oujé-Bougoumou. A sad and unfortunate eyesore in an otherwise vast and pristine wilderness. We also came across numerous animal tracks, mostly large canine ones. Likely local dogs, though wolves were certainly not out of the question.
Maybe someone should invest in a trash bin, or ten…
The only wildlife we consistently encountered, however, were the grouse, or as I liked to call them, forest chickens. We had heard plenty of stories about them beforehand, usually involving their questionable survival instincts. Instead of fleeing from danger, these birds, especially protective mothers, would often charge directly at the perceived threat in a rather unconvincing display of bravery. Not the best strategy when facing modern human inventions like trucks.
A mother grouse coming out onto the road to escort us away from her chicks
On foot, however, they were simply amusing. They would follow us around at a cautious distance, clucking and posturing, as if politely insisting that we leave their territory.
In the northeast, on the other hand, we encountered more “exciting” forest roads for our battle-hardened truck. At one point, a deep natural ditch carved out by a small creek abruptly killed the engine as the truck dropped into it—perfectly synchronized with the beat drop of the music playing in the car. No lasting damage, but plenty of dramatic effect.
The southern Wetlands
Whenever we shifted focus back to my project, we found ourselves driving farther and farther away from Chibougamau.
Only the best road conditions for us
One day took us deep south toward a small intrusion known as the Hazeur pluton. The landscape there transitioned from dense forest to open wetlands. At one point, the water had quite literally claimed part of the road. Alexandre, understandably, was having flashbacks to our previous encounter with waterlogged terrain that had left us completely stuck. This time, however, there was no mud, just firm gravel beneath the shallow water. We proceeded cautiously and made it through without issue.
The small Hazer pluton location. Still in doubt whether outcrop or boulder.
At the end of the road, a small outcrop, or possibly just a very large boulder, awaited us. The quiet swamp surrounded us on all sides. Far removed from any main road, it felt like prime territory for wildlife encounters. We spotted a few birds, including a large and majestic sandhill crane. In the distance, the eerie calls of loons echoed across the wetlands, occasionally interrupted by the faint howling of wolves.
A true call of the wild.
Zoomed in shot of a Sandhill Crane striding through tall grass in the Canadian wilderness
Despite that, there was no real sense of danger. We were working right next to the truck, heavy tools within reach. If anything, I felt completely at peace. There were barely any bugs, the scenery was wide open and beautiful, and for a moment it felt like we had stepped into a nature documentary.
Lesser Yellowlegs foraging stealthily in a marshy reed bed, blending perfectly with the surrounding cattails and reflections
To top it all off, I managed to collect several excellent sample blocks for my study. Easily one of the best locations we visited during the trip.
Blood for Samples
Another day took us west, past Chapais, toward a small syenite intrusion known as the Dolodau Stock. There, I finally managed to collect some of the best samples for my project. But the bounty came at a cost. Blood. We had wandered deep into black fly territory, and they were out in the millions. We were the main course.
Coming across blueberry bushes everywhere we went
Between hammering rocks and repeatedly drenching ourselves in bug spray, we uncovered one of the most fascinating outcrops of the entire campaign: a carbonatite unit, quite a rare igneous rock type, crosscut by sulfur-rich syenite veins.
Shiny disseminated pyrite cubes sparkled within the syenite. Grey magnetite blobs and black flaky micas stood out against the white carbonatite. Thick, blocky calcite veins cut across the outcrop like frozen rivers of stone. It was a geological treasure trove.
The large carbonatite unit, riddled with phlogopite (black mica) and magnetite
Throughout our field days, we often stumbled upon vast patches of wild blueberry bushes. Whenever we finished early, we would start gathering and snacking. Before long, we had collected an impressive haul, which we eventually brought back to base to dry and preserve.
The Final Days
The August days slipped by quickly, and our field campaign began drawing to a close. A few moments from that final week still stand out.
Prepping for a stroll along the northern railway
One of them involved walking along a set of railway tracks to reach a cliffside outcrop. It was a surprisingly calm day. No bushwhacking, no brutal driving, just a relaxed walk and straightforward sampling.
On another day, possibly our last, we aimed to reach one final target within the Chibougamau pluton. It was an easily accessible outcrop near a side road running parallel to the main road. However, the only connecting route required a long detour. Naturally, we decided to make things more interesting.
Killdeer standing alert and photogenic in short grass
After finishing our work, and soaking our boots while crossing flooded ground, I suggested taking a shortcut based on the map. Alexandre hesitated, but eventually gave in. I think we were both feeling a bit nostalgic about pushing our luck one last time. A sharp turn later, we found ourselves driving through a wet, sandy stretch just before a ramp leading up to the main road.
And… the truck got stuck. Again. This time, however, we were ready.
I jumped out to assess the situation while Alexandre quickly wedged traction aids under the tires. On my signal, he floored it, and the truck launched itself free, gliding across the remaining sand with ease. We had clearly graduated from the school of getting stuck in the mud.
The vast empty straight roads of the north
A Thunderous Roar Downstairs
Back at base, we needed to dry our soaked boots for the next day. There was a designated drying room, but it wasn’t quite enough for boots that wet. So naturally, we came up with a brilliant idea:
We put them in the dryer. The sound was… apocalyptic.
Meanwhile our blueberry bounty was drying in the kitchen upstairs
The machine roared and thundered as it violently tossed the heavy boots around inside, like drums announcing the end of the world. We closed every door we could, but the noise still echoed through the building like a distant storm. Miraculously, the dryer survived. And so did our boots.
The End of a Successful Field Campaign
On one of the final evenings, the sky was perfectly clear. No moon, no clouds. I suggested we drive out of town and stop at one of the abandoned quarries for some stargazing. After some hesitation, Nesrine and Adrian agreed. It was well worth it.
Above us stretched a breathtaking night sky. The Milky Way cut across the darkness, its bright star clusters contrasted by the deep shadow of the dark rift. As we stood there in silence, we once again heard wolves howling in the distance. It felt like the perfect ending to our time in the wilderness.
Under a crystal in northern Canadian wilderness
After 28 days of field work, we had collected 24 buckets of rock samples. Despite the rough start, we had successfully completed our summer campaign during one of the strangest years in recent history, 2020. A year when the world seemed to shut down. When uncertainty, isolation, and restrictions became part of everyday life.
And yet, out there in the wilds of northern Canada, things felt… different. For a while, we were free.
Free to work. Free to explore. Free to live something that felt almost normal again.
It wasn’t always easy. There were frustrations, setbacks, and long exhausting days. But there was also laughter, discovery, and moments that stayed with us. Moments that Alexandre and I still find ourselves retelling years later. And just like that, it was time to head back to Chicoutimi.
Messy beards, messy hairs and a truckload of samples after an adventurous month in the field
Back to our strangely constrained lives as PhD students in a world that hadn’t quite opened up again.
August, 2020. After months of solitude during the first COVID lockdown, our research team was finally somewhat liberated and on the move again. Our supervisor, Lucie, had secured us a three-week fieldwork campaign in northern Quebec. Two trucks. Two teams of two. Adrien and Nesrine, our group’s Master’s students. Alexandre and I, the PhD students. We set off north from Chicoutimi toward Chibougamau, the road stretching deeper and deeper into the boreal wilderness.
A Proper North American Truck
Even though I had recently obtained my Quebec driver’s license, I was still chickening out of driving. I was more than happy to let Alexandre take the wheel, especially since he seemed to prefer it anyway. Win-win.
The university had provided us with a pair of Ford F-150s. It was the largest truck either of us had been in, let alone driven thus far. Its size and power was clearly impressive. Sitting high above the road gave a commanding view, with very spacious and comfortable seating and engines that had more than enough muscle for the long northern highways. However, for the kind of forest roads and tight access tracks we would soon be navigating, the sheer size of the trucks would prove highly inconvenient.
The long drive north passed easily enough. Alexandre and I filled the hours with endless conversations, comparing cars, sharing relief about finally escaping our pandemic-induced confinement, and making plans for the weeks ahead.
A thick calcite vein cutting across an outcrop at Dolodau
We also had an unusual passenger with us. Alexandre had decided to bring along his cat, Turalyon. Leaving him alone in Chicoutimi for four weeks didn’t feel right, so Alexandre arranged for the cat to stay at a small animal shelter in Chibougamau while we were working in the field. Every few days, after returning from long days of sampling and driving through the wilderness, we would stop by to visit him.
Turalyon was not particularly fond of long car rides. Alexandre had to pull over a few times to clean up some cat puke along the way. Just another fun little bonus activity during our drive north.
Music also became a major part of the journey. Both of us were enthusiastic listeners with overlapping tastes, so the truck stereo quickly turned into a rotating playlist of band recommendations and rediscoveries.
The kilometres rolled by as the forests thickened and the towns grew fewer.
A Mining Town in the Boreal North
Chibougamau is the largest town in northern Quebec’s administrative region—an immense, sparsely populated territory that covers much of the province’s interior. Surrounded by endless boreal forest and lakes, the town sits within the traditional lands of the Cree Nation.
The region first drew attention during the 19th century when prospectors began exploring its mineral potential. But it wasn’t until the mid-20th century that Chibougamau truly emerged as a mining center, after significant copper and gold deposits were discovered in the surrounding area.
Watch out for that first step… it’s a doozey
Today the town remains an important hub for exploration and mining operations across northern Quebec. Geological surveys, drilling campaigns, and mineral development projects continue to bring researchers, geologists, and industry workers through the region. Companies such as SOQUEM maintain a strong presence, supporting exploration efforts across the vast northern landscape.
For a group of geology students heading into the field, it was very much the right place to be.
Barracks Living
Once in Chibougamau, we settled into our temporary accommodation at a SOQUEM work barracks on the edge of town.
As long as I got my Salmon Jerky with me, I’m good to go
It was certainly no Hotel Manoir D’Auteuil—a luxurious stay we had enjoyed during a conference trip the year before—but it provided everything we needed to get through the campaign. Well… almost everything.
The tap water, for instance. It smelled… swampy. And it tasted just as questionable. As we soon learned, the facility wasn’t connected to the city’s main water system. The barracks relied on its own untreated water source, which explained the unusual flavour.
Alexandre and I quickly made the executive decision to stick to bottled water. Adrien, on the other hand, decided to wing it. His stomach protested the decision rather violently. After several days of intense bathroom visits, a valuable fieldwork lesson had been learned.
Organizing Ourselves
Lucie would only be joining us during the second week of the campaign. Until then, we were largely responsible for organizing and coordinating the work ourselves. Without a clearly defined leadership structure, the early days required a bit of improvisation. Lucie had informally suggested that Adrien take on a coordinating role, mainly because he had already spent a year working in Quebec and was somewhat familiar with local field protocols. However, it wasn’t presented as a strict hierarchy, but more of a practical suggestion.
Our improvised office in Chibougamau
In practice, this meant that everyone approached the work with slightly different ideas about how things should run. Adrien tended to lean toward established field routines and procedures. For example, he suggested that we follow a schedule similar to one he had used during a previous placement with the Ministry, where Sundays were reserved as rest days. Alexandre and I looked at the situation a bit differently.
Our campaign was limited to just four weeks, and we had a substantial amount of work to complete. From our perspective, it made more sense to remain flexible and take advantage of good weather windows whenever possible. Rather than fixing a weekly day off, we preferred to let the weather dictate our rest days. As it turned out, that approach worked out quite well.
We ended up working straight through several Sundays when the weather was ideal. Later, when a particularly miserable stretch of rain rolled through during the week, we simply stayed back at the barracks and took that opportunity to rest while the others pushed through damp conditions with limited progress.
Time Versus Caution
Another topic that sparked some discussion was the question of daily working hours. Adrien suggested we follow a strict afternoon cut-off time. No matter what we were doing in the field, we should be heading back toward the barracks by around 4 p.m.
Gilman lake on the east side of Chibougamau
Alexandre and I once again leaned toward a more flexible approach. In August, daylight in northern Quebec stretches well into the evening, and it felt almost wasteful to leave productive field sites while the sun was still high in the sky. Our instinct was to maximize our time outdoors whenever conditions allowed.
At the same time, Adrien’s caution wasn’t without merit. Fieldwork in remote terrain carries its own set of risks. If something were to go wrong—vehicle trouble on a forest road (foreshadowing), an injury on an outcrop, or getting temporarily stuck somewhere off the grid—it might require assistance from the other team. Pushing too far into the evening could mean that any unexpected situation would have to be dealt with as daylight faded, increasing the complexity and risk of resolving the problem.
In other words, what Alexandre and I saw as maximizing productivity, Adrien viewed through the lens of field safety and contingency planning.
Neither approach was inherently right or wrong. It was simply a reflection of different working styles. Alexandre and I tended to focus heavily on efficiency and optimization, while Adrien leaned more toward structured procedures and established routines. Like many field teams thrown together for the first time, we were still figuring out our rhythm.
Two Projects, Two Field Strategies
Because Alexandre had more intensive fieldwork to do in the immediate area, we decided to divide our schedule somewhat strategically. Weekdays would be dedicated to his work, while weekends would be used for my own sampling campaign.
Alexandre’s PhD research focused on the Chibougamau pluton, a massive granodiorite intrusive rock body underlying much of the region around the town. Formed roughly 2.7 billion years ago during the late Archean, the pluton represents an ancient magmatic system associated with significant gold mineralization in the region. His work aimed to conduct a detailed petrogenetic study of these rocks—essentially reconstructing how the magma formed, evolved, and ultimately crystallized deep within the Earth’s crust.
The kind of pinkish rocks we were looking for during our field trip
My own project took a somewhat broader approach. Instead of focusing on a single intrusion, I was sampling a number of different late-Archean syenite intrusions scattered across the region, which Lucie and I had preselected before the campaign. These locations were much farther from Chibougamau and often required long drives from our base.
In simple terms, both of us were chasing light pinkish rocks formed from very ancient magmas—just slightly different kinds, and in different places. Alexandre was studying the internal story of one major intrusion. I was comparing several others in order to test the validity of a somewhat debated geological model known as intrusion-related gold systems. Different scientific questions, but somewhat overlapping regions of work.
Day One in the Ghost House
The first day began under a murky sky with light rain in the forecast. We drove northeast out of Chibougamau, gradually leaving pavement behind as we followed increasingly questionable forest roads winding through lakes and dense boreal forest. Somewhere beneath us lay the Chibougamau pluton itself. The intrusion stretches across dozens of kilometres beneath the region, extending beneath the large lake in the area.
So far so good. The road’s looking pretty chill… except for maybe that last bit
The roads we were using had once been logging or mining access routes. Many had clearly not seen much maintenance in years. Some looked like they had not seen any maintenance at all. This particular road was a pretty good contender for the worst we’d encounter.
Branches increasingly scraped along both sides of the truck as we pushed forward through narrow overgrowth. Every few minutes I would optimistically reassure Alexandre: Look, it’s getting better. Almost immediately another set of branches would slap aggressively against the doors and mirrors.
This was also where the size of the F-150 started to work against us. These trucks are perfect for the big wide, preferably paved, northern roads. But not for these tight abandoned roads that were slowly being reclaimed by the forest. Now, some people might have suggested parking the truck and continuing on foot. But the distances Alexandre needed to cover for his sampling were enormous. With limited time and an efficiency-focused mindset, we decided to push forward with the vehicle and see how far we could get.
Deeper and deeper we went searching for rocks
At some point early in the trip, while driving along one of the forest roads, I noticed a strange button on the truck’s key fob marked with a little exclamation point. I had never seen anything like it before, so I jokingly asked Alexandre if it was the panic button. Curious himself, he pressed it—and the truck immediately erupted into a series of loud honks that echoed through the quiet forest, catching both of us completely off guard. So yes… it was indeed the panic button. From that moment on, that’s exactly what we called it.
Later that same day, after wandering through the misty woods in search of rock outcrops, we eventually decided to head back toward the road. The problem was that we weren’t entirely sure where the road actually was anymore. We thought we had a decent sense of direction, but just to confirm, Alexandre pressed the panic button again so we could listen for the truck. The honking came from the complete opposite direction—not slightly off, but entirely wrong. And this wasn’t even in the dense jungle-like forest we would encounter later in the trip. It was a humbling reminder of just how easy it was to lose your bearings out here without proper navigation equipment.
The First Day’s Results
And cover ground we did. By the end of the day we had pushed as far along that road as we reasonably could without wasting too much time wandering blindly through the forest on foot. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much reward waiting at the end of the drive.
