Every move comes with a honeymoon period. The boxes are still unpacked, the neighborhood is unfamiliar, and every street corner carries the promise of discovering something new. After years of moving from place to place, I had learned to cherish those first few weeks more than anything else.
Moving to Montreal was no exception.
Barely settled into my new apartment, I wasted no time hitting the sunny late-spring streets to discover my surroundings. Some outings were out of necessity, like figuring out the best supermarkets and shopping centres nearby. Others were driven purely by curiosity. During that first week, I would simply pick a direction each morning and spend the next few hours wandering wherever the streets happened to take me.
Discovering Montreal
My first walking spree took me to the top of Mount Royal. I wanted to get a panoramic view of my new home, and Mount Royal Park was the perfect place to find it.
The Mount Royal Cross
Spanning nearly 2 square kilometers of forested hillsides, the park offered a spider web of trails and roads weaving their way across the mountain. From the grand staircase in the east to the Mount Royal Cross in the north and Beaver Lake in the southwest, there was plenty of ground to cover. Walkers, runners and cyclists shared the park with squirrels, raccoons and countless birds, making the mountain feel alive despite sitting in the middle of one of Canada’s largest cities.
The stairway up to Kondiaronk Belvedere
Several lookout points provided sweeping views of the vast urban landscape surrounding the park. However, the best spot of all was the Kondiaronk Belvedere. This was the premier scenic viewpoint for the Montreal skyline, brimming with tourists every summer, all clamoring for the perfect photo.
As was I. The difference was that I wasn’t a tourist. Not this time. I was a resident, and I had just found my happy place.
My first time seeing the city from Kondiaronk Belvedere
Over the following years, whenever I needed to walk off troubling thoughts or simply wanted a place to unwind, I would always return to Mount Royal and the Kondiaronk Belvedere. Spring, summer, autumn or winter, rain or shine, the breathtaking view of Montreal from this spot never failed to put a smile on my face and remind me of just how far I had come. I had found my new sanctuary.
Downtown Montreal
The following days, I continued exploring the city towards downtown and the St. Lawrence River.
I was fortunate enough to live not only a ten-minute walk from Mount Royal Park, but also just steps away from Sainte-Catherine Street, Montreal’s primary commercial artery.
Following the street eastwards for about ten minutes would bring me to one of the city’s most iconic landmarks, the Eaton Centre. This time, however, I found myself drawn towards a small park in the heart of downtown called Dorchester Square. It was a relatively small and quaint green space, teeming with squirrels and surrounded by soaring glass towers alongside elegant neo-classical buildings. In many ways, it reminded me of Madison Square Park in Manhattan.
The Eaton Centre with its iconic pyramid shaped top. View from Dorchester Square
I found myself comparing Montreal with New York surprisingly often. New York had long been my dream North American city, and as I explored Montreal, I began to understand why the two felt so familiar.
Both cities rose to prominence during the nineteenth century as major Atlantic ports connecting North America with Europe. They expanded outward from their historic waterfronts into sprawling metropolises, creating a rich architectural tapestry rarely found in younger inland cities. They were both home to remarkably diverse populations from every corner of the globe, and each was built around an impressive urban oasis that offered a welcome escape from the surrounding skyline.
The Sun Life Building in Dorchester Square
The difference was that New York ultimately won the race for commerce, growing into a city roughly three times the size of Montreal.
Lachine Canal
Taking a slight detour south, I eventually found myself on the shores of the Lachine Canal.
Today, the canal is a peaceful recreational area lined with walking and cycling paths, but nearly two centuries ago it was one of the most important pieces of infrastructure in Canada. Opened in 1825 to bypass the dangerous Lachine Rapids on the St. Lawrence River, it became the gateway to an inland canal network stretching deep into the North American continent. Together with the nearby Port of Montreal, it transformed the city into one of Canada’s foremost industrial and commercial centres, attracting factories, warehouses and thousands of workers to its banks.
The Lachine Canal
Walking alongside the canal, it wasn’t difficult to imagine that industrious past. Scattered along the waterfront were relics of Montreal’s industrial heyday, each accompanied by information panels telling the stories behind them. On my way towards the Old Port, I passed several historic lock systems before reaching the old CNR Wellington Swing Bridge. Permanently left in its open position, the bridge now stands as a monument to a bygone era when ships and freight traffic dominated these waterways.
One of the old lock system on the Lachine Canal
Leaving the canal behind, I turned back towards the city through a neighborhood that immediately caught my attention. Griffintown, once a bustling industrial district serving the nearby port, had been transformed into one of Montreal’s most fashionable neighborhoods.
Sleek condominium buildings stood beside trendy cafés, inviting green spaces and lively terraces, giving the area a distinctly modern feel. Strangely enough, it reminded me of the newer waterfront districts of Copenhagen. It was exactly the kind of neighborhood I could picture myself living in… if not for the equally modern property prices.
Old Montreal
Not far from the Old Port stood another of Montreal’s iconic landmarks: the Notre-Dame Basilica.
Completed during the nineteenth century in the Gothic Revival style, the basilica quickly became one of the city’s defining landmarks and remains one of the most visited churches in North America. Its twin towers rise prominently above Old Montreal. Unfortunately, one of the towers was undergoing a multi-year renovation, so I never got to see the church without scaffoldings and protective webbing.
The Notre-Dame Basilica in Old Town, Montreal
The basilica was only one highlight among many. Old Montreal itself felt like stepping into another era. Elegant neoclassical buildings lined the streets alongside beautifully restored red-brick warehouses that had once served the bustling port. Many had found new life as boutique hotels, offices, restaurants and luxurious apartments, preserving the character of the city’s earliest days while embracing the modern world.
For the time being, however, I resisted the temptation to explore every corner of the district. There would be plenty of opportunities to return. I headed back to my little corner of the city, content knowing there was still so much left to discover.
Saint Joseph’s Oratory
The following day, my walk took me west.
After passing through the charming anglophone neighborhood of Westmount, another landmark on Google Maps caught my attention. As I would soon discover, the Notre-Dame Basilica wasn’t the only monumental church Montreal had to offer. Perched high on the slopes of Mount Royal stood Saint Joseph’s Oratory.
Completely different in architectural style from Notre-Dame Basilica, yet equally impressive in its own way, the massive Renaissance Revival church dominates the western side of the mountain with its enormous copper dome. Founded in 1904 by Saint Brother André Bessette, whose reputation for compassion and reported miraculous healings drew pilgrims from across the country, the oratory has since become Canada’s largest church and one of the world’s most important pilgrimage sites.
Saint Joseph’s Oratory of Mount Royal on the west side of Montreal
Unfortunately, I never actually made it to the oratory that day. From where I stood, the entire area in front of it appeared to be one enormous construction site, and I simply assumed the church was closed to visitors. It wasn’t until several months later, when I returned to the neighborhood, that I discovered I could have approached it from another direction all along. The construction work had only affected the large forecourt, while the oratory itself had remained open the entire time.
A Friendly Reunion
Barely a week after settling into my new apartment, I welcomed my first guest from across the Atlantic: Moritz, from Germany.
Moritz and I had first met back in 2018 during EUGEN Austria, and we had stayed in touch on and off over the years. Like me, he loved travelling, and a few months earlier he had mentioned how much he wanted to visit Canada. When I told him I would soon be moving to Montreal, I offered him a place to stay if he ever made the trip.
Fast forward a few months, and here we were, meeting again after three years. It was great to see a familiar face so far from home.
Unfortunately for Moritz, there was one small problem. Some of the furniture I had ordered for the apartment still hadn’t arrived. Most notably… the couch. The very couch he was supposed to sleep on.
Well… it was time to roll out the foam mattress and sleeping bag, claim a spot in the middle of the living room, and make the best of it.
A Triumphant Return to Normalcy
My move to Montreal also happened to coincide with another long-awaited milestone: the world was finally beginning to return to normal. COVID restrictions were gradually disappearing, concerts and festivals were back on the calendar, and for the first time in years, large gatherings no longer felt like a distant memory.
Around the time Moritz arrived, I already had tickets for what would become my first concert in three years. My first concert since leaving Europe. My first since the long years of lockdowns, cancelled events and isolation. To make it even better, the headliner was Symphony X—my favorite band.
Scheduled to play in the Corona Theater… Talk about irony and foreshadowing
The timing almost felt unreal. I had first seen them live a few months after moving to Copenhagen years earlier, and now, barely a week after settling in Montreal, they were once again playing in the very city I had just begun calling home. It almost felt as though they were welcoming me into yet another new chapter of my life.
As if that weren’t enough, one of the opening bands was Haken, another group that had rapidly climbed into my list of all-time favourites over the previous couple of years. The more I listened to them, the more I was captivated by their unique blend of progressive metal, technical brilliance and memorable songwriting. By the time this concert came around, they had comfortably earned a place among my five favourite bands.
Needless to say, missing this concert was never an option.
Me and Mo at the show
Although Moritz wasn’t particularly familiar with either band, he was a fellow metal fan and happily joined me for the evening. Naturally, I squeezed my way as close to the stage as I could to fully embrace my inner fanboy, while he wisely opted for a more relaxed spot near the back.
Legends on stage receiving an ovation from the crowd
The performances were every bit as incredible as I had hoped. Yet beyond the music itself, what struck me most was the atmosphere. Thousands of passionate fans, singing every lyric, cheering between songs and simply enjoying the chance to gather again after years of restrictions. It wasn’t just a concert. It felt like a celebration that life had finally returned to normal.
Playing Tour Guide
The following day we set out to explore more of Montreal.
I had still barely scratched the surface of what the city had to offer, so apart from Mount Royal and Old Montreal, I wasn’t entirely sure where to take my guest. Fortunately, Moritz had arrived with a surprisingly well-prepared bucket list, so for the day I happily became his tour guide.
The Jacques Cartier Bridge over the Saint Laurent River
Our first stop was Saint Helen’s Island.
Together with its sister island, Île Notre-Dame, it forms the heart of Parc Jean-Drapeau, one of Montreal’s largest recreational areas. Originally expanded for Expo 67, the islands have since become one of the city’s premier entertainment destinations.
Walking and cycling trails weave through parks, lakes and gardens, while open-air gyms, beaches and swimming facilities offer plenty of opportunities to enjoy the warmer months. The area is also home to La Ronde, Montreal’s largest amusement park, the Biosphere environmental museum, and several venues that host major festivals and concerts throughout the summer.
The Biosphere environmental museum on Saint Helen’s Island
Whether arriving by metro, bicycle or car, it is the kind of place where spending an entire day is effortless. We wandered around for well over an hour and still felt as though we had barely begun exploring everything the islands had to offer.
Eventually we returned to the Island of Montreal, emerging from Berri-UQAM station before making our way towards the Old Port.
The Old Port
One landmark that had caught my attention from Saint Helen’s Island was the Old Port Clock Tower.
The Old Port marina and Clock Tower
Standing proudly at the entrance to the harbor since the early 1920s, the tower was built as a memorial to Canadian sailors lost during the First World War. Nearby, a pair of historic cannons stood watch over the waterfront, quietly recalling Montreal’s long maritime history.
Mounting canons near the Clock Tower
The rest of the Old Port, however, was anything but quiet.
Once again, I found myself amazed by just how much Montreal had to offer. The contrast with Chicoutimi couldn’t have been greater. Oddly enough, I didn’t need to experience every attraction to appreciate living there. Simply knowing they were all within easy reach gave the city an energy that I had sorely missed. Montreal felt alive.
Afternoon
Before heading back towards downtown, we stopped at a small jazz bar tucked away on one of the cobbled streets near Notre-Dame Basilica. I ordered what was probably the fanciest poutine I’d had up to that point, accompanied by a well-earned beer while a live jazz trio played in the background.
The mysterious bar somewhere in the Old Town
To this day, I have no idea what the place was called.
I’ve tried finding it again more than once, but without success.
Spinning around Downtown Montreal
After a short break back at my apartment, we made one final climb up Mount Royal to enjoy the panoramic view before sunset. Along the way, I became more familiar with Sherbrooke Street, passing landmarks such as the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, the elegant Ritz-Carlton and many other beautiful buildings that I would come to know well over the following years.
The Eye by David Altmejd, outside the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts on Sherbrooke Street
The next adventure, however, would take us well beyond the city limits.
Pedro was driving down from Chicoutimi with a friend to pick us up, and together we were about to set off on a three-day road trip to one of Canada’s most iconic destinations: Niagara Falls.
A Reunion on the Road
Just before our journey began, Moritz discovered that another one of our EUGEN friends from Austria, Sophie, was also in Canada at the time, taking part in a research program in Ottawa. One thing quickly led to another, and before we knew it, we had a fifth member joining the trip. We just had to make a small detour through Cornwall to pick her up on the way to Niagara.
What had started as a little road trip between friends was turning into quite the reunion.
Ornate 19th-century architecture in Old Town, Montreal
It had only been about half a year since I had briefly visited Niagara Falls on the return journey from a conference in London. That visit, however, had been little more than a quick stop. We were pressed for time because of the long drive back to Montreal, and the limited parking around the falls was both scarce and expensive. There was barely enough time to take in the view before getting back on the road.
This time was different. We were actually going to stay.
We had booked two nights in Niagara, giving Pedro, who would be doing all the driving, at least one full day to relax between the long journeys. It also meant we could finally take our time and explore the area properly rather than treating the falls as a glorified roadside stop.
Montreal’s rubber-tired Metro trains and the curious peanut-butter scent of their brakes — a transit story all their own
There was, however, one small logistical problem I had to deal with before we left.
I was expecting a pair of Fjällräven pants I had ordered for work. At some point before the road trip, I received a notification that the package had been delivered and left in the lobby downstairs. Except when I got home, there was no package. I searched around the lobby, checked the usual places and, if I remember correctly, even asked the building management whether they had seen anything. Nothing.
It seemed my brand-new work pants had simply been yoinked.
With the Niagara trip approaching, there wasn’t much I could do about it. So, somewhere along the road to Cornwall, while Pedro was driving us towards Niagara, I found myself on the phone with Fjällräven explaining that my pants had apparently vanished into thin air.
They checked with the delivery company, which confirmed that the package had indeed been delivered to the correct address. Great… Except I still didn’t have my pants.
Why are you eating upside down, squirrel? You’re not in Australia…
Fortunately, Fjällräven were remarkably helpful. Since the delivery company considered the package delivered but I clearly hadn’t received it, they agreed to send me another pair.
And so, somewhere on the road to Niagara Falls, while a spontaneous road trip was unfolding around me and we were about to pick up Sophie, I was simultaneously trying to solve the mystery of my missing trousers.
It was becoming that kind of month.
Off to Niagara
The weather was looking rather miserable when we set off. The sky remained overcast for most of the drive, and I think we even caught some rain when we stopped in Cornwall to pick up Sophie. But as we continued west along Lake Ontario, the clouds gradually began to break apart. By the time we reached Niagara in the late afternoon, the skies had cleared and we were greeted by beautiful sunshine. It was a little windy, but after the dreary start to the journey, I wasn’t about to complain.
Dramatic clouds giving way to a blue sky above Lake Ontario
I was genuinely happy with how this rather spontaneous trip was coming together.
I was particularly grateful that Pedro had agreed to make the drive. Without a car, there wasn’t really an easy way for Moritz to get from Montreal to Niagara and back, and otherwise he would have travelled all the way across the Atlantic only to see Montreal. Renting a car was certainly an option, but it would have added considerably to the cost, and I had never been particularly enthusiastic about driving myself around unfamiliar roads when there were alternatives.
So having Pedro behind the wheel was a bit of a lifesaver, even if his theatrical Rio-driving style occasionally had our more Germanic passengers gripping their seats and sweating a little.
After settling into our rooms at the Days Inn, we started looking for somewhere to grab some food and drinks. It didn’t take long before one particularly famous establishment caught our attention.
The over-the-top side of Niagara Falls: giant ducks, cars stuck in walls, and enough neon kitsch to rival Vegas
Right across from our hotel was a Hooters. Some of us responded with the appropriate amount of facepalming at the suggestion. Moritz, however, couldn’t resist the opportunity to have a drink in one of America’s most famous, or infamous, bar chains.
Having satisfied that particular curiosity, we eventually headed back out for a stroll around Niagara in the evening before returning to the hotel.
Niagara Falls in Full Force
The following morning we were all fresh and full of energy. We had several activities in mind, so we started with a morning walk around the falls.
Spring at Niagara
The parks and walkways surrounding the falls were vibrant green, with colorful flowers blooming everywhere. Canada geese honked and grazed around the lawns while the sky remained beautifully clear. After the dreary start to our journey the previous day, we couldn’t have asked for better weather.
We continued with a walking tour down into the gorge, where we were each handed a thin yellow rain poncho. They made us all look like we had been wrapped in recycled garbage bags, and initially we weren’t entirely convinced they were necessary. Turns out… they were.
An epic view of Niagara from near the grand waterfall
The trail brought us remarkably close to the side of the waterfall, where a constant spray of water filled the air. By the time we reached the closest viewpoints, the ponchos were doing their job.
With my yellow trash bag, shorts, cheap flip-flops and a pair of ridiculous round sunglasses I had just bought, I felt like I was attempting to make some sort of fashion statement.
Some people simply aren’t ready for this level of style
After touring the falls, we jumped back into the car and drove down to Niagara-on-the-Lake, a small historic town near the mouth of the Niagara River. My mother had suggested that we visit it, having once visited a friend who lived there many years earlier and remembering the place fondly. It was easy to see why.
Niagara-on-the-Lake
Niagara-on-the-Lake had a completely different atmosphere from the frenetic tourist center around the falls. Its neatly maintained streets were lined with colorful flowerbeds, historic buildings, small shops, restaurants and charming pubs, giving the town an almost idyllic, old-fashioned character. Everything looked remarkably polished and prosperous, yet the pace was relaxed and unhurried.
Clock Tower in the heart of Niagara-on-the-Lake
The town also gave us a chance to appreciate just how strategically positioned this corner of Ontario was. From the shores of Lake Ontario, we could see cargo ships moving across the water, while the distant Toronto skyline was visible on the horizon. With my camera’s zoom, I could make out the CN tower and some of the city’s skyscrapers from afar.