Outcrops were scarce. Most of what surrounded us was dense forest, marshland, and the occasional lake. Not exactly a rocky paradise for an ambitious geologist on his first field day. Still, we had managed to survey a large area, collect a few samples, and, most importantly, get a better sense of the terrain.
Were we even on the road anymore? Who knew?
The mood remained high throughout the day. Music played through the truck speakers while we joked constantly about the excellent road conditions and weather. But on the way back, our spirits took a sudden hit.
Remember those branches scraping along the truck? Well… some of them were larger than others. Quite a bit larger. In several places the vehicle had essentially been squeezed through narrow sections of overgrown road. Forced through might actually be a more accurate description. Somewhere along that journey, without either of us noticing, the passenger’s side mirror decided to take a hike. Not the entire mirror assembly. Just the glass. Gone. Vanished into the northern wilderness.
Driving back to base with morale in the toilet
We hadn’t thought to fold the mirrors while navigating what increasingly felt like a boreal jungle. Another lesson learned. Alexandre immediately slammed the truck into a U-turn and we began carefully retracing our path in the hope of recovering the missing mirror. Despite a thorough search and a considerable amount of backtracking, we never found it.
Not Exactly According to Plan
The unexpected mirror recovery operation also meant we pushed our return much later into the afternoon than originally planned. By the time we rolled back into the barracks, it was well past the time Adrien had suggested we should be safely heading back from the field. The situation did not exactly improve the ongoing debate about field schedules and safety margins.
Another tense discussion followed between Adrien and a very frustrated Alexandre, fueled by our late return, the damaged vehicle, and the already diverging approaches to how we thought the field campaign should run.
For the moment, Alexandre and I quietly decided to keep one particular detail to ourselves. Namely, that the truck was now missing a mirror. We were off to a spectacular start.
The Terror of the North
A couple of days later the skies finally cleared and we were rewarded with several bright, sunny days. With the warmth and sunshine, however, came one of the true terrors of northern fieldwork: the insects.
The weather had improved, but would our fortune improve as well?
The boreal forest is infamous for its seasonal waves of bloodsucking pests. Four main culprits dominate the warm months, each appearing at slightly different times of the summer, sometimes overlapping in particularly miserable combinations. The most famous worldwide is the mosquito. Ironically, these were often the least annoying of the group at least during the daytime.
Then came the true terror of the north: black flies. These tiny specks looked almost like fruit flies, but they were relentless carnivores. And where there was one, there were usually thousands. They crawled into every opening they could find—ears, sleeves, collars—biting and harassing you constantly. Walking through the forest meant being surrounded by a cloud of them, endlessly probing for exposed skin. They were absolute hellspawns.
A fuzzy bug on an outcrop
The other two members of the northern insect quartet are deerflies and horseflies, but thankfully we encountered relatively few of those during this particular adventure. The black flies, however, were more than enough.
The Jungle of the North
Some days were worse than others, and some locations were far more tolerable. Around town or along major roads things were manageable. But the moment we stepped deep into the forest, or near lakes and swampy areas, the insects quickly reminded us who really owned the place. But for us newcomers, it was pretty brutal.
The forest itself didn’t help matters either. In many places the vegetation was so dense that moving through it became a full-body workout. Progress meant constantly pushing through branches, tangled bushes, and young trees fighting for sunlight. Coming from Europe, it felt almost surreal.
A white-spotted sawyer beetle in the back of our truck
This wasn’t the kind of forest I had grown up with. Not even close. It was more like an overgrown jungle. Without a machete, you were essentially swimming through vegetation, pushing your way forward against an endless green current.
More Bad Luck
On one of the weekdays during our first week, we were traversing a section of what I would generously describe as medium-density forest. That meant it was still somewhat walkable. We carried our usual gear: hammers, sample bags, notebooks. Alexandre had his tablet, and I carried his Garmin GPS unit clipped to my belt.
Roaming through the boreal forest
After finishing our work in the area, we returned to the truck. That’s when I noticed something odd. The only thing still clipped to my pants was the carabiner and the battery clip. The GPS itself was gone. When I had changed the batteries earlier, I had apparently failed to properly lock the safety latch back into place. Somewhere during our trek through the dense vegetation, the bushes must have caught the device and ripped it clean off.
I felt terrible about losing it. Alexandre, meanwhile, was already becoming increasingly demoralized after the string of mishaps we had experienced so far. To make matters worse, the device design itself seemed almost engineered for failure. The small clip used to attach the GPS to your belt was mounted on the battery compartment, not on the main body of the unit. Meaning if the clip came loose, the entire device simply vanished.
We had to stay close in the forest because even with high visibility vests, we could easily lose each other in the green
Improve your device design, Garmin!
The Quest for the “Pluton de France”
During the first weekend we dedicated Saturday to my project. My target was a large pink blob on the geological map labeled Pluton de France, a sizeable Monzonite intrusion located northeast of Chibougamau. From literature it seemed close enough to what I was hoping to sample for my study.
We tried several old logging roads, driving long stretches only to eventually encounter dead ends. Some roads had collapsed entirely. Others had been completely reclaimed by vegetation. It quickly became clear that any industrial activity in this area had likely been abandoned for many years.
An overgrown old logging site providing a large clearing in the forest
Rather than return empty-handed, I decided to improvise and sample several interesting-looking outcrops along the way. Fieldwork often requires adapting to reality on the ground. After all, there’s only so much you can determine from a rock in hand before laboratory analysis reveals the full story.
At one point we reached a large open clearing left behind by past logging operations. The place felt strangely peaceful. Calm. Quiet. Even the bugs seemed to take a break there. But then we spotted something on the ground. Bear droppings. Suddenly the calm silence of the clearing felt a little less comforting.
A Couple of Hours to Kill
After trying, and failing, to reach the Pluton de France from several different directions, I eventually admitted defeat. We still had some time left in the day, though, and curiosity got the better of me. Just north of our location on the map was a massive lake with a peculiar shape, almost like a giant claw mark carved into the landscape: Lake Mistassini.
Leaving the logging roads behind for the day
From the map it didn’t seem that far away. At least not when zoomed out. We were already roughly halfway between Chibougamau and Mistassini, so why not take the opportunity for a bit of sightseeing? There was just one complication.
Despite the illusion of normality our fieldwork provided, the world was still very much living through the 2020 pandemic lockdowns. We had been clearly instructed that the nearby First Nations communities, including Mistissini and Oujé-Bougoumou, were off limits to outside visitors. And yet here we were. Driving toward Mistassini. Rebels.
A Forbidden Detour
We justified it to ourselves with a simple plan: drive to the lake, take a few photos, refuel, and head back. No interactions with locals. Besides, we were already running low on fuel. The Mistassini gas station was now closer than the one back in Chibougamau. Unfortunately, when we reached the turnoff toward town, we discovered a line of cars waiting at a checkpoint.
The community had set up actual road controls to monitor who was entering and leaving. This is when we started sweating. Turning around was not an option anymore, but Alexandre wasn’t interested in pushing our luck any further either. We would do exactly one thing: reach the gas station, fill up, and leave.
Sunsets from our base camp in Chibougamau
No sightseeing, no lake, No detours. I wasn’t going to push the issue. Alexandre had already had a stressful enough week. And so Lake Mistassini remained unseen. Another small opportunity lost to the rigid world of 2020.
The Beaver Dam
The following day we returned to exploring the Chibougamau area for Alexandre’s project. Another sunny day. Another road our truck was probably never meant to drive on.
You see an impenetrable forest, I see a shortcut
Despite appearances, the road actually wasn’t too bad overall. The only questionable part was a small creek crossing in a swampy section. Otherwise, it was quite decent by our new standards. We collected some solid samples, the insects were tolerable, and the day progressed smoothly. But on the drive back something had changed.
The small creek crossing had widened. Part of the road had begun collapsing into the swamp. Still, we had crossed it once already without issue. Surely the second time would be fine. Alexandre eased the truck slowly forward into the muddy water. And then… The truck stopped. Stuck.
Getting the traction aid out
We stepped out to inspect the situation and quickly realized the problem. The road had been built over an old beaver dam, and that dam had begun collapsing. The more Alexandre tried to drive out, the deeper the front wheel dug itself into the mud. Water seeped into the growing crater around the tire while the truck slowly tilted sideways like a sinking ship. Eventually the car felt so tilted that I had to pull myself out through the drivers side whenever I wanted to get out.
We tried digging. We tried traction aid under the tires. Nothing worked. After more than an hour of struggling, we finally admitted defeat.
The Accidental Distress Signal
Alexandre pulled out the satellite phone and managed to reach Adrien after several attempts. Meanwhile, I grabbed the SPOT emergency GPS device we had been given for field safety. In case of trouble, we were supposed to send a notification through it so our supervisor Lucie, back in Chicoutimi, would know our situation.
There was just one small problem. During the original briefing, it hadn’t been made entirely clear which button should be used in which situation. The device had three buttons. One was strictly for life-threatening emergencies and would contact national rescue services. The other two were meant for lesser degrees of trouble.
Traction aid was doing a great job at sinking into the mud under the tire
Out of the two, I picked the one that sent a distress alert to Lucie and the entire research team back at the university. This naturally caused a brief panic on their end. Some people began discussing whether national rescue services might need to be contacted. Fortunately, Lucie knew us well enough not to immediately escalate the situation.
So no helicopters were dispatched to rescue two geologists with a truck stuck in the mud.
The Rescue Operation
Adrien and Nesrine were already on their way back to the barracks when Alexandre reached them by phone. They immediately turned around and headed toward our location. Meanwhile, we packed our essentials, locked the truck, and began walking down the road toward the main route.
Thankfully, we hadn’t gotten stuck too far from a larger road, so reaching us wasn’t too difficult. After the week Alexandre had endured, he was clearly bracing himself for another argument about field decisions. But none came. Adrien simply picked us up and tried to lighten the mood. No judgment. These things happen. He was a trooper.
Adrien arrived with the second truck
He had also brought along a tow cable. None of us had ever actually attempted a recovery like this before, so a fair amount of improvisation followed. We hooked the two trucks together, stepped back to a safe distance, and Adrien floored it. His truck fishtailed wildly for a moment… Then suddenly our vehicle broke free from the mud with a loud, satisfying suction pop. Cheers erupted.
The crisis was over. And when we returned to base later that evening, we suddenly realized something unfortunate. Oh. Look at that. The passenger-side mirror was missing. What a shame. Clearly it must have fallen off while the truck was stuck in the mud and not at any other point in time… Those damn beavers and their dams.
A Turning Point
For all the misfortunes that plagued our first week—lost mirrors, missing GPS units, insect swarms, collapsing beaver dams—it would ultimately mark the lowest point of the entire campaign. From that moment on, things slowly began to improve.
What a great road… 10 out of 10, would drive it again
The remaining weeks of our fieldwork would prove far smoother, far more productive, and far less chaotic. But those first few days in the northern wilderness had already given us stories we would be laughing about for years.
And the rest of the expedition still had plenty in store for us.
Following Christmas week in New York City, 2019 quietly came to an end with a relaxed New Year’s Eve dinner and drinks between two good friends. I was deep in my experimental cooking phase and had Alexandre over for a homemade, slightly burned, Greek moussaka.
A new year awaited. After the kind of year I’d just had, it was clear 2020 would probably be calmer. A step back. A year to build, not explode forward. As everyone now knows in hindsight, it would be far more than that — for all of us.
The New Semester Brought a New Victim to UQAC
With January came a new semester at UQAC. Alexandre and I registered for the two required PhD courses. Geology was always a small circle with barely a handful of students, most of them foreign. Among them was Pedro, a Brazilian PhD candidate who had just moved to Chicoutimi.
Welcome to the North. This is what you’ll see for half a year.
Pedro was one of those people who collects stories simply by existing. A guy who had never seen snow in his life moved to northern Canada in January, during a -40°C cold snap, with meters of snow and winter storms rolling in like clockwork. The story practically wrote itself.
After surviving the thermal shock, he endured months living with a questionable Québécois family. Among the gems he would retell: the time he opened the basement fridge to find his sandwich placed beside a box containing a dead cat. The owners were “waiting for spring to bury it” and didn’t want to leave it outside.
Pedro processed this information the way any rational person would — by moving out as soon as possible. With the amount of crazy stories he told us about his first months in Canada, he should honestly write his own blog.
The Rivière du Moulin during winter
He fit perfectly into our little circle of mildly disgruntled foreign PhD students trying to decode Quebec one snowstorm at a time.
The Quest for a Drivers License
For me, that winter felt like a tense calm before a summer storm. It was the first year of my PhD. That summer I was scheduled to do three months of fieldwork across Quebec and Ontario. Which meant one thing: I needed to renew my driver’s license.
The path ahead — Park du Rivière-du-Moulin
At the time I possesses an expired Romanian relic I hadn’t used since one lonely drive in Iceland in 2016. Naturally, it couldn’t be simple. Because my foreign license had expired, Quebec couldn’t simply exchange it. I had to redo the tests. Easy enough. Except I had barely driven in ten years.
Confidence low. Stress high. Instead of responsibly studying the driving manual, I decided to go in blindly. In contrast to my first driving exam when I passed both theory and practice on the first try, this time around I failed. Then failed again. The upside? Exam fees were cheap. Unlimited attempts.
The downside? A mandatory one-month wait between attempts. And of course, the regional SAAQ office was in Jonquière, not Chicoutimi. Which meant an hour-long bus ride each way through Saguenay’s bleak winter landscape every time I wanted to fail another exam. It was not a joyous era.
But with each attempt, I improved. Eventually I passed the theoretical. Then came the practical — rinse, repeat, stress, repeat. By summer, I finally had my Quebec driver’s license. Considering what was unfolding globally, this minor bureaucratic victory now feels oddly monumental.
My routine 10 km park walks to and from the supermarket and gym
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind to winter.
Francisation
Another goal I had set at the start of the year was learning French properly. The university offered nothing useful in that regard. It was Pedro who pointed me toward Quebec’s government-funded francisation classes for newcomers. The Centre de formation générale des adultes was a ten-minute walk from campus.
When I went to register, the woman at the desk spoke exclusively French and had to evaluate my level. I stitched together broken sentences from memory. It didn’t come across as much. Beginner level it was.
But within a few weeks, something interesting happened. Fragments of childhood French combined with fluency in Romanian, a Latin language like French, roots began clicking into place. Vocabulary accelerated. Patterns emerged.
So I was bumped up a level or two. It felt like I was on the right path. Well on my way to adapt and integrate into my new life in French-Canada.
Routine into the Storm
Between language classes, Jonquière license expeditions, PhD coursework, and research work, I barely had time to breathe. But it was structured. Productive. Forward-moving. A couple times a week, Alexandre and I would make our “shopping expedition” — a half-hour walk through snow-covered streets to Place du Royaume, with a mandatory stop at Archambault along the way. Life was cold, busy, and routine. Until mid-March.
Sometimes the waterfall just completely froze
Another winter storm was forecast — strong winds, heavy snowfall. The university closed for the day. Nothing unusual. The next day I returned to find the campus in complete blackout. The storm had damaged major power lines. Parts of the town were without electricity. I made my way to our office using my phone flashlight. Inside, a few colleagues were sitting in pitch darkness, casually talking. Our office had no windows. This never bothered me much, but Alexandre hated it. We chatted in the dark for a while, laughed at the absurdity, then left. No work accomplished.
The following day was another write-off. I can’t even remember if it was still the outage, another storm, or just institutional confusion. The week was dissolving. At some point I joked to my friends: Just watch, Friday’s excuse is going to be a University shutdown because of that coronavirus thing. The news had been escalating into fear mongering. China. Italy. Numbers rising. Dramatic headlines.
Then Friday came. And with it, a state of emergency. The university closed. The province shut down. The world closed itself off. And just like that, routine evaporated. Me and my big mouth.
The New World Order — Life during the COVID-19 lockdown
Early into the first lockdown, I have to admit I felt a selfish sense of vindication. A quiet, petty sort of justice. For months I had been navigating life in a place where I barely spoke the language and knew only a couple of people. Isolation had been my baseline. And now, suddenly, everyone else was getting a taste of it.
Welcome to my world.
Time stopped dripping here. The world held its breath, and winter simply kept sculpting what was already still
At the same time, I secretly welcomed the abrupt pause. My schedule had been escalating into overload — PhD work, language classes, driving exam shenanigans, constant self-imposed pressure. The world hitting pause felt… convenient. I expected it to last a week. Maybe two. And then it just kept going.