At the mouth of the Niagara River, the United States suddenly seemed incredibly close. The river itself formed the border, with American territory lying only a short distance away across the water. Two historic forts stood on opposite sides as reminders of how strategically important the region had once been: Fort George on the Canadian side and the considerably more imposing-looking Old Fort Niagara across the river in New York.
Old Fort Niagara on the US side of the Niagara River
Naturally, this gave Pedro and me an opportunity to start making jokes about how everything on the American side somehow looked better.
We were foreigners who had already spent several years living in Canada, after all. We knew enough about the Canadian system to complain about it, while knowing little to nothing about the American one. Obviously, the only reasonable conclusion was that things must be better over there. The grass is always greener on the other side. There were even a few jokes about being able to “smell freedom” from the American side of the river while we remained trapped in socialist Canada. Mostly jokes, of course.
Zoom in on the Toronto skyline across Lake Ontario
After the experience of the pandemic years, Pedro and I had developed a deep distaste for the increasingly restrictive measures imposed by Canadian governments in the name of protecting the public. The severity of some of the lockdowns, the pressure surrounding vaccination, and the heavy-handed response to the Freedom Convoy had left me with a lingering feeling that personal liberty had too often been treated as something that could simply be suspended whenever governments deemed it necessary.
So perhaps our jokes about the greener grass on the other side of the river weren’t entirely without substance.
Heights and Lights
Later that afternoon we returned to Niagara Falls and headed up the Skylon Tower. At just over 150 meters tall, it was nowhere near the height of Toronto’s CN Tower, but it still offered an impressive panorama over the falls, the Niagara River and the surrounding landscape. On a clear day, the view stretches far across Lake Ontario, and the observation deck gave us an excellent perspective of just how enormous the falls and the surrounding tourist district really were.
Niagara Falls from the Skylon Tower observation deck
It also came at a considerably more reasonable price than the CN Tower, which was particularly important given how quickly our collection of parking and tourist expenses was growing.
Afterwards we presumably went somewhere for dinner, although I honestly can’t remember much about that part of the evening. What I do remember was returning to the falls after nightfall.
Group photo from the Skylon Tower
The character of Niagara had completely changed. The crowds had thinned, the surrounding buildings glowed against the darkness, and the waterfalls themselves were illuminated in constantly changing colours. The rushing water became an enormous moving canvas of red, blue, green and purple.
A spectacular nightly color show at Niagara Falls
Once again, Pedro and I couldn’t resist comparing the Canadian and American sides. Naturally, the American lights were better. At least according to us. It became an ongoing joke throughout the evening that apparently everything across the border was superior, including the illumination of a waterfall that very much belonged to both countries.
You Have a Parking Problem
The spectacle certainly fit the character of Niagara Falls itself. The town was, after all, something resembling a Canadian mini-Las Vegas, with casinos, hotels, restaurants, entertainment venues and attractions packed around one of the world’s great natural wonders. The waterfalls provided the natural spectacle; everything around them seemed designed to make sure visitors had plenty of ways to spend money once they were done looking at it.
A dinosaur theme park? Why not?
Speaking of casinos, we had one final activity in mind for the evening. None of us had any serious intention of losing money. We simply wanted to experience one of the casinos for an hour or so, perhaps throw a few dollars into a machine and have a look around.
There was just one problem… Parking.
By this point, we had become increasingly annoyed by how expensive and ubiquitous paid parking seemed to be. Every time we wanted to stop somewhere, another parking fee seemed to be waiting for us. So Pedro took it upon himself to find a free spot somewhere within reasonable walking distance of the casinos.
Too cool for school
This proved to be considerably more difficult than expected. What followed was roughly half an hour of driving around in circles, searching increasingly desperate side streets and finding very little that didn’t come with another hefty fee attached. Eventually, it got late enough that we simply gave up. The casino would have to wait.
We headed back to the hotel instead. We still had a long drive ahead of us the following day, and Pedro in particular needed a good night’s sleep after already having driven us all the way from Chicoutimi the previous day. And with that, our short excursion to Niagara Falls came to an end.
Dinner time somewhere in Niagara Falls
Despite the rushed schedule, the long drives, the endless parking fees and our failed attempt at visiting a casino, I think we had made the most of our day and a half. We had explored the falls from almost every angle, wandered through Niagara-on-the-Lake, admired the views from above and seen the waterfalls transformed by the colorful lights after dark.
But there was still one major stop left on our journey back to Montreal. Toronto.
A Few Hours in Toronto
We had planned to make a stop in Toronto on our way back. None of us had really seen Canada’s biggest city, so we figured we might as well take the opportunity to spend a few hours sightseeing before continuing towards Montreal. Toronto was also a convenient place for Sophie to catch a train back to Ottawa. But first, we all had to see the big ol’ tower. The CN Tower.
Even before reaching Toronto, it was impossible to miss. Rising 553 meters above the city, the tower was for decades the world’s tallest freestanding structure and remains one of the most recognizable landmarks in Canada. Its enormous concrete shaft, topped by a bulbous observation pod and a long antenna mast, sticks out of the Toronto skyline like a needle piercing the sky.
Standing directly beneath it and looking up was almost dizzying.
Daddy long legs and the CN Tower
I wasn’t even sure there was a “correct” distance from which to appreciate something this tall. From right beside it, the tower looked absolutely massive, but the perspective became increasingly difficult to comprehend. Move farther away and it completely dwarfed the surrounding buildings. Further still, from somewhere deeper in the city, it transformed into a giant beacon on the horizon, appearing between buildings and seemingly following you wherever you went.
Theatrical bronze sculptures emerging from the concrete in Toronto
Eventually, it was time to get the inside perspective. But first… Holy crap. C$40 per person!? Okay, perhaps that doesn’t sound quite as outrageous now as it did in my memory. At the time, general admission was C$40 before tax, or about C$45 with HST. I apparently remembered the more expensive SkyPod option, which pushed the price well above C$60 after tax.
Still, that was a lot of money for an elevator ride. Alas, there was only one CN Tower, and we were already there. Up we went.
The CN Tower
A speedy and rather dramatic elevator ride later, we were standing on the Main Observation Level, roughly 346 meters above the ground.
The CN Tower had been completed in 1976 as a massive communications and broadcasting project, at a time when Toronto’s rapidly growing skyline was already creating problems for radio and television signals. It soon became much more than a piece of infrastructure, however. The tower became an icon of Toronto and one of the defining symbols of modern Canada.
Inside the observation level were several sections of glass floor, each providing an opportunity for visitors to test their courage by looking straight down. For me, however, the moment when my balls took their own elevator up to my stomach came much earlier.
The not so dramatic glass floor section
Right after stepping out of the elevator, there was a small gap between the elevator floor and the surrounding platform. Through that crack I could catch a glimpse of the seemingly endless vertical shaft disappearing hundreds of meters below. I could almost imagine my eyes cartoonishly bulging out of their sockets, desperately trying to adjust to the ridiculous depth I was suddenly looking into directly beneath my feet.
That did it.
Fortunately, once I was inside the enclosed observation deck, I felt perfectly fine. Give me a solid floor and a roof over my head and apparently I was comfortable enough to enjoy being almost half a kilometre above the city.
Views from Above
The sky was mostly overcast, but the clouds were high enough that they didn’t obstruct the view. The circular observation deck provided a sweeping panorama in every direction, and the Greater Toronto Area seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance. From this height, the city almost stopped looking like a city and started looking like a map.
A southern view from the CN Tower observation deck
Once we started looking more closely, all sorts of little details began revealing themselves. Just beyond the downtown core, we could see the small islands of Lake Ontario and the airport tucked away on one of them.
Much closer to the tower was the aquarium, its rooftop carrying a simple monochrome mural that looked almost abstract from above. Nearby, the broad, chunky structure of Union Station stood out among the surrounding buildings. The dense cluster of downtown high-rises revealed another amusing detail: swimming pools and what looked like tiny sports courts or even putting greens perched on the rooftops of some of the more luxurious residential towers..
Mandatory group photo from high above the city
From ground level, most of these things were either invisible or completely lost among the surrounding buildings. From up here, the city became a giant three-dimensional puzzle, and we could spend several minutes picking out individual landmarks and trying to work out exactly what we were looking at.
Then Pedro spotted something that made even the tower itself seem slightly less insane.
Just below us, several completely deranged-looking people in bright red jumpsuits were walking along the outside of the tower, attached to a yellow safety line.
Edge Walkers dangling by a thread
They were doing EdgeWalk. At 356 metres above the ground, EdgeWalk is the world’s highest external walk on a building. Participants are harnessed to an overhead safety system and literally walk along the narrow ledge outside the main pod.
Adrenaline junkies. What else could I say?
Definitely not my cup of tea.
A Walk Through Downtown
After descending from the tower, we set off on a leisurely walk through downtown. I don’t remember us having a particularly well-defined route. We mostly wandered around, checking Google Maps for interesting landmarks and deciding where to go next.
Old locomotives and industrial silos at Toronto’s Roundhouse Park
Eventually we reached Nathan Phillips Square, Toronto’s main civic gathering place.
Standing at one end of the square was Old City Hall, an imposing Romanesque Revival building completed in 1899. With its enormous clock tower, stone façade and turrets, it looked almost like a little English castle that had somehow found itself surrounded by the skyscrapers of modern Toronto. It was a neat contrast.
Old City Hall clock tower framed by modern skyscrapers in downtown Toronto
Only a short distance away stood the much newer Toronto City Hall. Designed by Finnish architect Viljo Revell and opened in 1965, the building couldn’t have been more different from its nineteenth-century predecessor. Two enormous curved concrete towers rise around a circular council chamber, creating the somber modern appearance that really stood out from afar.
The contrast between the two city halls was a perfect little snapshot of Toronto itself: nineteenth-century stone architecture standing alongside bold modernist structures, with glass skyscrapers filling in the gaps between them.
The Canada Life Building near Nathan Phillips Square
Nearby stood the Canada Life Building, another imposing landmark of the downtown core.
OTNOROT
Eventually, we unknowingly stumbled upon the famous Toronto sign.
But from the back… OTNOROT.
Welcome to OTNOROT
Just the way we caught it in the photo. And so, for the remainder of the trip, Toronto was officially renamed.
It sounded less like Canada’s largest city and more like the fortified gathering place of some particularly aggressive orc tribe. By then, however, our little Toronto excursion had come to an end.
One more group photo before we hit the road
We still had to get out of the city. And that turned out to be an adventure of its own.
Toronto’s traffic was an absolute head-spinning maze of cars, concrete, ramps and seemingly endless lanes going in every conceivable direction. Pedro, once again, demonstrated his particular brand of driving wizardry as he forced his way through the urban labyrinth and found gaps where I wasn’t entirely convinced gaps actually existed.
Moritz sat silently in the back with what I can only describe as a forced smile… Probably still processing Pedro’s theatrical Rio-driving style.
Sleepy time during the drive back
But once again, a huge shout-out to Pedro. He had already driven us all the way from Chicoutimi to Montreal, then down to Niagara Falls, around the region, into Toronto and now back towards Montreal. And after dropping us off in Montreal, despite my offer of a perfectly respectable patch of apartment floor for him and his friend to sleep on, he simply carried on.
He still had the long drive back to Chicoutimi ahead of him. Somehow, he soldiered on.
The Couch Arrives
The following day, Moritz was packing his belongings and getting ready to leave when I received a rather unexpected call from the delivery company.
My couch was arriving. The timing could not have been more hilarious.
After everything that had happened during his visit, Moritz had still never actually seen the couch he had originally been promised as a bed. Now, on the very day he was leaving, the damn thing had finally arrived.
After his arrival, he had already helped me put up my curtains. Now he was begrudgingly helping me carry in the couch. The couch he was supposed to sleep on. At least he finally got to see it. And, for a brief moment, he could lie down on it and imagine what his Montreal nights might have been like had the furniture delivery company possessed even a shred of decent timing.
Another iconic skyscraper in Montreal — 1000 De La Gauchetière
Not long afterwards, we finally said goodbye with a healthy hug and friendly slap on the back. It had been great having him over.
Our little Niagara adventure had left all of us with some excellent memories. But it had also left me with something else.
A Long Anticipated Showdown
On the drive back to Montreal, I had started developing a scratchy throat, and my voice was beginning to deteriorate. I wasn’t sure what I was coming down with. A cold? The flu?
Or perhaps the villainous coronavirus that had spent the previous two years terrorizing the planet.
I kept messaging the others, asking whether they were feeling alright or developing any symptoms. They were all fine. That made me suspect I had probably picked up whatever this was at the concert rather than during the road trip. The timing certainly made sense. I had been surrounded by thousands of people singing and shouting in an enclosed venue just a few days earlier.
COVID tests were being handed out freely at the time, so I got one and tested myself. The result was inconclusive. I waited another half day and tried again, this time paying considerably more attention to the instructions.
And… A resounding positive. Finally.
After two years of avoiding it, the goddamn boogeyman virus had finally made its way into my body. And, strangely enough, I was almost looking forward to seeing what it could do.
Call it morbid curiosity. Call it overconfidence in my immune system. Perhaps a little bit of both. After two years of hearing about this virus, experiencing the world reorganize itself around it and wondering what an infection would actually feel like, I was mentally prepared for battle.
That night, before going to sleep, I engaged in my own rather unconventional form of meditation. I imagined my body as a fortress that had just discovered an intruder. There was a boogeyman inside. I wanted my immune system to find it, hunt it down and absolutely annihilate it. No mercy. No prisoners.
A group of Chinook helicopters passing over Montreal on a cloudy day
I don’t know how much influence the mind can actually have over the body’s response to an infection, and I’m certainly not claiming that this meditation somehow cured me. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, or perhaps my immune system was already primed for the fight. Perhaps the vaccine I had received more than a year earlier played its part.
Or perhaps my ridiculous little mental pep talk did something after all. Whatever the explanation, the timing was certainly entertaining.
COVID-19 Gets KO’d
The following morning, the scratchiness in my throat was already subsiding, if not mostly gone. I had some mild muscle aches and felt somewhat fatigued, so I took it easy and spent the day relaxing on my brand-new couch, laptop in lap.
Good food. Plenty of water. An afternoon nap. That was about it.
By the following day, the muscle aches and fatigue were gone completely, replaced by increasingly intense nasal congestion.
From my decidedly non-expert understanding of viral infections, I interpreted this as my body now being fully engaged in the fight, dealing with the infection and clearing out the aftermath. I was essentially monitoring myself like a laboratory experiment, waiting to see what symptom would appear next.
Nothing did. The congestion, however, went absolutely berserk.
For more than a week I had to deal with an almost absurd amount of mucus, to the point where it became less frightening than simply incredibly annoying. And that was it.
My COVID infection had been dealt with. Harshly. And I was grinning from ear to ear.
There was something deeply satisfying about finally confronting the thing I had spent two years hearing about, worrying about and occasionally raging against, only to discover that, at least in my case, it was an anticlimactic opponent.
Whether I had a relatively mild strain, a strong immune response, some contribution from the vaccine from a year earlier, or simply a combination of all of the above, I can’t say. All I know is that my experience was surprisingly uneventful. In fact, the flu I caught during my first work rotation had felt considerably worse.
With the arrival of summer, Mount Royal Park turned into a lush green jungle
That was, of course, only my experience. COVID-19 caused serious illness and death for many people, and the fact that my own infection was mild says nothing about how it affected others. For me, however, the mighty boogeyman had finally shown up. And promptly got KO’d.
Summer Time
By the time May drew to a close, the apartment finally felt like home. I knew my way around the city, had already welcomed friends from Europe, explored more of Montreal than I ever expected during my first few weeks, and even managed to tick off my first bout of COVID. It had been an eventful start to my new chapter in Canada.
Now it was time to trade cafés, concerts and city streets for helicopters, blackflies and drill rigs.
I had just returned from an adventurous and successful first rotation as an exploration geologist. After everything I had gone through in Saguenay over the previous year, Chicoutimi somehow didn’t seem quite as grim anymore. Three weeks spent in an isolated camp deep in the northern wilderness will make almost any town feel like a bastion of civilization.
More importantly, though, I had finally begun building a promising new life in an exciting new career. Spring was arriving as well. Winter slowly loosened its grip, giving way to milder, sunnier days. The skies filled with the unmistakable honking of returning Canada geese, while patches of green gradually reappeared across the landscape.
Even the intense smell of manure drifting in from the farms to the south couldn’t dampen my mood. It had become one of those quirky seasonal traditions of life in Saguenay. Despite all that, I knew I wouldn’t be staying much longer.
The honkers returned to Saguenay
I had been thinking more and more about moving away from the region. My ideal destination had always been Montreal. I missed the energy of a large city. I missed having countless places to explore, good restaurants to try, concerts and festivals to look forward to, and simply the feeling that there was always something happening somewhere. Montreal also offered a far more international atmosphere, where language barriers mattered much less and meeting people from all over the world came naturally. After several years in relatively quiet Saguenay, that kind of environment appealed to me more than ever.
Now, with my company in the process of establishing a Montreal office, I finally had every reason to make the move. All I needed was the right timing.
A Window of Opportunity
Fortunately, work was about to provide exactly that.
Although exploration geology is often thought of as year-round work, it is, in many ways, still a seasonal industry. Activity rises and falls with both the weather and the practical realities of working in remote northern environments.
Self-cleaning Saguenay duck
The busiest months generally run from early summer through autumn. As winter approaches, prospecting becomes increasingly difficult. Fresh snowfall begins hiding rock outcrops, while frequent low clouds and fog reduce the number of helicopter flights that can safely operate. Since helicopters are essential for reaching many exploration targets, projects gradually wind down as conditions deteriorate. Most field programs finish by October or November before shifting toward office work, planning, and data interpretation until the next season.
The opposite transition also creates a brief pause. For the most part, May was also considered a “dead month”. Melting snow turned many access routes into muddy quagmires, but the main reason for the shutdown was wildlife. Large-scale caribou migrations passed through parts of northern Quebec during the spring, accompanied by Indigenous hunting season. To minimize disturbance, exploration activities in many areas paused until the migration had passed.