Mask mandates appeared. Supermarket floor arrows dictated which direction you could walk, as if we were items on a conveyor belt. Entire stores closed. Curfews were introduced. News cycles amplified panic daily. Then came the toilet paper crisis. One of the stranger collective breakdowns of modern civilization.
Meanwhile, my mom in Romania described increasingly rigid restrictions there. At one point, people had to fill out official declaration papers justifying why they were leaving their homes. It triggered flashbacks for her — memories of life under Ceaușescu’s communist regime, when movement and speech were tightly controlled.
The longer the restrictions lasted, the more frustration built. The virus itself wasn’t what weighed on me most. It was the scale of disruption. The sense that normal life had been switched off indefinitely.
Remote Everything
The lockdown halted my French learning completely. At first, the school closed. Weeks later they began discussing remote options. But by then something inside me had shifted. My motivation drained slowly, almost imperceptibly. What was the point?
The surface freezes while the current moves on. Stillness and Motion.
University research continued from home. At that stage, most of my work involved literature review, so technically it was manageable. Psychologically, it was another story. For some of us, the university environment was essential — a mental trigger that said: now we work. At home, especially in small studio apartments, the boundaries collapsed. The same room that was for sleeping and relaxing became the office, classroom, gym, cafeteria. It blurred everything.
The university experimented with remote courses. It was… rough. At first, everyone tried. Professors adapting to Zoom. Students attempting to focus. But attention spans eroded quickly. Small distractions became irresistible. Changing backgrounds. Flipping someone’s screen. Eventually most students logged in, turned off their cameras and microphones, and disappeared into parallel lives while the professor lectured into the void. I often used that time to cook or clean. Assignments replaced exams. Everyone passed. I retained very little.
The longer the lockdown dragged on, the more pointless everything began to feel. The one concrete achievement of that period was my driver’s license. After all the failures and bus rides through frozen Saguenay, finally passing felt disproportionately triumphant. A small win in a shrinking world.
A Dead Campus
Fighting persistently on our behalf, our supervisor managed to secure limited access to the university for our research group. Strict rules, of course. Masks at all times. Only certain rooms permitted. Not our windowless office, but Lucie’s windowless lab-office. It was something.
The branches held their shape. Everything else waited. Frost simply finished what pause had started
When I think of UQAC now, I mostly remember it as it was during that period: a silent, cold building where you had to ring a security guard to enter. Empty hallways. Fluorescent lighting humming over abandoned corridors. It felt like living a post-apocalypse survival video game.
Apart from each other and supermarket outings, Alexandre and I hadn’t seen people in months. The streets were dead. The first time we saw our supervisor in person again, we talked for hours. Complained. Reflected. Laughed. It felt strangely profound — as if we had all returned from separate planets. Human contact had become a novelty.
The Slow Summer Shift
Weeks passed. Then a month. Finally, our supervisor pulled off another small miracle: approval for one month of fieldwork in August up north for her entire research group of four. Alexandre was relieved. Energized. It felt like movement. Progress. Normalcy.
I felt… nothing. What had begun as quiet vindication had slowly dissolved into indifference. I remember preparing supplies at the university and running into an old colleague, Tague. He was genuinely excited for us. “You guys must be thrilled!” I shrugged. Meh.
The cold had pressed pause so long the world forgot warmth. Yet here, on sun-heated rock, life tests its wings once more, slow and deliberate
In hindsight, I think something subtle had been settling in. Not dramatic, nor cinematic. Just a quiet flattening of emotion. A kind of functional numbness. I went through the motions. I did what needed to be done. But the internal spark, the ambition and momentum I had carried into 2020, had dimmed.
It would take a long time to recognize it for what it probably was. A slow, quiet form of depression.
I last left off on Christmas Eve in New York City. By then I had already spent two full days exploring the city, and I was completely enthralled. Christmas Day itself began at a slower pace. I had one more specific sightseeing objective in mind, and this was the day to finally do it — reaching the Brooklyn side of the East River, and possibly crossing the legendary Brooklyn Bridge.
Toward the South Side
I headed once more toward Manhattan’s southern neighborhoods.
This was now the third consecutive day of grueling long-distance walking across the vast urban landscape. Each morning I would wake up feeling relatively fresh, but it took less and less time for my lower back to begin aching again — the inevitable cost of solo travel on foot. From experience, I knew that after four or five days the body usually adapts, and the soreness gradually fades, but until then every step came with a reminder that cities like New York are best explored with stamina.
Beneath the grand arch and colonnade of the Manhattan Bridge approach in Chinatown, Lower Manhattan
My goal for the day was to cross over and do some sightseeing in Brooklyn Heights. I still wasn’t sure whether I would actually walk across the bridge or simply take the subway both ways.
As I mentioned earlier, I have an on-and-off irrational fear of heights, and tall bridges tend to give me the sweats. The Brooklyn Bridge, towering over the East River, certainly qualified. The more I thought about it, the more nervous I became — which is exactly how these phobias tend to work. The more attention you give them, the stronger they feel.
Chinatown and an Unexpected Historical Encounter
About half an hour later, I found myself back in Chinatown — though in a different section from the day before. Surrounded by Chinese storefronts, open street markets, and the towering Manhattan skyline in the background, I came across a monument dedicated to an important historical Chinese figure: Lin Zexu.
Chinatown hustle on Division Street under the Manhattan Bridge approach
Lin Zexu was a 19th-century Chinese scholar and official best known for his opposition to the opium trade during the Qing dynasty. Determined to combat the widespread addiction devastating Chinese society, he ordered the confiscation and destruction of large quantities of foreign opium in 1839. This decisive action contributed to the outbreak of the First Opium War between China and Britain.
Statue of Lin Zexu in Chatham Square in Chinatown, New York City
Today, Lin Zexu is remembered in China as a symbol of resistance against foreign exploitation and the fight against narcotics. His statue in New York’s Chinatown stands both as a tribute to his historical legacy and as a reminder of the Chinese community’s cultural heritage within the city.
A Brief Detour
As I continued walking, I found myself drifting toward the Lower East Side.
I’m not entirely sure what drew me there — perhaps curiosity sparked by its reputation as a once-grittier neighborhood. I didn’t stay long, but it was enough to see one of the distinctive cross-shaped public housing buildings up close.
Manhattan Bridge approach on Manhattan’s Lower East Side
I’m not sure what I expected — maybe something rougher or more intimidating — yet the area looked perfectly ordinary, even pleasant in places. Compared to some worn-down districts I had seen in Romanian cities, it felt surprisingly well kept. Perhaps the old stereotypes about dangerous New York neighborhoods had simply lingered longer than the reality, or maybe the holiday season had added an extra layer of calm to the streets.
After the short detour, I returned to the Two Bridges neighborhood.
Winter Wonderland at the Seaport
From this closer vantage point, the Brooklyn Bridge appeared even more imposing. If I was going to walk across it, I decided, it would be better to start from the Brooklyn side, with the Manhattan skyline stretching out in front of me. But before committing to the crossing, I made my way toward the Seaport District, curious to see what awaited along the waterfront.
The Seaport District
The Seaport District was a completely different version of Lower Manhattan. In contrast to the densely packed towers of the nearby Financial District, the waterfront opened into a broad, airy space stretching out toward the East River. The area was like a breath of fresh air from the shaded urban canyons right next to it.
A slice of New York City’s maritime past that helped build the financial powerhouse it became today
In the 19th century, this waterfront was one of the busiest ports in the world, serving as a crucial gateway for trade and immigration into the rapidly growing United States. Many of the surrounding streets still preserve restored mercantile buildings from that era, reminders that long before Wall Street’s dominance, maritime commerce was the engine that powered Lower Manhattan’s rise.
The soaring Manhattan skyline from the rooftop at Pier 17
Today, the neighborhood balances that historical identity with modern redevelopment, turning former shipping piers into cultural and entertainment spaces without losing the character of the old harbor.
Pier 17
The holiday centerpiece of the area was Pier 17, a redeveloped waterfront complex that blends restaurants, event spaces, and public gathering areas with sweeping panoramic views. Throughout the year, the rooftop hosts concerts and cultural events, but during the winter season it transforms into Winterland, New York City’s only outdoor rooftop ice-skating rink. Warming stations, seasonal drinks, and cozy seating areas create a festive atmosphere that continues well beyond the Christmas holidays, drawing both locals and visitors who want to enjoy the skyline from an unusual vantage point.
Pier 17’s outdoor rooftop ice rink with some of the best views in the city
From the steps near Pier 17, the views were easily among the best in the city. The Brooklyn Bridge stretched across the East River in full profile, framed by the Manhattan skyline on one side and Downtown Brooklyn rising on the other. Prices at the rooftop venues were, unsurprisingly, steep, so I settled for something simpler — finding a comfortable spot along the steps, unpacking my sandwich, and letting the skyline provide the scenery for lunch. Honestly, some of the best experiences in New York are the ones that cost nothing at all.
An exceptional view of the stone tower of the Brooklyn Bridge from Pier 17
This was to get a good overall feel of the Brooklyn Bridge. The proximity made the decision I had been postponing impossible to ignore. Watching the pedestrian walkway suspended high above the traffic below stirred my unease more than I expected. I zoomed in with my camera, capturing people calmly crossing — tiny silhouettes against the cables and towers — and realized that I was unintentionally feeding my own anxiety. The longer I stood there observing, the more my thoughts began to spiral, turning a simple walk across the river into a mental challenge far larger than it needed to be.
A close-up of the Williamsburg Bridge’s, once the longest suspension bridge in the world
Just southwest of Pier 17, helicopters rose and descended in a steady rhythm from the nearby heliport, carrying visitors on aerial tours of the city. Strangely, the idea of flying in one of those enclosed cabins didn’t trigger the same reaction; it was open elevated spaces that unsettled me, not height itself — an odd quirk of the mind. In the end, however, the decision was made easier by the steep ticket prices, and I was content to remain firmly on the ground, watching the aircraft circle above the skyline.
The towering One World Trade Center catching the light like a beacon
After resting for a while and enjoying the waterfront views, it was finally time to continue the journey. Brooklyn awaited on the other side of the river, and I made my way toward the nearest subway station, still undecided about how — or whether — I would eventually face the bridge itself.
Brooklyn Heights Promenade
A short subway ride later, I emerged in Brooklyn. I hadn’t planned an extensive itinerary for this side of the river; my main goal was simple — to see the Manhattan skyline from across the water. Brooklyn offers no shortage of neighborhoods worth exploring, but with the afternoon already slipping away, I decided to focus on one destination I knew wouldn’t disappoint: the Brooklyn Heights Promenade.
The panoramic view of Downtown Manhattan from Brooklyn Heights
Somewhere in the back of my mind I also remembered the famous photo location where the Manhattan Bridge is perfectly framed between rows of buildings — though, at the time, I had mixed up my bridges and assumed the shot featured the Brooklyn Bridge instead. Realizing I was in the wrong neighborhood, I chose not to “cheat” by immediately looking it up online and instead followed instinct, heading toward the promenade. I may not have found the Instagram-famous street, but what I discovered instead proved far more rewarding.
The soaring Neo-Gothic crown of the Woolworth Building
The elevated walkway of the Brooklyn Heights Promenade offered what were easily 10-out-of-10 panoramic views of Lower Manhattan. From this distance, the skyscrapers appeared almost at eye level, allowing me to capture some of my favorite zoomed-in skyline photographs of the entire trip — a rare treat without having to purchase yet another expensive ticket to a skyscraper observation deck.
A 25-foot-tall Roman goddess figure holding a five-pointed mural crown symbolizing New York City’s five boroughs crowns the Municipal Building’s lantern-like top
A persistent winter wind swept along the waterfront, but the cold hardly mattered. I lingered there for quite some time, resting my sore back while watching the late-afternoon light settle over the city.
A slightly tired windswept look from Brooklyn Heights
It was also here that I finally made peace with my decision not to walk the Brooklyn Bridge that day. Had I been traveling with someone, or even surrounded by a larger group, the anxiety might have faded. Crowds often create a strange sense of security, but alone, the idea of being halfway across the bridge with no easy escape if panic set in felt unnecessarily daunting. Combined with the miles already walked and the growing fatigue in my legs, the choice became simple: the crossing would wait for another visit. Some landmarks, it seems, are best left as unfinished business — a reason to return.
A Night on Broadway
For the evening of December 25, however, I had planned something special. While researching things to do in New York, I had repeatedly encountered one unmistakable recommendation: see a Broadway show. Theater had never been a major part of my life — aside from a few opera visits, I wasn’t much of a theatergoer, and certainly not a musical enthusiast. Ticket prices were also steep, as expected in New York. Still, I felt that if there was anywhere in the world to give musical theater a genuine chance, this was it.
An extraordinary show awaits at the Majestic Theater
Looking through the available performances, one title stood above all others: The Phantom of the Opera. I knew the musical only through its iconic main theme, which I had first discovered through a cover by a Finnish metal band I followed, and I had never even seen the film adaptation. Yet the music had always fascinated me, and nearly every recommendation I encountered described the show as a must-see Broadway classic. That was enough — I bought a ticket, setting the stage for my first-ever Broadway musical.
The elegant interior of the Majestic, with show just about ready to start
From the moment the overture thundered through the theater, I knew I had made the right decision. Even seated far toward the back, unable to catch every visual detail, the scale of the performance, the staging, and the powerful music completely captivated me. Songs such as Think of Me, Music of the Night, All I Ask of You, and The Point of No Return instantly became favorites.
The Show Must Go On
Leaving the theater that night, I found myself unexpectedly moved. While strolling back to my hotel, taking in the nightly splendor of the city the melodies from the show kept playing in my mind. I’d later spend hours reading about the story, the performers, and the history of the production.
Midtown holiday glow on the 25th of December
That evening did more than entertain me — it opened the door to an entirely new appreciation for musical theater and quietly started a tradition I still follow today: revisiting the remarkable 25th Anniversary performance featuring Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess each holiday season.
New York had done it again. This time it wasn’t the towering architecture or the dramatic skyline that left the strongest impression, but the city’s artistic soul — its ability to tell stories on a grand stage and leave visitors carrying those emotions long after the curtain falls.
Museums Days
With only a couple of days remaining in New York, I decided to dedicate them to museums. The real challenge wasn’t finding something interesting to visit — it was narrowing down the overwhelming number of world-class options the city offers. As a geologist and lifelong enthusiast of natural history, the American Museum of Natural History was a mandatory choice. The second museum would require more thought, but one thing was certain: this day belonged entirely to the natural world.
The American Museum of Natural History
Before heading out on the morning of December 26, I made one practical decision — eat a serious breakfast. I had a feeling I would spend most of the day inside the museum and might not stop for lunch, so I searched for a nearby breakfast spot and ended up at a familiar American name: IHOP. I couldn’t quite remember where I had first heard of it — probably movies or television — but curiosity was enough to draw me in.
American breakfast breaking the carbs-o-meter
What followed was a lesson in American portion sizes. I ordered a bacon-cheese-vegetable omelet, accompanied by pancakes and a hot chocolate, expecting a modest meal. Instead, I was presented with what felt like a feast: a fully loaded omelet that could easily have been a complete meal on its own, followed by a towering stack of pancakes topped off with butter, and a mug of hot chocolate closer in size to a soup bowl than a cup. It was undeniably tasty and satisfying, but absolutely overwhelming. By the time I stepped back onto the street, I felt as though I needed a short walk just to recover from the sheer caloric impact before continuing toward the subway.
The American Museum of Natural History
Located along Central Park West, directly across from the park itself, the American Museum of Natural History (AMNH) is one of the largest and most influential scientific museums in the world. Founded in 1869, it has grown into a vast complex of exhibition halls, research facilities, and collections numbering in the tens of millions of specimens.
Eyes on the stars, feet on the ground: Theodore Roosevelt’s enduring wisdom to youth inscribed on the wall of the American Museum of Natural History
From the moment I arrived, the scale of the institution was clear: long ticket lines, guided tour groups gathering near the entrance, and a steady stream of visitors flowing through the historic halls.
The large crowd of visitors beneath the mighty Apatosaurus in the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda
Stepping into the Theodore Roosevelt Rotunda, I was immediately greeted by towering displays, including the enormous Apatosaurus skeleton — a fitting welcome into a museum where deep time and natural history unfold on a monumental scale. As a geologist, I felt an almost childlike excitement from the very first moments. Dinosaur fossils alone would have justified the visit, yet they were only one part of an immense journey that would stretch across the entire day.
From Wildlife to Civilizations
My journey started in the halls dedicated to the wildlife and cultures of Africa, where carefully crafted dioramas displayed animals in lifelike environments — meticulously preserved taxidermy scenes designed to represent ecosystems in remarkable detail.
African wildlife diorama presenting a family of lions
Beyond the wildlife halls, the museum gradually transitioned into the story of humanity itself. The Hall of African Peoples explored the diversity of societies across the continent. Intricately carved masks, ceremonial garments, musical instruments, and everyday objects illustrated how art, spirituality, and daily survival were deeply intertwined across different African cultures.
Ceremonial beaded figure, possibly a bird or animal effigy used in rituals
Moving onward, the journey shifted to the civilizations of Mesoamerica, where the Olmec, Maya, and Aztec cultures were presented not merely as ancient societies, but as sophisticated centers of knowledge and innovation. Monumental stone sculptures, most strikingly the colossal Olmec heads, hinted at powerful rulers and complex ceremonial traditions.
The colossal Olmec head replica in the AMNH’s Mesoamerican hall
Exhibits described how these civilizations developed advanced calendrical systems, astronomy, urban planning, and large-scale architecture long before European contact, achievements that reshaped my understanding of what “Stone Age” classifications actually mean in a cultural sense. Technologically they lacked widespread metal tools, yet intellectually and artistically they were extraordinarily advanced.
A magnificent Plains Indian war bonnet
Among the most recognizable pieces in this section was the Aztec Stone of the Sun, whose famous original is housed in Mexico City; the museum displays an accurate replica that allows visitors to study the intricate carvings representing cosmology, mythological cycles, and ritual symbolism.
The legendary Aztec Sun Stone replica in the AMNH
Nearby, smaller artifacts like jade carvings, ritual tools, jewelry, and ceremonial masks, revealed the refined craftsmanship of these societies, emphasizing that daily life, religion, and political power were often inseparable.
Origins of Humanity and Geology Time
I continued through the paleoanthropology halls, where the exhibits trace the long evolutionary pathway of our species. Reconstructions of early hominins, alongside casts of landmark fossil discoveries — including the famous Australopithecus afarensis specimen “Lucy” — place human history within a vast biological continuum stretching back millions of years.
Lucy’s legacy: The famous 3.2-million-year-old Australopithecus afarensis cast stands as a bridge between apes and humans, showcasing upright walking in AMNH’s Hall of Human Origins
Moving onward into the geological collections, the focus shifts from biological evolution to the processes that shaped the Earth itself. One of the immediate centerpieces was the massive iron meteorite — a multi-ton remnant of early solar system formation. Standing beside it, I couldn’t help but imagine a rock like that impacting the planet. It happened plenty of times in the past and still does occasionally in our times.
Ahnighito (Cape York meteorite fragment) in the Arthur Ross Hall of Meteorites
Among the museum impressive ore samples, and polished crystal displays one piece that particularly caught my attention was the huge stibnite display — an unmistakable mineral due to its elongated metallic crystal habit. Having grown up in a historic mining town where such sulfide minerals were once extensively extracted, I had seen many smaller examples in private collections — a small slice of familiarity.
This half-ton stibnite specimen, with hundreds of sword-like antimony crystals, is one of the world’s largest on public display in AMNH’s gem halls
The section concluded with a return to the living world and a striking visual reminder of time itself: the cross-section of a giant sequoia trunk. Each growth ring marks a single year, with historical events labeled across the centuries, turning the tree into a living chronological record.
Dinosaur Halls: Childhood Awe Revisited
Hours passed almost unnoticed as I navigated the museum’s maze-like corridors, eventually realizing it was already afternoon and I still hadn’t reached the dinosaur halls. Once there, the crowds alone made it clear I had arrived at one of the museum’s most celebrated attractions.
The massive skeleton of the carnivorous Allosaurus
Towering skeletons of Tyrannosaurus rex, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, Styracosaurus, and numerous theropods filled the galleries, while nearby displays showcased prehistoric mammals such as mammoths and the armored Glyptodon. For anyone who grew up fascinated by prehistoric life, the experience was unforgettable — a moment where childhood curiosity and adult knowledge meet in the same sense of awe.
A childhood favorite: Stegosaurus, whose brain was roughly the size of a lime… but whose charm is absolutely enormous
Unsurprisingly, nearly everyone in the hall seemed determined to capture a photo with the legendary Tyrannosaurus rex, myself included. Watching the crowd pose beneath the massive jaws instantly brought back memories of childhood evenings spent glued to documentaries like Walking with Dinosaurs and, of course, the unforgettable original Jurassic Park — still the benchmark that modern cinema has struggled to surpass despite endless sequels.
Your boy together with big boy T-rex
Dinosaurs, however, were only part of the spectacle. Surrounding galleries displayed a wide array of prehistoric and more recent skeletons, illustrating the broader story of life across different eras. Massive Ice Age mammals such as mammoths and the armored Glyptodon stood alongside other striking specimens, while nearby displays featured long, coiling skeletons of giant reptiles such as large pythons and other vertebrates.
A colossal reticulated python skeleton. Quite impressive and slightly nightmare-inducing
By the time I finished exploring the final halls, the museum was already approaching closing hours. What I had expected to be a half-day visit had quietly expanded into a full-day immersion, morning to late afternoon, yet I wasn’t even sure if I’d visited all of the museum’s sections.
Evening Reflections
Leaving the museum, tired but deeply satisfied, I slowly made my way back across the city.
I found myself strolling passed landmarks such as Carnegie Hall and Radio City Music Hall, reflecting on how much the city had already come to mean to me. Somewhere along that evening walk, a quiet realization settled in: I didn’t just enjoy visiting New York — I wanted, at least for a time, to live there.
Radio City Music Hall with the towering Christmas tree
I began wondering how my career path might someday align with that dream, imagining the possibility of working in industries that could eventually allow me to spend several years in the city. Whether realistic or distant, the idea stayed with me, quietly motivating future ambitions.
By now, navigating Manhattan had started to feel natural. I had learned the subway system, discovered affordable places to eat, and grown comfortable moving through neighborhoods that only days earlier had seemed overwhelming. I felt less like a visitor and more like someone temporarily woven into the rhythm of the city — though the approaching final day reminded me that the journey was nearly over.
Giant red ornaments fountain at 1251 Avenue of the Americas
One full day remained, and it promised a surprise discovery that would once again reshape my awe of what this city had to offer.
Steel, Speed, and Storm Clouds: The Intrepid Surprise
On my last full day in New York, the weather began to shift. The warm, sunlit skies that had welcomed me and lingered faithfully throughout the week slowly gave way to a gathering front of murky clouds. Rain was forecast for the days ahead — the days following my departure. It felt almost poetic, as though the city itself sensed the approaching farewell. The brightness that had framed my arrival softened into grey, and I found myself matching the mood, reluctant to let the experience end.
Playful bronze cleaners from Tom Otterness’s ‘Life Underground’ at 14th Street/Eighth Avenue station, sweeping up giant coins in the NYC subway
I had already made my museum choice for the day, though it hadn’t been an easy decision. The Metropolitan Museum of Art would have been the natural follow-up to the American Museum of Natural History — another giant, another essential New York institution. But after immersing myself so deeply in natural history and human civilization the day before, I felt that doubling down on a similar historic-cultural theme might be too overwhelming and reduce the experience rather than enrich it.
While researching alternatives, another museum caught my attention. From the few online images I checked, it appeared to be a war museum — fighter jets, naval vessels, military hardware. That alone intrigued me; I’ve long had an appreciation for military engineering and history. But the true selling point was a single photograph: the SR-71 Blackbird. An absolute legend of aviation — a reconnaissance aircraft capable of exceeding Mach 3, still holding speed records decades after its retirement.
The Legendary SR-71 Blackbird. Honestly, a photo pretty much like this one was basically the only thing I knew about the Intrepid Museum before I actually showed up in person.
That image was enough. I didn’t read much further. I booked the ticket with only a vague idea of what awaited me, unaware that this choice would turn out to be one of the most memorable surprises of the entire trip.
A Floating Giant on the Hudson
After another big breakfast at IHOP — it had served me well the day before — I headed out toward the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, located along Manhattan’s western edge in the Hell’s Kitchen district. A curious name for a neighborhood. Contrary to what one might assume, it has nothing to do with fine dining gone wrong; the nickname likely dates back to the 19th century, when the area was known for overcrowded tenements, gang activity, and a rough reputation that made it seem, to some, like a “kitchen of hell.” Today, however, the streets feel far removed from that past — busy but orderly, framed by modern high-rises and river views.
Long line of visitors waiting to enter the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum
It wasn’t until I reached the Hudson River and saw the museum up close that I realized what this place actually was. I had expected a building on a pier with aircraft displayed on the rooftop. Instead, I was greeted by a modest-sized entrance structure with museum signage — and beside it, an enormous aircraft carrier with the name Intrepid painted across its towering hull. Then I noticed the unmistakable silhouette of the SR-71 parked on its deck.
My eyes widened. My jaw may very well have followed.
Welcome aboard the USS Intrepid
I hadn’t realized that “Intrepid” wasn’t just the name of the museum. It was the USS Intrepid, a World War II–era aircraft carrier that had been transformed into the museum itself.
Steel, Supersonic Icons, and Cold War Titans
I’ve come to appreciate visiting places with only minimal prior research — just enough to spark curiosity, but not so much that the experience feels pre-digested. Discovering things in person, rather than through a screen beforehand, often makes them more vivid and memorable. In the case of the Intrepid, that approach paid off in droves, with one major surprise following another.
Flight deck panorama on USS Intrepid. From left to right: AV-8C Harrier, UH-1 Huey, T-28 Trojan, and HH-52A Seaguard, with the NYC skyline across the Hudson.
As I passed through ticket control and entered the courtyard, the magnitude of the place began to sink in. The USS Intrepid (CV-11) an Essex-class aircraft carrier commissioned in 1943 had served in World War II, the Cold War, Vietnam, and as a NASA recovery ship. After decommissioning in 1974 and facing scrapping, it was saved through a public campaign and opened as the centerpiece of the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum in New York City in 1982.
But that wasn’t all. As mind-blowing as it already was to explore a real WWII-era warship turned museum, I quickly realized Intrepid had even more legendary icons on display.
Hangar deck aboard Intrepid Featuring a Grumman F6F Hellcat
Moored alongside the pier stood another legend of engineering: one of the few remaining Concorde jets on public display anywhere in the world. Sleek, impossibly elegant, and once capable of carrying passengers across the Atlantic at twice the speed of sound. The museum offered an interior tour for an additional fee. Tempting — very tempting — but for the moment I was content admiring its aerodynamic perfection from the outside.
The Concorde — the only supersonic passenger airplane to date that saw service from 1976 until its retirement in 2003
On the opposite side of the carrier rested yet another surprise: the USS Growler, the only American nuclear missile submarine open to the public. Like the Concorde, it offered interior tours for an extra charge. The idea of stepping inside a Cold War submarine was undeniably appealing.
The USS Growler, one of the first US cruise missile submarines used as a nuclear deterrent
But first things first. I had an aircraft carrier to explore.
A short climb up a flight of stairs later, I found myself stepping aboard something I had never truly imagined I would enter in my lifetime. I was grinning like a kid.
Life Below Deck
My tour began in the Mess Deck. Informational panels detailed the complex logistics of feeding thousands of sailors during extended deployments at sea — a delicate balance between ensuring sufficient provisions and avoiding waste. It was a reminder that beyond combat operations, an aircraft carrier is also a floating city that must sustain itself.
Stacked pipe-berth bunks in the enlisted sleeping quarters
Narrow metal corridors branched into compact dining spaces and tightly arranged sleeping quarters. Every square meter had a purpose; efficiency dictated the architecture. Function over comfort. Steel over softness.
The Optical Landing System (OLS) lights, used for signaling aircraft during carrier landings
Eventually the passageways opened into a larger exhibition area filled with displays, models, and multimedia presentations. Military aircraft components, signaling equipment, naval guns, massive propellers, space capsules — and even a meticulously constructed LEGO replica of the Intrepid. I couldn’t help but think how satisfying it must have been to be part of the team that built it.
Massive 250,000-piece brick replica of the carrier, complete with flight deck details and crew figures
One display board listed confirmed wartime achievements: over five dozen enemy ships sunk during World War II, with many more damaged. Across the room, in striking contrast, an exhibit titled “Navy Cakes: A Slice of History” explored the tradition of baking aboard naval vessels — complete with recipes, photographs, and stories. According to the exhibit, cakes were baked on the USS Intrepid both regularly and for special occasions.
Intrepid’s tally of Japanese planes and ships damaged or sunk during Pacific campaigns
War and cake. Destruction and celebration. An oddly human juxtaposition.
Holt mixer and period ingredients from Intrepid’s cake-baking history (part of the ‘Navy Cakes: A Slice of History’ display)
Interactive exhibits, including flight simulators, filled other corners of the hall. The atmosphere felt almost like a busy convention center, people flowing from station to station. And yet, every so often, it would hit me again:
I was inside an actual aircraft carrier.
How absurdly cool is that?
Guns, Steel, and a Sudden Vertigo
After thoroughly exploring the interior, I stepped outside onto one of the lower exterior decks along the starboard side, beneath the overhang of the flight deck above. From there, I made my way upward along the ship’s structure, passing preserved anti-aircraft guns — single and multi-barreled mounts still fixed in position.
Boys, I think aiming in the wrong direction here
Now they pointed toward Manhattan. Oh, how the guns have turned.
Eventually I reached the flight deck. And that’s when the vertigo hit.
Double-barrel anti-aircraft guns
In all the excitement, I hadn’t fully registered how high up I had climbed. Suddenly I was standing on an open, elevated platform with minimal visual barriers, almost at eye level with surrounding skyscrapers. The openness of the deck amplified everything. My irrational fear kicked in hard.
Legs went weak and palms started sweating. For the first few minutes, I stuck close to the island structure — the carrier’s central tower — trying to appear casual while moving in a way that probably made it look like I had shat myself.
Setting foot on the USS Intrepid’s flight deck, one shaky foot at a time
As amusing as it is to write about now, it was deeply frustrating in the moment. Anxiety has a way of hijacking reason. But slowly, minute by minute, I regulated my breathing. The fight-or-flight response eased. The deck stopped feeling like a cliff edge and started feeling like a museum again.
And then I could finally look up.
An Aviator’s Dream
The flight deck was an aircraft enthusiast’s banquet.
The collection spanned decades of U.S. naval aviation, from World War II through Korea and Vietnam. Highlights included the Grumman E-1B Tracer — an early carrier-based airborne early warning aircraft — the Grumman F11F Tiger, once flown by the Blue Angels, and the iconic Grumman F-14 Tomcat, forever immortalized by Top Gun.
Grumman F11F Tiger, used by the Blue Angels — the US Navy’s famous demonstration team
There were also international icons: the British AV-8C Harrier and the Israeli IAI F-21A Kfir.
And then — the reason I had come. The SR-71 Blackbird.
It was far larger than I had imagined. Significantly larger than the surrounding aircraft. Its elongated fuselage, sharp chines, and twin engine nacelles gave it an almost alien silhouette. Even standing still, it radiated speed. This machine had cruised above Mach 3. It had outrun missiles.
The Blackbird was so large it was impossible to frame it well in any one photo
Seeing the SR-71 in person was deeply satisfying. A marvel of engineering born from Cold War necessity, now resting peacefully atop a retired warship.
On the far end of the deck stood a large canopy structure, almost resembling a temporary hangar. From the outside, it revealed nothing of what lay within.
Grumman F-14 Tomcat, an iconic variable-sweep fighter
I didn’t yet know what awaited me there. But I was about to discover the final, and perhaps greatest, surprise of the day.
An Unexpected Journey into Orbit
I stepped inside the canopy structure and was immediately enveloped in a dim, almost reverent atmosphere. The lighting was low, deliberate — as if encouraging silence. And there, housed within the darkness, stood one of the greatest achievements of modern aeronautical and space engineering.
Enterprise. The first prototype Space Shuttle orbiter ever built.
Enterprise — the cherry on top of the cake at the Intrepid Museum
At that moment, the Intrepid Museum had officially claimed the title of my best museum experience to date.