That time in spring when the Saguenay fills up with Canada geese
For me, the timing couldn’t have been better. I had two weeks off to research Montreal neighborhoods and apartment listings before heading back north for one more rotation. Then, during the May shutdown, I’d have plenty of time to pack up my life in Chicoutimi, make the move, and settle into my new home before the busy summer exploration season began.
Finding a Home in Montreal
As I began looking into rentals, one problem kept creeping back into my mind. How could I realistically and cost-effectively view a potential apartment before committing to it?
Montreal wasn’t exactly close to Chicoutimi. A quick day trip was possible, but not without a car… which I didn’t have. Otherwise, I would have to spend a night there, adding extra costs and complications to what was supposed to be a simple apartment viewing.
The listings themselves, at least, were plentiful. Prices varied wildly depending on the neighborhood. I was still unfamiliar with the city’s layout, but I kept dreaming of living somewhere near the center. I wanted that almost mythical Manhattan-like lifestyle. Being right in the heart of a big, noisy, vibrant city. Of course, that dream came with a price tag. Anything close to downtown was considerably more expensive.
Eventually, after several days of searching, I kept coming back to one particular listing. It was one of several apartments available in a large residential building in Shaughnessy Village, managed by a major leasing company.
A Virtual Leap of Faith
The building itself wasn’t exactly beautiful from the outside. It was a large concrete structure with a somewhat dated appearance. But according to the photos, the inside had recently been renovated and looked quite comfortable.
More importantly, the location was nearly perfect. It sat on the northwestern edge of downtown Montreal, technically still within the downtown area, ten minutes walk from the Mont Royal Park. The building offered a common roof terrace, small gym and even a rooftop swimming pool. Although the latter turned out to be under renovation indefinitely. The rent, while certainly not cheap, being roughly three times what I had paid in Chicoutimi, was still surprisingly reasonable for the location. With my new income, it was manageable.
Northwestern view from the rooftop terrace
I contacted the property management company to get more information, especially regarding how I could view the apartment without creating a logistical nightmare. One thing led to another, and soon enough I was taking part in a remote apartment tour. A company representative walked through several available units using their phone camera, showing me the apartments and common areas. They were patient, responsive, and willing to answer all my questions. Whenever I wanted to see a specific corner of the apartment or building, they took the time to show me.
Of course, it wasn’t the same as physically visiting the place. There were always things you couldn’t properly judge through a screen. But given my situation, I decided it was good enough. If it turned out not to be the right place, I could always move somewhere else later.
A New Horizon
And just like that, within a matter of days, I went from vague ideas about leaving Saguenay to signing a lease for a one-bedroom apartment in Montreal. My time in Chicoutimi was truly coming to an end.
The last challenge was figuring out the move itself. I had kept in touch with Pedro, one of my old university colleagues. He already knew about my plans to move and when the time came, I asked if he would be willing to help me with the logistics. Thankfully, he was more than happy to help. We found a small window in early May that worked for both of our schedules, while also fitting with the short overlap between my two rental contracts.
I would rent out a cargo van and he volunteered to drive it to Montreal and help me unload. Then he’d drive back to Chicoutimi the same day.
Everything was falling into place. And before I knew it, I was heading back north for my second work rotation.
The Rotation Before the Move
My second rotation came and went much faster than the first.
Unlike my adventurous first work shift, there was no uncertainty this time around. The project had transitioned to using charter flights, so there were no more airport shenanigans. We now flew directly from Montreal to Mirage, with a quick stop in Alma, in the Lac-Saint-Jean region. Since Alma was only about an hour’s drive from Chicoutimi, one of my friends was kind enough to give me a lift. Just like that, my trip to work had become surprisingly hassle-free.
Stepping onto a small private plane sounds more glamorous on paper than it actually was. The cabin ceiling was low, the seats fairly cramped, and because the aircraft were so light, they were much more susceptible to turbulence than the commercial flights I was used to. Still, it was a fascinating way to commute to work. Yet another unexpected perk of the job.
The work, on the other hand, had already begun to feel routine. Most of the people were now familiar faces, with only a few new additions to the crew. The rotation itself was also shorter this time—two weeks instead of the three-week marathon of my first shift. It was a much more comfortable rhythm, allowing everyone to maintain a better balance between work intensity and recovery.
The Lake/River at Mirage during an early summer morning
The geological side of the work was becoming increasingly interesting as well. I was starting to better understand the rocks we were working with and the broader context of the project. There were plenty of exciting observations being made, but as is often the case in mineral exploration, those details will remain confidential.
For now, I was simply enjoying the learning process. Still, my mind was increasingly elsewhere. Between tasks, I found myself thinking less about the next day at camp and more about what was waiting for me in Montreal. A new apartment. A new city. New friends, and an entirely different chapter of my life.
The wilderness had given me a career. Now it was time to build a life around it.
The Move
Soon enough, I was back in Chicoutimi and it was finally time for the big move.
I spent a couple of days packing everything as best I could. The biggest challenge was finding enough containers and boxes. At Pedro’s suggestion, we visited a few supermarkets and large retail stores to ask if they had any spare cardboard boxes they no longer needed. In the end, I only managed to get one—but it was a large one, so it helped quite a bit.
Fortunately, I didn’t own all that much. My furniture consisted mainly of a bed, an awkwardly tiny desk, a desk chair, folding chair, the electronic piano and a lamp. Everything else ended up packed into boxes, duffel bags, backpacks, and whatever other makeshift containers I could find. Yet somehow, it was enough to fill the back of a cargo van.
And just like that, on an early May morning in 2022, I took one last look at the house I had called home for the previous two and a half years. It had been a difficult chapter overall, but one that also gave me plenty of unforgettable memories, friendships, and adventures. I handed back the key, climbed into the moving van, and quietly said goodbye to my life in Saguenay.
Pedro and I spent the drive across southern Quebec reminiscing about our years in Chicoutimi. He would remain there a while longer to finish his PhD, which fortunately hadn’t been affected by the financial turmoil that had derailed my own research. As for me, I couldn’t have been happier with how things had turned out. Leaving academia when I did had been a leap of faith, but considering how things turned out, it had been one of the best decisions I could have made.
My New Home
We reached Montreal early that afternoon. It was one of those perfect spring days. Not too warm, not too cold, with bright sunshine and clear skies.
Downtown Montreal on a hazy day in May
Since I had already signed all the paperwork beforehand, all that remained was to collect my key and finally see my apartment in person. The building actually looked better than it had in the photos. The lobby was modern, bright, and welcoming, while the apartment itself felt surprisingly spacious. In fact, it was so empty that my footsteps echoed through the living room. Furnishing the place quickly moved near the top of my priority list.
One thing immediately stood out, though. The hallways carried the constant aroma of oriental spices and home cooking from the many apartments. It became one of those characteristics of the building that sticks with you whether you want it or not. Personally, I didn’t mind. It was far preferable to cigarette smoke.
However, it also had its share of maintenance issues that became more obvious throughout the coming months. Keeping the apartment clean was never a problem on my end, but occasionally the odd cockroach would wander in from elsewhere in the building. It wasn’t something that happened often, but it was probably the biggest downside of an otherwise pleasant place to live.
Settling in
About an hour later, the van had been unloaded, and my apartment was now covered in boxes, bags, and furniture waiting to find their place. Pedro still had some time before driving back to Chicoutimi, so we decided to make a quick trip to IKEA.
There was only one problem. The store was south of the Island of Montreal, and we had chosen to leave right in the middle of afternoon rush hour… precisely when everyone else was trying to get off the island after work. Fortunately, I had Pedro behind the wheel.
Having learned to drive in Rio de Janeiro, Montreal traffic hardly seemed intimidating to him. After a series of impressively bold lane changes, and one particularly memorable maneuver that briefly had our cargo van occupying far more of Sherbrooke Street than it probably should have, we escaped the worst of the congestion and eventually made it to IKEA.
A few hours, several flat-packed boxes, and a couple of IKEA hot dogs later, we returned to my apartment with the beginnings of a proper home. I still hadn’t found the right dining table or couch, but that could wait. Little by little, the apartment would come together.
My apartment eventually took its final shape later that month
Pedro soon began the long drive back to Chicoutimi, while I stayed behind and slowly started unpacking my belongings. As I stood there, surrounded by half-opened boxes, looking around at my new home, it was the first time in years that I truly felt like I was in a place where I could belong. A place where I could slowly grow roots and build something more permanent for a change.
After a rocky start that had me nearly miss my flight on the very first day of my new job, I finally landed in Radisson. It was a small airport in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by an endless blanket of snow stretching to the horizon in every direction.
The plane had been filled with workers from all sorts of industries, many of whom were likely beginning work rotations similar to my own. As soon as we landed, everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going. Within minutes they had collected their luggage, climbed into waiting vehicles, and disappeared. I stood there for a moment, alone, trying to figure out what to do next.
I was supposed to meet a colleague I had previously dubbed Bob in a white Ford pickup truck. Unfortunately, I had no contact number, no way of reaching him, and even if I had, it wouldn’t have made much difference. There was no mobile signal, no internet… nothing. I had been in remote parts of Canada before, but this felt like an entirely different scale of remoteness. Everything seemed quieter, farther away, and buried beneath an endless blanket of snow.
It felt like waiting for the white pickup truck ferryman to carry me across the frozen River Styx. The only problem was that when I stepped outside, the parking lot seemed to be filled with white Ford pickup trucks. None of them had drivers. So I wandered in and out of the airport terminal, occasionally scanning the parking lot again, hoping that one of those trucks, and more importantly, Bob, would eventually appear.
The Trans-Taiga Road
What followed was a long half-day drive across the white northern landscape. For the first half hour, we were still on asphalt, occasionally passing another vehicle travelling in the opposite direction. Then, after turning off the main road, we joined a long gravel road called the Trans-Taiga, though at that time of year it was completely hidden beneath a thick layer of snow and ice.
Our destination was Mirage, a remote outfitter that provided accommodation deep in the wilderness. Over the years, it had become a convenient temporary base for various mineral exploration companies operating in the region.
The Trans-Taiga: one of the most remote roads in northern Quebec, Canada
At first, I was captivated by the landscape. It was my first time seeing such an immense northern wilderness in winter. Soon enough, however, the scenery settled into an almost hypnotic rhythm. Trees. More trees. Endless forests stretching in every direction, interrupted only by open snow-covered spaces concealing frozen lakes of all sizes beneath them.
The terrain itself was relatively flat, broken only by the occasional rolling hill. Whenever we reached one, the view opened up, revealing an immense white-and-green horizon that seemed to go on forever. Different, yet somehow always the same. It was impossible not to appreciate just how vast northern Canada really is.
Bob and I spent much of the drive getting to know one another. Naturally, I was eager to learn more about the job that awaited me. In my mind, I imagined spending most of my time thinking about rocks, chemistry, and geology. As I would soon discover, the work, at least during the entry-level, was often far more technical than geological. Being practical and handy was a valuable skill in the field. As someone who had grown up in a small apartment in the city, I couldn’t exactly claim that as one of my strengths. Fortunately, I was more than willing to learn.
Getting My Feet Wet
The following day, I met the rest of our small team on site. After a quick introduction to the facilities, it was time to begin learning the job that would occupy most of my first rotations.
Welcome to Mirage—a small oasis of civilization in the deep wilderness
The role was called Geotechnician and in simple terms it involved performing a series of measurements and observations on the drill core recovered by the drilling crew. The individual tasks themselves weren’t particularly difficult, but each came with its own procedures, details, and quality standards that had to be learned.
Everything, however, began with reconstructing the core. The rock recovered from the drill holes arrived in long wooden core boxes after being transported from the drill site. Before any measurements could begin, the broken pieces had to be fitted back together as accurately as possible, recreating the sequence in which they had come out of the ground.
To some people, this was the most tedious and frustrating part of the workflow, especially when particularly fractured sections looked like someone had emptied a box of irregular stone jigsaw pieces into the tray. I loved it. In fact, it quickly became one of my favourite parts of the entire process. As far as I was concerned, they were essentially paying me to build geological LEGO sets all day. And I love LEGO.
Once the core had been reconstructed to a satisfactory standard, Bob gradually introduced me to the remaining geoteching tasks. One by one, I learned the measurements, the tools, the small tricks that only came with practice, and the little details that separated a beginner from someone who could work confidently on their own.
It was a surprisingly satisfying workflow. Every task had its own rhythm and its own small challenge to master. My goal, of course, was simple. One day, I wanted to graduate from being Bob’s apprentice and earn the title of Master Piecer. Not an official company designation, but an badge of personal prestige in my head.
A curious fox checking us out from afar
Later that day, two more members of our team arrived. They were familiar faces—the same colleagues I had met over drinks in Montreal only a couple of days earlier. With everyone finally on site, our little field crew was complete.
The Path to Professional Geologist
So, puzzle piecing and technical measurements aside, you might be wondering: “What about the actual geology?” Well… there was a small catch.
In Canada, the practice of professional geology is regulated. Each province has its own professional regulatory body responsible for licensing geologists, much like the system used for engineers. In Quebec, that organization is the Ordre des géologues du Québec (OGQ).
Before receiving a full professional license, graduates first register as Geologists in Training (GITs) and complete a period of supervised professional experience. Only after meeting the experience requirements and successfully completing the professional ethics component can they obtain full professional status.
I had applied to join the OGQ as a Geologist in Training around the same time I accepted my job offer. As with many administrative processes, however, approval wasn’t instantaneous and would take several months. Until my registration was finalized, I wasn’t permitted to formally sign off on geological work in my own name. That meant my responsibilities initially focused on geoteching. Looking back, I think it was probably the best possible introduction to the profession.
Those first rotations gave me plenty of time to understand the entire workflow that takes place before geological logging even begins. More importantly, they allowed me to appreciate the challenges faced by geotechs, whose work forms the foundation for everything that follows. In time, geologists would rely on that work every day while supervising projects and interpreting the drill core. Having first learned the process from the ground up proved invaluable later in my career.
That didn’t mean I was excluded from the geology itself. Far from it. Discussing the rocks, asking questions, debating interpretations, and learning from more experienced colleagues was encouraged from day one.
Fortunately, my somewhat turbulent final years in academia hadn’t diminished my scientific curiosity. If anything, they had strengthened it. I was always eager to listen, ask questions, and join geological discussions whenever I had something worthwhile to contribute. To my relief, those years spent in research turned out to be surprisingly useful, and my colleagues seemed to appreciate the perspective I brought to the conversations.
Life at Mirage
The work schedule consisted of twelve-hour shifts every day. That might sound grueling at first, but the trade-off was equally generous time off once the rotation ended. Most of our projects operated on a two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off schedule, which over time I came to appreciate as a great balance. It was long enough to stay productive and fully immersed in the project, yet short enough to avoid burning out. Whenever rotations stretched to three weeks—or, on rare occasions, even longer—you could almost feel everyone’s energy and focus beginning to fade during that third week.
Lunch was usually around an hour, while the evenings were ours to spend however we liked. We’d all have dinner together before gradually drifting off to our own routines. Mirage was actually a fantastic place to unwind after work. The lodge had a small gym, which quickly became my favorite spot. I wasn’t trying to follow my regular training routine from home, but getting in a workout every now and then helped me stay active during the longer rotations.
There was also a sauna, hot tubs, a pool table room with comfortable seating around a large fireplace, and plenty of opportunities to simply sit and chat after dinner. During the summer, people would go fishing or gather around bonfires. Winter had its own reward. On clear nights, if you were lucky, the northern lights would make an appearance.
During that very first rotation I caught my first glimpse of the aurora borealis. To the naked eye, it was surprisingly subtle. More like faint wisps of pale light stretching across the northern sky than the vibrant green curtains you see in photographs. Fortunately, I had my camera with me, and a long exposure revealed the spectacle my eyes could barely see.
Dancing northern lights above the cold, pixeled wilderness
As for me, I usually spent a little while chatting after dinner before retreating to my room. I’d try to squeeze in an episode of a TV series or play something on my laptop, but after twelve hours of work I rarely stayed awake for very long.
Even in those first weeks, I could already tell this was a place where colleagues naturally became friends. Living and working together for weeks at a time created a sense of camaraderie that, at least to me, felt more like the brotherhood and sisterhood of a student dorm than simply a workplace.
Getting Comfortable
Just as I was getting used to my new daily routine, a new task popped up. The two colleagues who had driven up the day after I arrived had both recently obtained their professional geologist licenses. Management decided it would be better to have them working on opposite rotations, so the following day one of them, let’s call him Bill, was heading back to Montreal. That meant making the long drive back to the airport near Radisson. Since the truck wouldn’t drive itself back to Mirage, someone had to accompany him. That someone turned out to be me.
Fortunately, I already had a Canadian driver’s license by that point. Unfortunately, apart from my driving test, I had barely driven at all. In fact, the last time I had properly been behind the wheel was on the one day during my Iceland trip back in 2017, five years earlier, and even then I hadn’t exactly been overflowing with confidence. Driving had quietly become one of my bigger stress factors. There was no avoiding it, though.
Driving was an essential part of exploration work, so sooner or later I had to become comfortable with it
My mind wasn’t particularly cooperative. It happily imagined every possible worst-case scenario along the way. To calm myself down, I tried to prepare for everything I could think of. I downloaded offline maps of the region, even though the route was essentially one long road with a single important turn-off at the end of the Trans-Taiga. The company also provided emergency communication equipment, making sure I had both a satellite messenger and a satellite phone in case one system failed.
The safety culture with these guys was very much alive and well.
The Road To Radisson
Bill and I set off early the following morning. He kindly offered to drive us to the airport, leaving me with only the return journey. That alone was a huge relief. During the drive, Bill shared stories from the beginning of his own career. Like me, he had started with very little technical experience and limited confidence behind the wheel. But, as he explained, this line of work had a way of teaching you everything eventually.