Rolled out in 1976 and named after the iconic Star Trek starship following a fan letter-writing campaign to President Gerald Ford, Enterprise was constructed as a test vehicle. Lacking heat shielding and full engines, it was never intended for orbital flight. Instead, it played a critical role in the Shuttle program’s development by conducting the Approach and Landing Tests in 1977. Released unpowered from a modified Boeing 747 carrier aircraft, the orbiter validated aerodynamic performance, handling characteristics, and landing procedures — proving that the revolutionary concept of a reusable winged spacecraft could function safely within Earth’s atmosphere.
The data gathered from those flights provided the confidence necessary to proceed with the operational fleet, beginning with Columbia’s first orbital mission in 1981. Without Enterprise, the Space Shuttle program as we know it would not have been possible.
RICOH IMAGING
Standing beneath it, I was struck by how beautiful it truly was. I had grown up seeing its sister orbiters in documentaries, textbooks, and news broadcasts. But seeing one in person is an entirely different experience. Even though Enterprise itself never reached space, it represented the gateway to an era when shuttles routinely carried astronauts to orbit and back. That realization was unexpectedly moving.
Its sheer size was impressive enough, but what fascinated me most up close was the underside. The black, plate-like surface was covered in high-temperature reusable insulation tiles coated in borosilicate glass. These tiles were engineered to withstand the extreme heat of atmospheric reentry, radiating absorbed heat away and protecting the aluminum structure beneath. Roughly 90% of the intense thermal energy encountered during reentry would be reflected or dissipated back into the atmosphere.
The black insulation tiles on the bottom of the orbiter
It was an extraordinary feat of engineering — elegant, functional, ambitious. Knowing that the Shuttle program has since been retired made the moment feel even more significant.
From Bridge to Skyline
After marveling at Enterprise and the surrounding space exhibits, I stepped back out onto the flight deck. There was one final section of the carrier left to explore: the island structure — the ship’s command tower.
From the island’s exterior lookout mirror: a quirky, wide-eyed glimpse of Intrepid’s deck life with the Hudson and skyscrapers peeking in
Climbing several narrow staircases, I moved through various control and operations rooms. From the Combat Information Center to the navigation bridge, the spaces were filled with original equipment and interpretive displays. Classic green radar scopes glowed behind glass, alongside navigation systems and communication panels that once coordinated real operations at sea.
Classic PPI radar scope displaying surface or air contacts
A small, modest cabin marked the chief of staff’s quarters — compact, functional, unadorned. Higher up was the captain’s bridge. There, visitors had the opportunity to speak briefly with a senior staff member and veteran who had once served aboard the Intrepid. Listening to him recount stories from his service days felt surreal, as though I had momentarily stepped into a living documentary. It was a genuine privilege to meet him and exchange a few words.
Weird architecture alert! Captured from USS Intrepid, VIA 57 West rises as a gleaming, angled tetrahedron amid the Manhattan skyline
Stepping out onto the top of the island offered sweeping panoramic views of the Hudson and the Manhattan skyline. No vertigo this time, thankfully. I could simply stand there, steady and present, taking in both the city and the realization that this museum visit had far exceeded every expectation.
Back on the hangar deck, I lingered as closing time approached. With the crowds thinning, I finally had the chance to try some of the interactive exhibits I had missed earlier. When I disembarked the aircraft carrier — a sentence I still can’t quite believe I get to write — dusk had begun settling over the river.
The Bell H-13 Sioux famously depicted in the MASH* TV series, on display as an interactive exhibit at Intrepid
There was just enough time left for one more tour.
I would have gladly done both the Concorde and submarine tours, but time forced a choice. I chose the Growler.
Steel Beneath the Surface: USS Growler
Commissioned in 1958 and active during the height of the Cold War, the USS Growler (SSG-577) was a guided missile submarine designed to carry and launch the Regulus I nuclear cruise missile. Unlike later ballistic missile submarines, Growler had to surface to fire its payload, making its missions both complex and perilous. As the Navy transitioned to more advanced nuclear-powered ballistic missile submarines armed with Polaris missiles, Growler was decommissioned in 1964 after only six years of service.
Heart of the sub: USS Growler’s control room periscope column
After decades in reserve and facing possible scrapping, the submarine was ultimately preserved thanks to the efforts of Zachary Fisher, founder of the Intrepid Museum. It opened to the public in 1989 and remains the only American guided missile submarine accessible for tours — a rare and sobering Cold War artifact.
Moving through its compartments was an entirely different experience from touring the carrier above. If the Intrepid felt efficient, the Growler felt compressed. Every inch of space served a purpose. From the torpedo room to the engine room, from sonar stations to crew quarters, the submarine was a masterclass in spatial economy.
The forward torpedo room deep inside the USS Growler
The bunks were tiny, built directly into the superstructure and easy to miss at first glance. Fold-out boards doubled as tables. Storage was integrated into every possible corner. Even on a brief walkthrough, the claustrophobic intensity of life aboard became palpable.
Ironically, the confined space did not bother me in the slightest. While open heights trigger my vertigo, enclosed steel corridors felt oddly comfortable. Crawling through the narrow passageways and even stepping inside the missile compartment felt more fascinating than intimidating.
The Regulus I, the first US submarine-launched nuclear-warhead cruise missile
The Regulus I missile itself, the submarine’s nuclear payload, was mounted on top of the submarine. Resembling a small unmanned aircraft, the turbojet-powered cruise missile carried a nuclear warhead with a yield measured in megatons. It was the U.S. Navy’s first operational nuclear cruise missile, a technological bridge between World War II’s V-1 concept and modern cruise missile systems.
Standing inside the vessel that once carried such weapons was sobering. This was not just engineering — it was the physical embodiment of Cold War deterrence.
A Museum That Surprised Me at Every Turn
With my tour of the Growler complete, the museum day came to an end. As much as I try, it’s difficult to fully express how much I enjoyed my visit to the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum.
What began as a simple decision based on a photograph of the SR-71 and a high rating turned into an entire day of escalating discoveries. An aircraft carrier. A Concorde. A nuclear submarine. The Space Shuttle Enterprise. A conversation with a veteran who had served aboard the very ship I was standing on.
One final look at the USS Intrepid towering over the Hudson at Pier 86
Some might raise an eyebrow at calling it my favorite museum experience to date. But for someone deeply fascinated by aviation, spaceflight, and military history, this was peak alignment between interest and experience. It wasn’t just the scale of the exhibits — it was the way they were presented, layered, and preserved with care.
So I want to close this chapter with a simple and sincere thank you to the people who made and continue to maintain this museum. Preserving a World War II carrier, a Cold War submarine, a Concorde, and a prototype Space Shuttle in one accessible space is no small undertaking. For visitors like myself, curious, enthusiastic, and perhaps slightly overwhelmed, the Intrepid offers not just artifacts, but perspective.
Walking back to the hotel on my last night in New York City
As a foreign visitor and admirer of American innovation and history, I left with genuine respect. And a salute.
One Last Walk
The day had come to leave New York City behind. I knew with certainty that I would return; the city had left a deeply positive impression on me. Even so, the moment of departure carried a quiet sadness. With an evening flight still ahead, I decided to top off my visit with one final stroll across Manhattan.
The final stroll across the city on the day of my departure
Baggage in hand, I set out toward some of the Midtown locations that had become so familiar by now. Starting at Madison Square Park, my default sanctuary from the very first day, I bid farewell to the park’s energetic squirrels before continuing toward the Empire State Building.
A close-up of the New York Life Building’s dazzling gilded pyramid roof towering over Madison Square
Checking my route along the way, I decided to head east to catch one final landmark: the United Nations Headquarters on First Avenue. As if offering a parting gift, the weather cleared for one last bright afternoon, allowing me to fully enjoy these final hours walking the streets of New York.
The United Nations Secretariat Building rising over the East River
Once satisfied, I took the subway for the last time, heading back toward Queens and then to LaGuardia Airport. And so ended one of my favorite Christmas holidays to date — a week-long adventure filled with discoveries, excitement, and moments that crowned 2019 as one of the best years of my life.
Enjoying the East River skyline one last time before heading home
It was time to return to the frozen north and resume my academic life as a PhD student in Chicoutimi, Quebec — already carrying the quiet certainty that this would not be my last chapter with New York City.
December 2019. Four months after moving to Canada, I was reaching the end of my first semester as a PhD student. Everything culminated in the research proposal exam — a final test of worthiness, and the last hurdle before I could continue the remaining three years as a PhD candidate without anything hanging over my head.
I had promised myself a reward if I passed.
The day finally came. I dressed up properly, delivered my presentation smoothly, and endured the intense heat of the examiners’ questions — coming out of it medium-rare, but successful. With the exam passed and the weight finally lifted, the realization hit me all at once.
Holy crap… I was going to New York City!
Planning Nothing, Going Everywhere
As with my trip to Greece earlier that year, I didn’t plan much in advance. I booked my flights, found a place to stay, and figured I’d improvise the rest once I got there.
The journey itself came in two legs: from Bagotville–Saguenay to Montreal, and then from Montreal to New York City.
A sleepy December’s morning in Chicoutimi, Quebec
Finding accommodation took longer. I spent a good while scrolling through Booking.com before stumbling upon a small gem: Seafarers International House. An odd hotel–asylum hybrid (run by a nonprofit for seafarers, of all people), it came with two massive advantages. First, it was cheap by New York standards—715 Canadian dollars for six nights. Second, it was central. Not “sort of central.” Manhattan-central.
My next step was confirming, via a quick online search, that I could buy a local SIM card. Then I figured out how to get from LaGuardia to the hotel and took a few screenshots of the route on Google Maps—just in case the SIM refused to cooperate at the airport.
Every small act of preparation made me a little giddier. With each detail sorted, the realization of where I was going sank in deeper, bit by bit.
Getting There
I woke up on departure day with my backpack and carry-on already packed—and a low-grade stress humming in the background about one simple question: how was I actually getting to the airport?
The Saguenay airport wasn’t in Chicoutimi, the small town I lived in, but in Bagotville, a neighborhood of La Baie. There was an airport bus in theory, but the schedule didn’t line up. And after a few months in Saguenay, I didn’t exactly trust the buses anyway.
You might say: just take a taxi. Or Uber. Uber wasn’t a reliable thing there and calling a taxi service in French over the phone was… not appealing. So I left early and walked to the bus terminal, where taxis were supposed to be waiting.
The Bagotville airport runway on the day of my departure
Of course, there wasn’t a single one in sight. I wasn’t even sure where they were meant to park. Anxiety creeping back in, I found someone at the counter who spoke some broken English. They assured me a taxi would come. A few minutes later, one did.
Once I arrived at Bagotville airport, I finally relaxed. One short flight later, I was in Montreal, heading straight for my next gate.
The US “enclave” in the Montreal Airport
To my surprise, U.S. border control was inside the Montreal airport. I was used to immigration happening after landing—not before even boarding. But the signs and security doors made it clear: this was the border.
As a Hungarian citizen, I didn’t need a visa—just an electronic travel authorization, which I’d filled out the day before. Still, the officer ran me through what felt like a full interview: residency, student status, intent, income.
In the end, everything checked out. I was waved through with a smile. New York City awaited.
First Sight
The skies over the East Coast were clear, and the forecast promised a full week of crisp, sunny winter weather. No snow—unfortunately. I would’ve loved snow.
The flight from Montreal was short. Just over an hour, on a small 2–2 seater plane. I stayed glued to the window, music playing through my headphones. I’d made a playlist specifically for this trip—songs that whispered New York to me. Old jazz, 80s Al Jarreau, tracks straight out of movies, shows, and video games I grew up with. That was how I imagined the city. Classically.
“Prepare for landing.”
In the low afternoon sun, the urban sprawl began to materialize below. I switched songs—New York, New York. Then the Bronx appeared, its unmistakable grid and cross-shaped buildings. And then a glimpse of Manhattan.
The iconic cross-shaped projects of the Bronx
At that point, I completely lost it. It was so familiar. So recognizable. Like a dream—except it wasn’t. I was really landing in New York City. The perfect finale to an already unbelievable year.
Everyone around me sat quietly, faces bored and blank. Meanwhile, I was internally bouncing like a kid heading to a theme park for the first time.
We touched down and I could hardly contain my excitement!
Living a Movie
Grinning like an idiot, I made my way through LaGuardia in search of a SIM card. After some asking around, I found a vending machine that sold them.
There was just one problem. I needed a SIM ejector pin—the tiny needle you use to open the tray—and of course I didn’t have one. Good thing I’d taken screenshots of my public transport route ahead of time.
My first hazy glimpse of the New York City skyline
Stepping outside the airport, the first thing I saw was an NYPD patrol. Internally: OH MY GOD, just like in the movies!!! Externally: calm, composed, casual walk-by with a smile.
I eventually found the Q70 airport bus and rode it to Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, where I’d need to transfer to the subway. By then, the sun was sinking fast, and my mind started spiraling: Which neighborhoods are dangerous? Is the subway safe?
TV had taught me to watch people’s hands. To look for guns. This was America, after all.
As I later learned, the infamous danger of New York subways belonged mostly to the past. But in that moment, my imagination was running wild.
Into the New York Subway
Then the train arrived.
Flat-fronted, gray metal. Two big round headlights like eyes. Screeching to a halt exactly as I’d seen in old media. Somehow, they’d kept the classic design alive into modern times—and I loved it instantly.
The classic old grey NYC subway trains still running today
The atmosphere inside the car was surprisingly calm. Everyone minded their own business, faces locked into that unmistakable commuter neutrality—until a group of subway performers showed up and launched into their routine.
The reaction from the New Yorkers was almost funnier than the act itself. Absolute stone faces. Completely unbothered. The look of people who had seen it all and were deeply unimpressed by yet another performance between stops.
I took my cue from them. Blank stare. Neutral posture. When in Rome…
The train plunged underground and crossed into Manhattan. My hotel was near Union Square, but I decided to get off at Madison Square instead. It looked like a short walk on my map screenshot—a famously deceptive illusion in New York.
It didn’t matter. I needed to see the city. I couldn’t contain myself anymore.
Madison Square
The instant I reached street level, my gaze shot upward and my mouth fell open at the sprawling metropolis around me. By my reaction, you’d think I’d never seen a city before. Of course I had — Athens, Budapest, Copenhagen — but those were older European cities with lower skylines and a very different rhythm. Even Calgary, the only North American city I’d visited, with its compact downtown core, felt like a mere sketch compared to New York City. This was scale on another level entirely.
Awe-struck after surfacing in Manhattan
Madison Square itself was gorgeous. A small green oasis carved into a sea of ornate concrete and steel. Christmas lights wrapped the trees and pathways, bathing the park in a warm, welcoming glow that softened the surrounding verticality. It felt oddly intimate for such a massive city — like a quiet pause before plunging back into the chaos.
Before heading toward Union Square, there was one essential New York ritual I absolutely had to complete: buying my first hot dog from a street stand. Thankfully, Manhattan is practically saturated with them, so it took all of ten seconds to find one. As I stood there, wallet in hand, a man approached me asking for money, specifying that it was for food. I offered to share my hot dog instead. He recoiled instantly, scowled, and snapped back that he didn’t want my hot dog. The absurdity of the exchange caught me off guard and made me laugh as I walked away.
The shining Clock Tower in Madison Square
It was my first small, unfiltered interaction with the city — messy, uncomfortable, strangely funny, and unmistakably New York.
With a surprisingly good hot dog in hand, I finally set off toward my hotel near Union Square. Right then, I noticed something unexpected on my phone: a free Wi-Fi network. To my genuine shock and amazement, the city actually had public Wi-Fi. In Manhattan at least — a bit spotty, sure, but still. I called my mom and gave her a live, shaky first-impression video tour of New York City.
A Quick Stop at the Hotel
Just a few minutes’ walk from Union Square, I reached the Seafarers International House. I was greeted by a surprisingly elegant lobby, followed by a modest room with a shared washroom down the hallway. Nothing spectacular — but more than fine for the price and location. And unlike a hostel in the same price range, I had peace, quiet, and privacy.
Arriving at Union Square
The receptionist was kind enough to lend me a needle so I could finally swap my SIM card. A few minutes later, I had mobile data — and with it, the most important tool of all: navigation. I was officially set for a week of exploration. And what better time to start than right then and there?
Despite the fatigue creeping in, I couldn’t resist going out for an evening walk. After a quick look at the map, I decided to head east along 14th Street toward the river.