Before long, you became a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. Building makeshift core shacks from scratch, riding snowmobiles in winter and ATVs in summer, flying around in helicopters, solving unexpected problems on the fly… At the time, it all sounded almost unbelievable.
As we talked, I paid close attention to the road, trying to memorize landmarks and intersections for the journey back. To my inexperienced eyes, however, the landscape looked incredibly uniform. Trees. Snow. More trees. There were landmarks, of course, but they were few and far between. It would take several trips before they became second nature. For now, all I really needed to remember was one important fact: As long as I stayed on the Trans-Taiga and didn’t miss the single turn-off near the end, I was heading in the right direction.
Getting Back Behind the Wheel
After dropping Bill off at the airport, it was finally time. I climbed into the driver’s seat of a full-sized North American pickup truck. I couldn’t help thinking back to my summer field trip with Alexandre years earlier, when he had commented on how comfortable these big vehicles were to drive despite their size. Their power and stability were genuinely impressive.
I have to admit… For the first half hour, I had the classic nervous beginner’s driving posture. You know the one… Leaning slightly forward, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, head stretched toward the windshield as if trying to spot danger before it appeared. To be fair, the asphalt section near Radisson was practically rush hour by northern standards. I probably saw enough vehicles to push the total comfortably into double digits. I was also determined not to miss the turn onto the Trans-Taiga.
Once I reached the long white gravel road, though, I slowly began to relax. For the first time that day, I stopped worrying and started appreciating where I actually was… Driving a big Ford pickup across one of the most remote roads in North America, surrounded by an endless winter wilderness, blasting my music through the speakers… …and getting paid to do it. I could definitely see myself getting used to this.
In hindsight, the Trans-Taiga was probably one of the best possible places to rebuild my confidence behind the wheel. The road was exceptionally wide. Particularly along the first hundred kilometers toward LG-3. Plus, traffic was almost nonexistent. Seeing another vehicle became a noteworthy event rather than a usual occurrence.
One thing I did quickly notice, however, was that most drivers travelled considerably faster than the posted speed limits. Covering these enormous distances took a long time, and people who regularly worked in the region tended to settle into their own rhythm.
Several hours later, after a spectacular northern sunset and the final stretch through complete darkness, I arrived safely back at Mirage. I was tired. Mentally drained. But also quietly proud. My return to driving had gone far better than I could have hoped.
A Different Kind of Challenge
With an exciting and exhausting first week behind me, I found myself wondering what the second week of my first rotation had in store. Unfortunately… It wasn’t nearly as enjoyable.
Late winter afternoon at Mirage
If the first week had been about learning new tasks and adapting to unexpected challenges, the second week became about doing exactly the same thing while feeling like someone had strapped lead weights to every limb. I had come down with a nasty flu.
It started with a mild headache and unusual fatigue before progressing into muscle aches. The nurse on site immediately tested me for COVID-19. Had the result been positive, I would have spent the next several days isolated in my room. Instead, the test came back negative. Great. Well… sort of. I still had the flu and kept on working through it.
Over the following days, the nurse continued testing me, but every result remained negative. The first few nights were drenched in sweat, while each twelve-hour shift somehow felt twice as long as the last. I started using my lunch breaks for quick naps, hoping to recover enough energy to make it through the afternoon. Then came the congestion. All the while, I continued working in a face mask.
Every evening at dinner, the nurse would encourage me by reminding me that it was simply another day closer to the end of the typical week-long flu. It became a real test of endurance. Taking a sick day was technically an option, but it honestly never crossed my mind. I had come north to work, not to sit in my room feeling sorry for myself. As long as I could still do the job safely, I was going to show up.
Slowly but surely, things began to improve. After three or four days, each morning felt just a little bit easier than the last. By the end of the week, my strength had returned almost overnight. In fact, I felt better than I had before getting sick—that strange burst of energy that sometimes follows finally shaking off the flu.
The fox was back. Roaming around camp every now and again
Between learning an entirely new job, rebuilding my confidence behind the wheel, and surviving a week-long flu in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, I certainly felt like I had earned my place on the team.
The Final Week
On the third and final week of my first rotation, a new group of colleagues arrived on site. This was going to be our overlap week between cross-shifts. Basically, everyone would be brought up to speed, trained, and eased into the rotation routine that would continue from that point onward.
A couple of new employees joined the team, and suddenly I found myself in the position of training them. It was surreal. Less than three weeks earlier, I had arrived completely clueless about the job and the tasks ahead of me. Now I was already passing on what I had learned to the next people coming in. This week was arguably my favorite of the entire rotation.
I was now in full optimization mode, trying to figure out the best ways to complete tasks efficiently while maintaining the quality of the work. Then, at the same time, I was learning how to explain those same processes to others. The once-quiet workspace became much livelier. The evenings around the dinner table turned into proper social gatherings. The energy was high, and I was thoroughly enjoying it.
My soon-to-be cross-shift partner turned out to be quite the ambitious character. Let’s call her Sally. Coming from Europe herself, Sally was just as academically overqualified as many European geologists I had encountered. She also had that same desire to prove herself shared by many Europeans making the move to North America. In that sense, we had a lot in common.
Our shared work mindset quickly led to a strong collaboration. Not only during that first rotation, but throughout the following years. The week flew by, and before I knew it, it was time to prepare for my travel day home. My first rotation was coming to an end.
Those early winter sunsets across the frozen lake were always gorgeous
Unfortunately, two of my colleagues had caught my lovely flu by then and were now dealing with the consequences. Their time off would consist mostly of couches and beds for the next week. Sorry guys!
A Chaotic Departure
My return journey proved to be almost as chaotic as my first travel day. This time, however, the chaos came from a completely different source. It was the first time our company had hired a private aviation company to fly smaller aircraft directly to Mirage rather than using the commercial route through Radisson.
There was a small airstrip nearby, and despite the cost of chartering flights, it actually made financial sense when transporting multiple workers in and out of the field. It also eliminated the long drive between Mirage and Radisson. The only problem? The weather.
The forecast wasn’t looking particularly promising. Without a control tower at the airstrip, visibility conditions were critical for landing. The sky was still relatively clear earlier in the day, but due to various delays, the plane’s arrival was pushed later and later into the afternoon.
Soon enough, the day became a strange combination of: “Get ready, we’re leaving soon!” and: “Actually, never mind, we might be staying another night.” Personally, I found the whole situation quite entertaining. At this point, I wasn’t in a desperate rush to get home. I was already enjoying the unpredictability of field life. Besides, an extra day meant extra pay. A win-win.
Not everyone was quite as relaxed, however. The helicopter crew, in particular, were eager to return home. Their time off between rotations was limited, and every delay meant less time with their families.
Anticlimactic
Later in the afternoon, we were eagerly waiting in our cars near the airstrip. Waiting and listening for any sounds of an approaching airplane. The wind howling outside adding to the drama. The weather had gotten visibly worse. Nobody said a word. It was like we were in a suspenseful thriller just before the climax. At one point we finally heard the aircraft approaching.
We stepped out of our vehicles and gathered around, waiting to see if the plane would attempt the landing. We could hear it somewhere above the clouds, getting closer and closer… almost directly above us… And then it started fading away. Further and further. Until it was gone.
The aircraft never appeared. With the thick, low cloud cover the pilots made the decision to abort. It was a rather anticlimactic ending to that tense build-up scene. We were staying one more day.
My First Helicopter Ride
That evening after work, I overheard the helicopter crew discussing their frustrations and mentioning Saguenay. It turned out the pilot was from the region and lived near Chicoutimi. When I mentioned that I was also based there, they offered me a ride back home. Their plan was to fly the helicopter to their nearest southern base, then drive the remaining distance.
A helicopter ride home? Absolutely. I checked with my boss first, and they were more than happy with the arrangement. It also saved them the headache of reorganizing another complicated travel itinerary. Another win-win.
The next morning was mostly spent in standby mode. The colleagues who were leaving by truck had already departed early toward Radisson. I, meanwhile, was simply waiting for the helicopter crew to finish their morning tasks before we could leave. Naturally, that took longer than expected. Eventually, around 11 a.m., I drove out to the laydown area where the helicopter was operating.
Getting ready for my first helicopter ride
Once the crew finished their work, they gave me the pre-flight safety briefing. I wondered whether I would feel motion sickness. I wondered whether my annoying fear of heights would make an appearance. Mostly, though, I was just incredibly excited. Thankfully, neither issue appeared.
The rotor blades spun faster as the pilot completed his final checks. Then, almost effortlessly, the helicopter lifted away from the ground. And just like that, we were flying. There is honestly no comparison for the feeling of a first helicopter ride. The sheer cool factor is difficult to describe. To my geeky brain, it genuinely felt like stepping into a video game.
Once we reached cruising altitude, the flight became incredibly smooth. Clouds of different shades of blue and grey stretched across the horizon, while beneath us the endless white landscape of northern Quebec continued in every direction.
Imagine crashing in a place like this… with nothing but wilderness for hundreds of miles in every direction
The pilot explained that wind, rain, and snowfall were usually manageable. The real concern was freezing rain. That was the nightmare scenario for helicopter pilots, as ice accumulation on the rotors could quickly become dangerous. Fortunately, we had no such issues. The weather remained calm, with only a few darker clouds scattered across the sky.