An Evening Stroll
As I passed tall apartment blocks, I found myself gazing up at the lit windows, wondering about the lives unfolding behind them. What was it like to grow up in a city so famous, so mythologized? Probably filled with the same struggles and routines as anywhere else — yet perhaps oblivious to the magic of the place they inhabited. A magic that, in my case, had been carefully constructed and exported through decades of films, music, and games. And it worked.
The Union Square Metronome showing the time in 24-hour format on the left (the first 7 digits) and the time remaining until midnight on the right
New York felt shockingly familiar. Not just the landmarks, but the everyday details — the rooftop water towers, the accents drifting past, the streets and facades, even the small fire hydrants. Everything was iconic, recognizable, almost cozy. To my surprise, it felt less like visiting somewhere new and more like arriving somewhere I already knew. It felt… like home.
I eventually reached a narrow park on Manhattan’s east side, where I was greeted by a spectacular nighttime view of Brooklyn, glowing across the water. The quiet, dimly lit surroundings briefly put me on edge, my awareness dialing up instinctively. But as joggers and couples passed by, I relaxed again. I realized I loved the emotional ebb and flow the city provoked — comfort, tension, release — all within the span of a single walk. It felt like I had pressed my ear against the heart of the city and was listening to its rhythm.
The sparkling evening silhouette of Brooklyn
After an hour of walking around I was famished. On my way back to the hotel, I stopped at Artichoke Basille’s Pizza, just a few minutes from Seafarers. A small, unassuming place — and completely unknown to me as one of the city’s most famous pizza joints. The sheer size of the slices and the obscene amount of cheese were enough to instantly win my loyalty.
With that, Day One quietly came to a close. Full and exhausted, I loosely planned out a few key spots for the next day before finally falling asleep.
December 23rd
I woke up to a beautiful, sunny morning. Outside, the city was already loud and in motion — people rushing in every direction. On their way to work, or maybe scrambling through last-minute errands and shopping before Christmas.
I had a rough outline for the day: the Diamond District, Central Park, and a sunset from the Empire State Building. Fortunately, I still had some leftover Artichoke pizza from the night before, so breakfast was sorted. After a quick wash, I grabbed my backpack and stepped out, ready for a long day of walking.
I couldn’t resist the awkward selfies
Retracing my steps from the previous evening, I followed Broadway north from Union Square toward Madison Square, the Empire State Building guiding me like a beacon the entire way. I had admired it the night before too, but my nighttime photos were embarrassingly shaky, so I spared you the evidence.
Still, if I had to choose a single landmark to represent New York — like most non-New Yorkers — it would be this one. From a distance, it looked absolutely majestic, and I couldn’t wait to see it up close.
And now an actual good shot without my face in the way
Back in Madison Square, I once again found myself marveling at the elegant buildings surrounding the park. The Flatiron Building, with its iconic triangular shape, looked like a ship slicing through the city streets — one of the earliest skyscrapers in the world and an unmistakable symbol of old New York ambition.
The uniquely shaped Flatiron Building—scaffolding and all
Nearby stood One Madison, a modern glass tower rising from the historic MetLife Clock Tower at its base, where one of the largest clock faces in the world still keeps time over the city. And then there was that building — the one with the golden, pointy roof — which I later learned was the New York Life Building, its gilded pyramid inspired by classical mausoleums and meant to symbolize permanence and stability.
An Unexpected Encounter
The park itself was teeming with life — specifically squirrels. I couldn’t help pulling out my camera and trying to get the best shot. While I was crouched there, fully focused, a well-dressed man approached me with a friendly smile, and we struck up some casual small talk.
The squirrels of Madison Square
Out of nowhere, he asked if I’d be willing to model for him. For a watch.
I was completely taken aback. Me? Model? I laughed, but agreed. I had barely arrived in New York, and already it was offering me the kind of surreal, spontaneous encounters I couldn’t imagine happening anywhere else.
The General Worth Monument (left) and New York Life Building (center)
He fastened an elegant Swiss watch around my wrist and told me to just act naturally — keep photographing the squirrels while he took pictures of my wrist. When he was done, we chatted a bit more. I mentioned I was from Romania, and he surprised me by saying he’d visited in the 90s, shortly after the fall of communism.
Naturally, I couldn’t resist making a self-burn joke about Romanians and how shiny watches tend to mysteriously disappear around us. We both laughed.
He showed me the company’s website and social media, saying the photos might end up there. (Sadly, I no longer remember the brand — I followed them for a while, eagerly checking for my wrist, but eventually unfollowed and forgot the name.) He even offered to drive me around the city if he hadn’t had another appointment coming up.
We parted with warm farewells — and yes, I made sure I didn’t accidentally walk off with his watch.
The Met life Clock Tower and One Madison condominiums to the right
The whole encounter was so unexpected and genuinely heartwarming that from that moment on, Madison Square became my personal little sanctuary in the city — a place I instinctively wanted to return to after long days of exploration. Me and my sanctuaries.
Souvenirs and Icons
Still riding that high, I ducked into a nearby souvenir shop. I wanted something tangible — a small memento from a day that had barely even begun and was already unforgettable. I ended up buying a simple white scarf with New York printed all over it. Still adore it to this day.
The Empire State Building up close and personal
Leaving Madison Square behind, I continued toward Bryant Park, passing the Empire State Building along the way. I couldn’t help it — I reached out and gave it a quick tap as I walked past. Like touching a celebrity. I’d be back later to truly appreciate it.
At Bryant Park, another architectural giant demanded attention: the Stephen A. Schwarzman Building, home to the New York Public Library. With its grand Beaux-Arts façade, marble lions guarding the entrance, and vast reading rooms inside, it felt less like a library and more like a temple to knowledge — one of those places where even silence feels important.
Toward Central Park
I continued north toward Central Park, passing one iconic landmark after another.
First came Rockefeller Center, originally built during the Great Depression as part of an ambitious urban renewal project. The massive complex buzzed with energy, anchored by its famous sculpture and the plaza that behind that hosted the world-famous Christmas tree.
The statue of Prometheus in front of the Rockefeller Center
Just across the street stood St. Patrick’s Cathedral — a breathtaking neo-Gothic masterpiece, rising defiantly between towering skyscrapers, as if reminding the city that not everything bends to steel and glass.
The opulent, neo-Gothic St. Patrick’s Cathedral
All along the way, I was surrounded by architectural contrasts. Ornate stone buildings from the late 19th and early 20th centuries — many in Beaux-Arts or early Art Deco styles — stood shoulder to shoulder with sleek modern towers. One building in particular caught my eye: Charles Scribner’s Sons Publishers and Booksellers, founded in 1846, its name still proudly etched into the stone like a quiet declaration of cultural permanence.
The elegant old Scribner Building
Then, of course, there were modern giants too — including the unmistakable Trump Tower, all reflective glass and vertical confidence.
Trump Tower in New York City
The walk itself was a spectacle. Holiday decorations everywhere. People flowing endlessly in every direction. Cars begrudgingly waiting as pedestrians crossed streets whenever and wherever they pleased. This fascinated me. Where I came from, drivers ruled and pedestrians hesitated. In New York? Absolutely not. Pedestrians moved with total authority. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see someone casually walk over a car without either party batting an eye.
Oh… I loved this city.
Central Park
After more than an hour of walking — with a few pauses along the way — I finally reached the southeastern entrance to Central Park. Like everything else in New York, it was enormous. You can see its size on Google Maps, of course, but maps in this city are wildly deceptive. Distances here simply feel different. Not that I was complaining.
The William Tecumseh Sherman Monument, located at the southeastern entrance to Central Park
I spent some time near The Pond, where the skyline of ultra-luxury apartment towers framed the park in dramatic contrast. It made for some incredible photos, and I eventually asked a stranger to take one of me as well — the small tax you pay for solo travel.
Loitering around The Pond in Central Park
East Drive ran nearby, busy with activity: horse-drawn carriages, joggers, dog walkers, cyclists, and casual wanderers like myself. The park was alive, yet somehow calming — a deep breath in the middle of an immeasurable urban jungle.
One of the many horse-drawn carriages pauses along East Drive
As I wandered deeper, I passed Wollman Rink, the Dairy Visitor Center, and the Central Park Carousel. Paths twisted and dipped, crossing under quaint bridges, flanked by long rows of Art Deco buildings stretching north and south along the park’s edges.
A Bench and a Pause
By around noon, my feet were starting to complain, so I found a bench and sat down to eat the sandwich I’d picked up earlier. That’s when I noticed the small plaque on the bench — a marriage proposal from 2015, immortalized in metal.
A heartfelt dedication plaque on a bench in Central Park capturing a romantic marriage proposal from June 2015
Curious, I started checking other benches nearby. Each had its own message: dedications, memorials, quiet declarations of love.
Sunlight bursts through bare winter branches in, silhouetting the iconic Midtown Manhattan skyline against a glowing sky
A quick search revealed that these plaques were part of a donation program — a way for individuals to support the park and leave a personal message behind. I loved the idea. What a romantic way to propose, and to preserve that moment forever.
Hopefully she said yes… otherwise I imagine that plaque wouldn’t last long.
The Bow Bridge arching gracefully over The Lake
I continued wandering north through the park, eventually crossing Bow Bridge and passing The Lake. The bridge itself is often cited as one of the most romantic spots in Central Park. It’s been featured in countless films and photos over the decades, and standing there, watching the skyline peek through bare winter branches, I understood why. The Lake below reflected the muted winter light, calm and glassy, a rare pocket of stillness in the middle of Manhattan.
Belvedere Castle atop Vista Rock
As I pressed on, something unexpected caught my eye — what looked like a small castle rising from the landscape. It turned out to be Belvedere Castle, a Victorian-style folly perched atop Vista Rock, one of the highest natural points in the park. Built in the late 19th century, it was originally meant purely as an ornamental structure — a romantic nod to old European castles — though today it also houses a weather station and offers sweeping views over the park. It felt delightfully out of place, like a fragment of another world quietly embedded in the city.
Just How Big This Place Really Is
By this point, it felt like I had been wandering the park for at least an hour. With the added lunch break, it was actually more. Yet I was still barely halfway through Central Park — just to give you a sense of its scale.
Turtle Pond at the base of Belvadore Castle
Past Belvedere Castle, I came upon Turtle Pond, one of the park’s smaller bodies of water, followed by The Great Lawn — a vast, open stretch of grass flanked by baseball fields and framed by the surrounding skyline. My feet were starting to protest, and time was quietly turning against me. It became clear that there was no way I’d make it across the entire park and still reach the Empire State Building before sunset.
Sun-dappled hollows invite quiet wonder in the park’s wooded embrace
Still, I wanted to make it at least to the “big blue” I’d been eyeing on the map: the Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir — the largest body of water in Central Park and one of the largest in Manhattan. Originally constructed as part of the city’s water supply system, it now serves as a scenic centerpiece, encircled by a popular running track and uninterrupted views of the skyline.
The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir
Another ten or fifteen minutes later, I reached it.
The reservoir was vast — calm water stretching out before me, dotted with ducks gliding effortlessly across its surface. A fountain sent arcs of water into the air, and the low winter sun bathed the distant cityscape in warm light. Though it feels timeless, the reservoir is entirely man-made — a carefully engineered contrast to the organic chaos of the city that surrounds it.
The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir
It was serene. The sheer presence of such a massive park at the heart of this dense urban jungle felt like a triumph of civic vision and design.
I circled the reservoir for a while until I noticed the sun hanging low in the sky. Time to move. There was no chance I’d make it back to Midtown on foot without missing sunset — and besides, I didn’t want to completely destroy my legs on what was essentially my first full day.
Across the glassy Reservoir, arched gatehouses whisper tales of old New York amid winter’s quiet flock
So I compromised.
I took the subway from 69th Street to Columbus Circle, shaving off a large chunk of distance and buying myself precious time. From there, I walked briskly back toward the Empire State Building, trying to time it just right.
The Empire State Building
With a hurried pace, I moved down Broadway, passed through Times Square, and continued on toward the Empire State Building. I’d have plenty of days to return and explore the area properly — right now, I was racing the sun.
Golden afternoon light bathes the towering giants of Columbus Circle— a glowing timer reminding me to hurry, lest I miss the sunset
The building was, unsurprisingly, teeming with tourists. Long lines snaked through the interior as people waited to buy tickets. Thankfully, I’d had the foresight to book an e-ticket in advance, allowing me to skip the worst of it. From there, I was funneled into another line, where groups waited their turn to board the elevators.
Along the way, the walls were lined with sculptures, photographs, and displays detailing the construction of the building — an astonishing feat completed in just over a year during the early 1930s, at the height of the Great Depression. At the time of its completion, it was the tallest building in the world — a bold, almost defiant symbol of ambition in a struggling city.
Lifelike bronze ironworkers pause mid-task in the Empire State Building’s observatory exhibit
I’d always wondered what such a massive building actually contained. Beyond the observation decks, most of the Empire State Building is made up of office spaces, housing companies from media, finance, fashion, and technology — a vertical city within the city.
Once inside the elevator, we were greeted with a short video presentation about the building’s history. Just behind me, I overheard a Romanian couple muttering in Romanian about how it “wasn’t as impressive as people made it out to be,” instantly pulling me out of my bliss.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. Thanks, countrymen.
Seconds later, we arrived.
The 86’th floor
The observation deck — located on the 86th floor — opened up to a breathtaking 360-degree view of New York City. I had never been that high in a building before. Ever. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows wrapped around the deck, revealing the city stretching endlessly in every direction. As expected, everyone had phones and cameras pressed against the glass, documenting every possible angle.
I was no different.
Golden hour fades into dusk over Lower Manhattan, the Hudson River catching the last light while One World Trade Center stands sentinel in the distance
The sunset unfolded perfectly, washing the city in gold and orange before slowly giving way to blue and then night. It didn’t feel rushed. I took my time, soaking it in, trying to capture the moment — though no photo could ever really do it justice.
Only after nightfall did I realize there was an outdoor observation terrace above.
Manhattan’s glittering grid stretches endlessly under a velvet sky
Now came the real test.
I’ve always had a somewhat irrational relationship with heights — not constant, but unpredictable. Sometimes it surfaced on mountain ridges, sometimes near the edges of tall buildings or bridges, and sometimes even in reverse, just from standing too close to a towering structure and looking up, triggering vertigo and unease.
A sea of twinkling lights blanketing New Jersey and the Hudson
To my surprise — and relief — stepping outside onto the Empire State Building’s open-air terrace triggered none of that. Whether it was the thick concrete walls, the protective fencing, or simply the fact that I was riding an emotional high, my fear stayed silent. Even the strong wind whipping across the deck didn’t bother me.
I was simply… happy.
After taking more photos than I care to admit and lingering as long as I reasonably could, it was finally time to head back to the hotel.
The crowning spire of the Empire State Building from up close
Full, exhausted, and quietly exhilarated, I made my way back — knowing I had just lived through a day I’d carry with me for a very long time.
December 24th
Just like before, I had a rough plan for the day — sketched out the night before. This time, I wanted to tackle what is arguably the second most iconic landmark of New York City: the Statue of Liberty. Somehow, my hotel’s location near Union Square felt like the perfect hub for exploration — a natural starting point no matter which direction I chose.
If on the first day I had marched north as far as my legs would take me, today I’d do the opposite. Southbound. Thanks to Manhattan’s grid layout, navigation was simple in theory — just long in practice. Distance was the real challenge. My main constraint was time: I needed to reach the ferry terminal before the last departures, which — given it was December 24th — I suspected would be earlier than usual, sometime around mid-afternoon.
Even the firehouse gets into the Christmas spirit in New York City
First things first, though: breakfast. With Google’s help, I located a nearby Whole Foods Market and picked up a few things I could eat on the move. Efficiency mattered today. I knew I was in for another long, pedestrian-heavy day.
Washington Square & The Soul of Manhattan’s Squares
My first stop was Washington Square Park.
“Let us raise a standard to which the wise and honest can repair. The event is in the hand of God.” — Washington
The park immediately struck me as different from the others I’d seen so far. Anchored by its iconic marble arch — built to commemorate George Washington’s inauguration — the square felt less like a tourist attraction and more like a lived-in cultural space. Street musicians played casually and small groups gathered on benches, giving the area a youthful, creative energy.
Chess players, dog walkers, and the unchanging skyline of Washington Square North
Manhattan’s squares — Union Square, Madison Square, Bryant Park, and Washington Square — all serve different roles, almost like distinct social ecosystems. Union Square feels transitional and energetic, a crossroads of movement and commerce. Madison Square carries a quieter elegance, framed by iconic architecture and softened by greenery. Bryant Park, tucked behind the public library, feels curated and refined — almost European in its symmetry. And Washington Square? That one felt expressive. Intellectual. Bohemian.
Ford trucks, yellow taxis, construction cranes, and a giant Gucci stare-down. Just another block in lower Manhattan
The surrounding neighborhood reinforced that feeling. The buildings here were noticeably lower, more human-scaled than Midtown’s towering walls of glass and steel. Fire escapes zigzagged down brick façades, and the streets felt calmer, more residential. This wasn’t the New York of postcards — this was the New York people actually lived in.
It felt slower. Softer. And deeply authentic.
Shifting Gears: Bowery, Chrystie Street & The Edge of the City
From Washington Square, I continued toward Bowery, then down Chrystie Street, walking alongside Sara D. Roosevelt Park. The transition was immediate — and striking.
The city’s tone shifted. The streets grew rougher around the edges. Trash was more visible. A handful of shadier-looking figures lingered around the park, some stretched out on benches or directly on the ground. Whether they were struggling with addiction, homelessness, or simply exhaustion, it was impossible to say. It was still broad daylight, so I wasn’t particularly worried — but my situational awareness definitely dialed up a notch.
Red brick, fire escapes, and winter sun on a quiet block. Pure old-school NYC charm
What fascinated me most was how abrupt the change felt. Within the span of maybe a dozen meters, the vibe flipped — from cozy and relaxed to keep your guard up. It was my first real, unfiltered glimpse into the city’s sharper contrasts.
That morning, I’d looked up which areas of Manhattan were considered rougher. The Lower East Side and parts of Chinatown had come up. They were now very much on my mental radar. I wasn’t actively seeking danger — quite the opposite — but I’d be lying if I said the proximity to these edges didn’t add a subtle dose of adrenaline to the walk.
Holiday lights twinkling over Mulberry Street. Little Italy glowing at blue hour
As I continued south, a new skyline began to emerge ahead of me — denser, more angular, unmistakably modern. Glass towers rose higher with every block. I was approaching the Financial District.
But first… I had to pass through Little Italy.
Little Italy, Chinatown & the Weight of History
Speaking of adrenaline — nothing stirred it quite like Little Italy.
I have to admit, I got a little giddy walking through that neighborhood. Italian flags hung overhead, red-white-green everywhere, restaurants packed shoulder to shoulder, menus boasting dishes that sounded like they were ripped straight out of a Scorsese script. Growing up on The Godfather and similar mafia mythology, it was impossible not to let my imagination run wild. I half-expected a black sedan to slow down beside me at any moment, some sharply dressed guy leaning out the window to size me up.
One place immediately caught my eye: Umberto’s Clam House. Famous — not because it appeared in The Godfather, as I initially thought — but because it was the site of the 1972 mob hit on “Crazy Joe” Gallo, a real-life New York mafia figure. The place has since become a pop-culture landmark, referenced endlessly in books, documentaries, and crime lore. Standing there, knowing its history, I couldn’t help but grin at how deep in my own head I’d gotten. New York has that effect — it turns memory, media, and reality into one tangled narrative.
Pagoda eaves, dragon-scale patterns, and red columns — I was not in Bella Italia anymore
From Little Italy, I continued along Centre Street and slipped into Chinatown — and the shift was immediate. Architecturally and atmospherically, it felt like crossing an invisible border. Neon signs, tighter streets, older façades. The main streets were lively enough, but the side streets told a different story.
One in particular stopped me in my tracks — a narrow, dim dead-end with boarded-up windows, graffiti-tagged walls, and scattered trash. It looked like a set piece straight out of a gritty crime film. The kind of place where, in movies, someone gets stabbed in an alley at night and the camera cuts away before help arrives. Maximum grit. I didn’t linger.
Civic Center, Power & Elegance
Continuing south, I entered the Civic Center, and just like that, the grandeur returned.
The return of the Beaux-Arts architectural style
Towering municipal buildings rose around me — heavy, imposing structures built to project authority and permanence. Among them stood the Woolworth Building, its elegant stepped tower rising confidently above the surrounding streets. Nearby, the Manhattan Municipal Building completely caught me off guard. I remember zigzagging through the streets, turning my head left — and stopping dead.
The colossal curved façade of the Municipal Building, one of the most monumental buildings up close in New York
From that angle, it looked like an immense concrete wall, almost sealing off part of the city. Only a grand central archway broke the façade, allowing traffic and people to pass beneath it. Built in the early 20th century in the Beaux-Arts architectural style, the building embodies the era’s obsession with monumentality, symmetry, and civic pride. Awe and intimidation hit me at the same time.
Instinctively, I pulled out my phone to look it up — I just had to know what I was staring at.
The Brooklyn Bridge with scores of people embarking on the long crossing
As I continued, another unmistakable structure rose in the distance: the Brooklyn Bridge, its stone towers framing the skyline beyond. And with that, I knew I was nearing one of my main destinations for the day.
The World Trade Center Memorial.
Ground Zero
As I skimmed the edges of the Financial District, sleek modern glass skyscrapers reappeared — interwoven with the older Beaux-Arts and Art Deco municipal buildings of the Civic Center. The effect was striking. Old and new mirrored each other in reflective façades, as if quietly measuring time, loss, and progress.
Oculus rising like a white dove amid the glass giants, while Civic Center’s limestone towers quietly reflect in the modern steel and blue.
And then I reached it.
One World Trade Center and the 9/11 Memorial.
I hadn’t looked up any images beforehand, and nothing prepared me for the impact. The memorial is best described with a single word: powerful. Two massive square voids sit where the Twin Towers once stood — deep, sunken pools with water cascading endlessly downward into a central abyss. Around their edges, the names of the victims are etched into metal panels.
Reflecting Absence: names etched forever around the pools. The 9/11 Memorial—quiet, powerful, eternal
I was thirteen years old when 9/11 happened.
Even as a kid growing up in Romania, far removed from the event geographically, the shock hit hard. I had grown up immersed in American movies, music, and ideals. To see such a brutal, unprovoked act of terrorism strike the heart of a country I admired felt like a punch to the chest. I remember feeling outrage, helplessness — a strange, naive desire to do something, even though I didn’t know what that could possibly be.
Glass reflecting sky and memory.
Standing there now, after everything that had brought me across continents and through years of upheaval, finding myself at Ground Zero of all places… those old emotions surged back. Stronger than I expected.
I took my time. Reading names. Standing silently. Paying respect — not just to those who lost their lives in the attack, but to those who gave theirs trying to save others in the aftermath.
One World Trade Center dominating the sky
My final thought, as I looked up at One World Trade Center, was of the American spirit rising from the ashes — rebuilding defiantly what was destroyed. Different in form, reflective of a changed world. Not all of that change was good. But the act of rebuilding itself mattered.
With a heavy heart, I turned and continued walking — toward Battery Park.
The Maze of the Financial District
I continued zigzagging through narrow streets beneath the towering giants of Lower Manhattan. In some places it genuinely felt like walking through a canyon — sheer rock walls replaced by sky-high, man-made cliffs. The buildings closed in from every side, blocking out chunks of sky, amplifying sound, scale, and movement. Some were sleek and reflective, others heavy and ornate, each fighting for attention in their own way.
One building in particular stopped me in my tracks. I instinctively raised my camera and snapped a photo. It was an enormous archway — possibly twenty floors tall — wedged tightly between two impossibly narrow skyscrapers. Elegant, imposing, unmistakably Beaux-Arts in style. At the time, I had no idea what it was called or even exactly where I’d seen it.
Kimball & Thompson’s 1898 Renaissance Revival masterpiece: massive arch, eagle overhead, granite glow. Champs Deli awnings keeping the ground floor alive. Pure downtown history
It wasn’t until at the time of writing — after an almost embarrassing hour of AI image recognition, obsessive Google Maps sleuthing, and street-by-street comparisons — that I finally identified it as 71 Broadway, also known as the Empire Building. A quiet architectural heavyweight hiding in plain sight. Just one more reminder of how many incredible, easily overlooked gems New York City tucks away in the folds of its skyline.
Cross & Cross’s 1931 gem: vertical brick piers, setbacks, and that iconic pyramidal top. A brick sentinel standing tall amid glass and steel
By mid-afternoon, I finally reached the ferry terminal.
The line was massive. I knew it was peak holiday season and that the Statue of Liberty ranked among the city’s most visited attractions — but still, the scale of the crowd was insane. I waited well over an hour, inching forward with a mix of excitement and increasing fatigue.
No bald eagles here, just the squawking New York City seagulls
Fortunately, ferries were still running by the time I reached the front — though by then, service had been limited to Liberty Island only, with no stop at Ellis Island. A small disappointment, sure, but at that point, I was just glad I could get on a boat and sit down for a few minutes.
Toward Liberty
We sailed off from the shores of Manhattan toward Liberty Island.
The entire passenger deck was a teeming swarm of people, everyone up on their feet, arms stretched high over each other’s heads, all trying to claim their own little slice of the view through a phone screen. And honestly, I couldn’t blame them. The panorama was genuinely breathtaking. On one side stood Liberty Island, with the Statue of Liberty rising calmly above the chaos, then the Jersey shoreline on one side, Brooklyn on the opposite side, and—my personal favorite—Manhattan itself, unfolding behind us in all its jagged, vertical glory.
A lucky shot amid the tourist chaos on the ferry
The only real drawback was that unless you were a skyscraper of a person yourself, it was almost impossible to get a clean shot without someone else’s head, hand, or phone photobombing the frame. Still, even half-blocked views couldn’t take away from the sheer scale of it all.
As the boat cut through the water, my mind drifted back in time. I couldn’t help thinking about the refugees who arrived here roughly a century ago, fleeing war-torn Europe in search of a better life. They, too, would have approached New York by boat, their first glimpse of the New World framed by the Statue of Liberty. What an overwhelming, chaotic, and hopeful moment that must have been—to see that towering figure as a promise of freedom, opportunity, and safety.
Landfall on Liberty Island
A few minutes later, we disembarked on Liberty Island.
Liberty Island
Once on the island, I realized I wasn’t in any hurry. While many people rushed straight toward the statue, eager to climb inside and tick another iconic landmark off their lists, I chose to slow down. Part of it was practical—the entrance fee to the statue was, as with many things in New York, not exactly cheap—but mostly I just wanted to be present.
A hard zoom in on my favorite iconic skyscraper amid the Manhattan skyline
Instead of joining the queues, I found a bench, unpacked a modest afternoon lunch, and enjoyed one of the best dining views I’ve ever had. Manhattan shimmered in the distance, and the cold winter air somehow made everything feel sharper, more vivid.
And finally a wide unobstructed view of Downtown New York City
The Statue of Liberty itself needs little introduction, yet standing there, it felt worth reflecting on its story. Designed by French sculptor Frédéric Auguste Bartholdi and engineered internally by Gustave Eiffel, the statue was a gift from France to the United States, symbolizing liberty, democracy, and the shared values between the two nations. Shipped across the Atlantic in pieces and assembled here in the late 19th century, it became one of the most enduring symbols of hope in the modern world.
Lady Liberty standing very tall
What fascinated me was knowing that Lady Liberty isn’t entirely alone—she has sisters. Smaller replicas exist in Paris and elsewhere, echoes of the same idea carried across continents. Funnily enough, I may have visited one of them in more recent times, but that’s a story for another day.
Back to Manhattan – The Battery & Financial District
After returning from Liberty Island, I wandered through The Battery. I stopped by the East Coast Memorial, dominated by its striking bronze eagle sculpture, wings outstretched in solemn remembrance. The memorial honors American servicemen who were lost at sea during World War II in the Atlantic Ocean, a quiet and dignified counterpoint to the surrounding city’s relentless motion.
East Coast Memorial eagle in Battery Park
Across the street, the towering giants of the Financial District loomed overhead, dwarfing a small, almost forgotten structure nestled among them: the St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Shrine. The contrast was startling. This modest church, rooted firmly in early American history, seemed to exist in quiet defiance of the glass and steel pressing in from all sides. Somehow, it had survived the onslaught of modern architecture, refusing to be erased, even as the skyline rose higher and higher around it.
St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Shrine at Battery Park’s edge
Leaving the park behind, I continued north along the East River, passing Cipriani South Street—a grand, old-world event venue—before turning left once more into the narrow canyon of skyscrapers.
It was here that the vertigo finally hit me.
Looking straight up at those monstrous buildings, my sense of scale completely collapsed. The ground felt unsteady, my heart rate spiked, and for a moment I genuinely thought I might lose my footing. Cold sweats, dizziness, that unmistakable rush of irrational fear—it all came flooding in. I powered through it, quickened my pace, and forced myself forward until my senses finally caught up with my surroundings.
Getting a little dizzy over here…
Strangely, even in that uneasy moment, there was still awe. The fear and the wonder existed side by side, canceling and amplifying each other at the same time. My brain didn’t quite know what to do with itself.
When I checked Google Maps shortly afterward, I realized I was either on—or very near—Wall Street.
Wall Street & the NYSE
Somehow, without planning it, I had stumbled into yet another iconic location. Wall Street. Given that I had recently begun experimenting with trading and learning about financial markets—mostly through crypto—it felt oddly fitting, almost destined, that I ended up here on foot.
The NYSE’s Corinthian columns wrapped in red bows and evergreen
The New York Stock Exchange soon came into view, and it didn’t disappoint. The neoclassical façade, with its imposing columns and symmetrical design, radiated power, tradition, and authority. It felt almost Greek in spirit—a temple dedicated not to gods, but to capital and commerce.
Giant tree sparkling with multicolored lights in the NYSE plaza
In stark contrast, standing nearby was a cheerfully decorated, multi-story Christmas tree, glowing with festive lights. The clash between old financial might and seasonal joy was both surreal and oddly charming. A few selfies later, I finally admitted defeat—my legs were absolutely cooked.
Trinity Church
Before heading underground at the Wall Street subway station, one last sight stopped me in my tracks: Trinity Church on Broadway.
Trinity Church — the lighting and tight space really wasn’t on my side when trying to capture it
Built in 1846, this Gothic Revival church stands at the intersection of Broadway and Wall Street, its spire once the tallest point in New York City. Figures such as Alexander Hamilton and other early American leaders are buried in its cemetery, anchoring it deeply in the nation’s history.
I didn’t have the strength—or honestly the willpower—to go inside. Instead, I stood outside, craning my neck, trying and failing to capture a decent photo. The scale was impossible. What struck me most was how the church seemed permanently condemned to shadow, surrounded on all sides by the immense skyscrapers of the Financial District. Yet despite that, it endured—solemn, dignified, and quietly defiant.
Francis H. Kimball’s 1905 Trinity Building with intricate terra-cotta and limestone details. Once a skyline star, now framed by modern neighbors
And with that, half of Day Two was done.
Christmas Eve — Evening
I spent the next couple of hours back at the hotel, stretched out on the bed, giving my legs and lower back a much-needed break. It was also the first real pause I’d had since arriving—time to think ahead. Until now, I’d mostly experienced New York from the outside: streets, skylines, architecture. But I knew that couldn’t be all of it.
I opened my phone and began loosely planning the coming days. Museums, definitely. A show, maybe. There was an almost overwhelming amount to choose from, so I made a few tentative decisions and left the rest deliberately open. Some things, I figured, were better experienced without too much expectation. For now, that could wait. This evening was about Christmas.
Christmas Eve Midtown hustle
Around 5 p.m., I finally peeled myself off the bed and headed back out. It was Christmas Eve, after all—and if there was ever a place to experience it properly, this was it.
Midtown on Christmas Eve
I took the subway straight to Midtown. Packed didn’t begin to cover it. The trains were shoulder-to-shoulder, rush-hour levels of crowded, and when I surfaced back onto the streets, it somehow got worse.
Midtown was absolutely jammed. Sidewalks overflowing. People spilling into the streets just to move forward. And these weren’t narrow sidewalks either—this was prime Manhattan real estate. The sheer density of people was mind-blowing. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same direction, pulled by some invisible gravity. I honestly pitied anyone who had to drive through that chaos.
My destination was obvious: Rockefeller Center.
Back in front of the Rockefeller Center
Judging by the tidal wave of humanity flowing that way, everyone else had the same idea. When I finally reached the plaza, it felt like a festival crowd. Shoulder to shoulder, phones in the air, people cheering and laughing. And then I saw it.
The Rockefeller Christmas tree rising from an ocean of people
he Christmas tree was enormous—easily the biggest I’d ever seen. That year’s tree stood about 77 feet tall, weighing roughly 14 tons, and it absolutely dominated the space. Below it, the famous Rockefeller skating rink was alive with motion: a swirling mass of skaters looping endlessly beneath the lights. It was mesmerizing. For a moment, I even considered joining them… and then immediately remembered I’d never ice-skated in my life. Probably not the place to start.
St. Patrick’s Cathedral
From Rockefeller Plaza, I crossed over to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The Christmas Eve service was already underway. The massive glass doors were closed, and every bench inside was filled. Whether it was crowd control or some kind of ticketed system for the holiday mass, I couldn’t say—but it made sense. This was the cathedral, on the night.
A glimpse of Christmas Service, straight from St. Patrick’s Cathedral
I stood outside for a while, watching through the glass as the service unfolded. There was something strangely powerful about it—being just outside, yet still part of it. TV news vans were parked nearby, quietly broadcasting the event to millions. Christmas Eve at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, live from New York City. It felt… big. Historic. Almost unreal.
NBC News van ready to beam the holiday spirits worldwide
Eventually, my back protested. Standing still after such a long day just wasn’t happening. I either had to move or sit—and movement won.
So I left the cathedral and the crowds behind and made my way toward Central Park.
Central Park — Night
Don’t worry—I wasn’t about to attempt another two-hour trek across the park. I just wanted something quieter. A short loop along the southern edge.
A calm and quiet Christmas evening in Central Park
Inside the park, the atmosphere shifted instantly. The noise dropped. The crowds thinned. Billionaires’ Row glittered along the skyline, towering above the dark tree line. Wollman Rink was still buzzing in the distance, but the paths themselves were dimly lit and mostly empty.
As I wandered westward, I passed beneath a small bridge underpass. And that’s when New York delivered one of those… moments.
A lively, but much smaller crowd in Wollman Rink
From the opposite side, a man approached, pushing a cart piled high with belongings. Homeless, by the look of it. He was muttering as he walked straight toward me.
“Mah phone, man… I can’t fin’ mah phone… you seen mah phone?”
It was nearly pitch dark. No one else around. He was getting uncomfortably close. I kept my distance, eyes locked on his hands, and replied calmly—in what I felt was a surprisingly decent New York accent:
“I ain’t got yo phone, man.”
And I kept walking. I won’t lie—my anxiety shot up. I half-expected something to come out of his pockets. But nothing did. A few minutes later, I emerged near Columbus Circle… and straight into a heavy NYPD presence. The relief was immediate.
Christmas Eve: full spectrum edition.
Times Square, Dinner, and Reflection
Soon enough, I found myself back in Times Square—once again swallowed by an ocean of people. Street musicians belted out Christmas songs and New York classics. Pedicabs fought a losing battle against pedestrian tides. Massive LED screens flickered overhead, bathing everything in artificial daylight.
Welcome to advertisement central, aka Times Square
The center of capitalism, indeed.
By now it was late, and my stomach had started staging a protest. Finding a place to eat on Christmas Eve—without reservations, without breaking the bank—was not going to be easy. But this was one night I wanted to sit down somewhere nice. Just once.
After some wandering, I spotted an Italian restaurant that didn’t look completely full: Naples 45, tucked into the MetLife Building. They had space. They also had prices. Serious ones.
So I compromised. Pizza and a glass of wine—the least expensive option on the menu.
Christmas dinner ova heeya, let’s go!
And honestly? It was perfect.
It turned out to be one of the best Christmases I’d had in a long time. I know that sounds strange—to be alone, in a foreign city, foreign land—but for me, the excitement of travel, discovery, and atmosphere more than made up for it. I didn’t mind being solo at all. If anything, it let me sink fully into the experience.
I felt tired, but happy and grateful for the past days. I had fulfilled yet another big travel dream of mine
Sure, a like-minded partner would’ve been nice. It always is. But I wasn’t missing anything either. This felt complete.
Grand Central & A Final Goodbye to the Night
After dinner, it was time to slowly make my way back to the hotel. Somewhere along the way—whether by intention or distraction—I wandered into Grand Central Terminal.
Grand Central Station acting like the heartbeat of Manhattan
Another architectural masterpiece. Vast, elegant, almost hidden beneath the city. The arched windows, the celestial ceiling, the polished stone—it was all immaculate. The sheer level of civil engineering and design in New York was staggering.
Checking my map one last time, I realized I was close to one more icon.
So I surfaced once more—just in time to see the Chrysler Building, its stainless-steel crown glowing in the night like a Christmas ornament.
Expecting the Hobgoblin to fly out of it any second now
I stopped. Smiled. Took a deep breath. What a way to spend Christmas, I thought, as I finally turned back toward the hotel.
Christmas Eve was over—but more surprises awaited. That, however, is a story for another day.
Following my rough landing in Quebec, I was settling into early PhD life in Canada, slowly building a routine in Chicoutimi. My daily commute traced a familiar path: starting from the shores of the Saguenay, climbing the steep hill toward the cathedral, passing the CEGEP and its long stone wall, then continuing up yet another incline all the way to the doors of UQAC. It wasn’t a long distance, but it was a relentless one — a daily reminder that nothing here would come easily.
Early PhD Student Life
One of the first major differences I noticed between Europe and North America was how PhD candidates are treated by their institutions. In most European countries, PhD students are considered employees. Whether through contracts with the university or the research group, the general attitude is that you’re part of the research staff — junior, yes, but staff nonetheless.
In North America, however, you are firmly a student. You don’t receive a salary; you receive a grant. You don’t automatically gain elevated access to labs or resources. In many ways, you’re treated no differently than an undergraduate who might still be figuring out where their next lecture is. For many of us Europeans, this distinction was immediately noticeable — and not particularly well liked.
Roadmap ahead
That said, I would have two mandatory courses to take in my second semester, while my first one focused on independent PhD research work. At this stage, my “research” consisted almost entirely of information gathering for what they called a research proposal. In practice, it was an exam — an extensive written report and a formal presentation at the end of the semester, used to determine whether you were deemed fit to continue as a PhD candidate.
At first, the idea of having to prove myself again after already landing the position felt mildly irritating. But in hindsight, it was actually a solid approach. The process forced us to define the scope of our projects early, while also thinking through logistics, feasibility, and costs — all things that would become painfully important later on.
Historical Park of Sainte-Anne’s Cross on the north side of Chicoutimi
My time at the University of Copenhagen had prepared me well for steep learning curves, so the research proposal itself didn’t worry me much. The courses, however… those were a different matter. They were supposed to be taught in French.
How, exactly, was I supposed to pass university-level courses in a language I could barely understand?
The Sergeant
During our first weeks there, Alexandre and I had already heard one of our course professors mentioned several times by our supervisor, Lucie. She spoke fluent English but retained a strong French accent — normally not an issue, except for one small problem.
Neither of us could quite understand the professor’s name. All we got was Sergeant Barnes.
Alexandre and I exchanged looks, silently wondering what kind of military drill instructor we were about to encounter. Was this man going to bark orders at us? Make us march? Fail us out of spite?
South side of the Parc de la Rivière-du-Moulin
After weeks of mystery, the Sergeant revealed herself to be Sarah Jane Barnes — a highly respected English geologist teaching at UQAC. Together with her husband, she would be responsible for the handful of courses we were required to take.
Bizarro World
In what felt like a linguistic reverse uno card, the two professors turned out to be fluent French speakers with the harshest English accents my ears had ever been subjected to. So strong, in fact, that even native French students sometimes struggled to understand them — and would occasionally mutter that they wished the courses were taught in English instead.
It was truly bizarro world.
As October rolled in, it brought with it the cool, pre-winter air
Fortunately, “the Sergeant” turned out to be both sharp and considerate. Early on, she asked the class whether we would prefer the course to be taught in French or English. On that particular course, non–French speakers were actually in the majority. With even the French speakers’ approval, we continued in English.
From what I gathered, this was not something UQAC was particularly thrilled about — which made the situation even more ironic.
An international university… right?
Priorities
Courses aside, I clearly had to start learning French sooner or later — if nothing else, simply to improve my quality of life. I asked at the university what options they had for language courses, but these were limited to specific semesters. Eventually, I realized my best option was the government-sponsored French courses for immigrants. Free of charge. I would start the following year.
For now, the priority was getting past the PhD candidature exam.
Just a little Saguenay duck scratching an itch
Another aspect discussed with my supervisor was the need for a valid driver’s license the following year. This was, after all, North America, and I couldn’t realistically get anywhere — let alone do fieldwork — without driving. My old Romanian driver’s license had expired a couple of years earlier, and since I hadn’t used a car in a long time, I never renewed it.
Another thing to deal with next year.
The tasks were slowly mounting for 2020. I was already foreseeing a heavy workload for at least the first half of the year…
Heh. I had no idea what was truly coming. But I guess none of us did…
Small Town, Limited Options
During my free time, I took the opportunity to familiarize myself with Chicoutimi and its places of interest. There weren’t that many. The town center was essentially a single street lined with stores, bars, and a handful of restaurants.
Alexandre and I tried them one by one, but — how can I put it — the quality was mediocre at best.
Even Turalyon (Alexandre’s cat) was unimpressed
I’m fairly sure neither of us will ever forget a certain pizza we ordered once. It was so overloaded with low-quality industrial sausage, cheese, and astonishing amounts of salt that it felt like they were aggressively compensating quantity for quality.
Other options included the typical North American fast food, especially Quebec’s beloved poutine. I kept hearing locals rave about it, so I finally gave it a try. For the uninitiated, in its most primal form, poutine consists of deep-fried fries topped with a strange, gummy-textured cheese curd and drowned in gravy.
It was… certainly something. I’m still not sure I would have categorized it as food.
With limited options for eating out or ordering in, we were left exploring the wondrous offerings of Walmart. Like… Pogos. Another deep-fried favorite — now also frozen. Essentially a wiener in a bun… on a stick.
Ah. The joys of Chicoutimi.
My daily commutes through endless residential neighborhoods
On the days Alexandre and I didn’t meet up, I used the opportunity to improve my cooking skills and prepare my own meals. It was cheaper and infinitely better. In the following months, I also discovered higher-quality supermarkets like IGA and Provigo. These at least offered a wider selection of meats and produce — and even some decent cheese, which my very critical French friend actually approved of.
Ah, Chicoutimi. You were definitely an experience.
A New Sanctuary
Despite the many eyebrow-raising experiences, Chicoutimi did manage to provide me with a sanctuary.
I mentioned in older posts how, whenever I move somewhere new, I inevitably end up finding a place that simply clicks with me — somewhere I return to when I need calm, clarity, or just space to think.
A large natural park following the Moulin River from the southern outskirts of the town all the way north to the Saguenay River. Coincidentally, the northern entrance to the park wasn’t far from my place, and one of its many exits led straight to the large shopping area with the supermarkets, shops, and the gym I had signed up for.
Waterfall and rapids along the Moulin river
In the turbulent years that followed, the park became more than just a refuge from troubling thoughts. It turned into my almost daily (or every-other-day) trekking route — roughly 8 kilometers — whether I was heading to the gym, the shops, or the university.
Rain or shine. Breeze or blizzard. Plus or minus thirty degrees.
Quebec City
In November, our research group prepared for a short trip. Quebec Mine — one of the annual mining and research conferences — was coming up, and all of us were attending. It would also be my first time in Quebec City.
Château Frontenac, one of the most iconic buildings in Quebec CIty
Having been there before, Alexandre was excited to show me around one of the more civilized and urbanized parts of Quebec. Our supervisor gave us a budget limit per night and allowed us to book our own accommodation.
We, uh… chose a pretty dang nice one. Barely within budget, of course. Hotel Manoir D’Auteuil.
Each room had its own name and theme, and somehow, they placed the two of us in the chapel. Name aside, it was easily the most opulent hotel room I had ever stayed in — elevated beds, rustic furniture, and a marble-clad bathroom with an absurdly inviting bathtub.
Welcome to the chapel at Hotel Manoir D’Auteuil
The one and only downside was the bathroom floor, which remained brutally cold at all times.
Otherwise? 10 out of 10 — would chapel again.
The Conference
The conference took place mid-semester and was modest in size, drawing mostly local Quebec professors, researchers, and mining industry experts, with a handful of attendees from elsewhere in Canada. Most participants were French speakers, but the lectures themselves were held in English so that non-French speakers like me could follow along.
I spent most of my time attending talks and meeting new people, including my second supervisor, Stéphane — a highly respected professor from UQAM (Université du Québec à Montréal).
In the evenings, Alexandre and I would stroll around the beautiful old city center of Quebec
Despite the increased socializing, my limited French once again came back to haunt me. Conversations would usually start with a bit of small talk in English, only to abruptly flip into French. I’d catch a few words here and there, maybe even the occasional sentence, but following along was exhausting. Eventually, my brain learned to quietly phase out whenever discussions went fully French — something I had experienced before in Denmark when surrounded by Danish friends.
The Challenge Bowl
The highlight of the conference for me was a contest I decided to take part in — the Challenge Bowl, as they called it. Entry was free, I needed some entertainment, and best of all, it was entirely in English.
We were paired up in teams of two and thrown into a series of multiple-choice trivia challenges focused on geophysics. Now, I am not a geophysicist. I had absolutely no business being there. Then again, neither did my randomly assigned partner. A dream team, really.
Taking part in the 2019 Challenge Bowl
Giving up was obviously not an option, so I told him we’d simply try to figure out the pattern of right and wrong answers as we went along and see if we could beat the system. As with many things that come out of my mouth, it was mostly a joke. Mostly.
Yet the more we succeeded, the more I began to believe in my apparently undisputed ability to click the correct button at exactly the right time. Toward the end, things became more tense — wrong answers now cost points, while speed still mattered. Speed, however, was always on our side… because we didn’t really need to stop and think. The magic finger decided.
Victory in Sight
My partner could barely contain his laughter as we somehow kept pulling ahead, trolling our way up the scoreboard. As the final rounds approached and the prospect of actually winning became real, we both grew increasingly uneasy — and slightly horrified — by the effectiveness of our strategy.
The grand prize was $2,000 toward a trip to the national finals in Alberta.
I told my partner to imagine the two of us — complete clowns with minimal knowledge of the subject — marching into the national finals of a geophysics competition. If my enchanted button-clicking finger had carried us this far, surely it could take us even further. Barely a few months in Canada, and the Romanian was already trolling his way toward the top.
Almost got’em. Congratulations to the well deserved winners!
Fortunately for everyone involved, we just lost first place to a team that actually knew what they were doing. We happily took second place instead — grinning like idiots.
What a blast that was.
Evenings in Quebec
When we had time in the evenings, Alexandre and I wandered through Quebec City’s old town. It was easily the most European-looking place I had seen in Canada — or at least the most European part of a city. Cobblestone streets, old stone buildings, narrow alleys… I loved it.
Famous wall mural in Quebec’s old town center
Step just a few blocks outside of it, though, and you were instantly back in familiar North American territory. Wide roads, modern sprawl, and parking lots. It felt like a city within a city.
Still, it was several leagues above Chicoutimi, and it didn’t take long before we both found ourselves wishing we lived there instead. Once the conference wrapped up, we boarded the bus and headed back north to Saguenay — where a fully entrenched winter was now waiting for us.
The Final Grind
The rest of the semester passed in a blur of focused isolation. We hunkered down, grinding away on our research proposals and preparing for the decisive exam. At one point, I even recruited my mother over Skype to act as a practice audience for my presentation. Awkward? Very. Useful? Surprisingly so.
In the days leading up to the exam, I felt the need to give myself something to look forward to — a reminder that this wasn’t a life-or-death situation. A reward on the other side of the stress.
Greeted by the eternal white and cold back in Saguenay
Looking back, it was almost absurd to realize this was still the same year. 2019 had already seen me move back to Copenhagen, nearly relocate to Switzerland, embark on an unforgettable journey across Greece, visit Lithuania, and finally uproot my life to Canada.
So I decided to end it properly. One last adventure to crown the year of all years.
If I passed the exam… I would go to New York for the Christmas holidays.
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.