Back to Civilization
About an hour later, we landed somewhere else remote, but much farther south than Mirage. The helicopter crew completed their cross-shift exchange, and soon enough we were packed into an overloaded truck filled with everything from helicopter equipment to personal fishing and hunting gear.
Another long drive followed. More forests. More snow. More endless wilderness. Hours passed before we finally reached the asphalt road.
At some point, the guys started talking about stopping at a fast-food restaurant in the nearest town. That was when I realized where we were. Near Chibougamau. After three weeks in the northern wilderness, it genuinely felt like returning to civilization. McDonald’s. PFK. Cars. People. Buildings. It felt strange.
A tired selfie from the chopper as I returned home after my first rotation
What an unusual profession. You could spend weeks living in an isolated camp surrounded by nothing but wilderness, then suddenly find yourself standing in a fast-food restaurant surrounded by everyday life. Throughout the years it really felt like living two completely different lives.
It took several more hours of driving before we finally reached the Saguenay–Lac-Saint-Jean region, well after nightfall. Then, after another stretch of driving, I was finally back in Chicoutimi. I was incredibly thankful for the ride and wished the pilot a good time off. Meanwhile, his poor mechanic still had several more hours of driving ahead of him all the way to Québec City. Now that’s a commute.
Finally back home, I was looking forward to some well-deserved rest. But there was another major change waiting just around the corner. My time in Saguenay was coming to an end. I would soon start to prepare for my move to Montreal.
On a regular cold day in early February 2022, I received my graduation papers from UQAC after a brutal year of struggling against an ever-growing series of challenges and absurdities. I was now a double Master of Geology… because of the… two Master’s degrees. More importantly, I could finally apply for a Post-Graduation Work Permit in Canada.
As with most administrative procedures, the process would take a few months. Fortunately, submitting the application was enough to grant me the right to work while my permit was being processed. I wasted no time and immediately began searching for employment.
The Job Hunt Begins
Sadly, due to the pandemic and repeated lockdowns, my professional network remained rather limited. However, I had two major leads to pursue.
The first came through Alexandre. A friend of his from France had already spent some time working in mineral exploration and mentioned a company that he spoke highly of. Given my previous experiences working in Romania, I already knew how important a healthy work environment was for both motivation and sanity. Alexandre put us in touch through Facebook, and before long I had an email address to which I could send my application.
My second lead came through my supervisor and professor at UQAM. Over the years, I had gathered that he was exceptionally well connected not only within academic circles but also throughout the mining and exploration industry. I reached out to him for guidance and quickly received a reply. Before long, he suggested a Quebec-based exploration company operating out of Montreal that happened to be hiring.
Ice breaks up on the Saguenay
Before continuing, I should mention a few important points regarding the way I will write about this period of my life. I will be intentionally omitting company names throughout the remainder of this story. Likewise, the names of colleagues and other individuals involved will be changed or omitted to respect their privacy. Some details may also be kept intentionally vague where appropriate. The events and experiences themselves are real, but protecting the privacy of the people involved is more important than absolute documentary precision.
First Interview
The first company to reply was the one suggested by my former supervisor. The director himself responded with interest in my resume and invited me to a remote interview a few days later. The interview went well. I played my usual cards: motivation, ambition, and a willingness to learn. When asked where I saw myself in five or ten years, I aimed high. He seemed to appreciate that.
The only potential drawback was, once again, the French language. Speaking French was not a strict requirement for the position, but it certainly would have been helpful considering most of the team were francophones. However, he assured me that everyone also spoke English and that the work environment was fairly bilingual. Looking back, it would probably have been a good place to continue improving my French.
A day or so after the interview, I received positive feedback and a promise that a contract offer would arrive the following week. This was on a Thursday.
That same day, I received an email from the other company inviting me to a remote interview on Friday. Even though I already seemed to have a job offer within reach, I accepted. At the very least, I was curious to learn more about them.
Second Interview
The following day, I found myself speaking with one of the company’s young managers. The contrast was immediately noticeable. Whereas the first interview had been conducted by a formal senior director, this one felt much more relaxed and energetic.
We ended up having a great conversation. He explained that the company was headquartered in Western Canada and was in the process of opening a new office in Montreal. That immediately caught my attention. Western company meant that English was the primary work language. Plus I was already dreaming about moving to Montreal.
The company itself was also in a different stage of development. Rather than operating around a long-established project area, they were building a new team, pursuing multiple exploration projects, and expanding their presence in Quebec. It was an interesting comparison between two very different opportunities.
What surprised me most was what seemed to interest them about my application. I had assumed that my lack of direct exploration experience would be the main focus. Instead, they appeared genuinely interested in my diverse work background. While none of it was directly related to mineral exploration, they seemed to value adaptability and the ability to learn quickly in unfamiliar situations.
The manager explained that they intended to take my previous work experience into account and place me slightly above the entry-level junior position.
Two Offers on the Table
Toward the end of our conversation, I explained that another company was already preparing an offer and that I expected to receive it early the following week. If they were seriously interested in bringing me on board, I would need an answer fairly quickly.
He assured me he would discuss the matter with his colleague and get back to me as soon as possible. He was not exaggerating. Only a few hours later, I received another email containing a contract offer. Their response time was lightning fast and left quite an impression.
I was also somewhat taken aback by the situation itself. Barely two weeks after graduating from UQAC, I found myself considering two attractive offers for exploration geologist positions.
The difference between the Canadian and European job markets felt almost surreal. Of course, timing played a role as well. The mining and exploration industry is notoriously cyclical, with periods of expansion followed by inevitable slowdowns. In early 2022, the market was clearly in one of its stronger phases, and job seekers generally found themselves in a favorable position.
For someone who had spent the previous year navigating the seven circles of academic hell, it was an exhilarating feeling. More than anything, it felt as though all the effort, frustration, and persistence of the previous year were finally producing results.
It also reinforced my decision to step away from academia rather than continue pursuing a PhD under increasingly uncertain circumstances. For the first time in quite a while, I felt genuinely optimistic about the road ahead.
Decision Time
I waited until Monday to receive the promised offer from the first company. In the meantime, I enthusiastically consulted friends and family, discussing the strengths and weaknesses of each opportunity. When the second offer arrived as promised, I quickly discovered that the decision would be more difficult than I had anticipated.
The compensation structures alone made comparisons challenging. One company offered hourly pay, while the other proposed an annual salary supplemented by various bonuses, including additional compensation for extended periods spent in the field. Estimating what either position might ultimately pay required plenty of assumptions and more than a few calculations.
Still, there was another factor at work. I have to admit that my instincts were quietly nudging me in one particular direction. Whether this was simply my subconscious recognizing details that I had not yet consciously processed, I cannot say. What I do know is that the prospect of joining a young team in the process of building something new felt incredibly appealing.
They spoke about multiple projects, opportunities across different regions, and the possibility of working with a variety of teams and clients. As someone just beginning a career in the industry, that breadth of experience seemed invaluable.
In the end, that became the deciding factor. When I politely declined the first company’s offer, the main reason I provided was simple: I felt the second opportunity would expose me to a wider range of projects and learning experiences at the very start of my career.
What Does an Exploration Geologist Actually Do?
The job of an exploration geologist is a rather adventurous one. It requires spending much of the year working in remote regions—far from major cities, often far from even the smallest settlements, and sometimes seemingly far from everything.
So what exactly do we do out there in the wilderness? In simple terms, we search for mineral resources. Gold, copper, nickel, graphite, rare earth elements… you name it. These are the raw materials that eventually find their way into everything from everyday household items to smartphones, medical equipment, renewable energy technologies, and countless other products that modern society depends on.
A sulfide-rich rock sample that I cut into a weird monolithic shape
Exploration geologists are at the very beginning of that journey. It often starts with boots on the ground. We hike through forests, mountains, and tundra searching for exposed rock outcrops that might tell us something interesting about the geology below. Once promising rocks are found, they are mapped, carefully described, and sampled. Those samples are later analysed to determine their chemical composition and whether they contain economically interesting minerals.
If the initial results look promising, the project moves into more advanced stages of exploration. This is where drilling comes into play.
The Exploration Drilling Stage
Drill holes are carefully planned to intersect the target rock formation at different angles and depths. Each core recovered from underground provides another piece of the geological puzzle, allowing geologists to gradually build a three-dimensional model of what lies beneath the surface.
Of course, finding minerals is only half the battle. The real question is whether enough of them exist, in the right concentrations and under the right conditions, to justify the enormous cost of developing a mine. Most exploration projects never reach that stage. Only a small fraction eventually become producing mines.
Because of this, early-stage exploration is also the riskiest phase for investors. The odds of discovering an economically viable deposit are relatively low, but if a project does prove successful, the rewards can be substantial.
That is also why exploration data is treated as commercially sensitive. Geological interpretations, sampling results, drilling information, and future plans are valuable pieces of information. For that reason, I will deliberately avoid discussing operational details, specific projects, or exploration results throughout these stories.
Technicalities aside, however… It is one of the most adventurous jobs I have ever had.
Heading North
The days flew by, and before I knew it I was boarding a flight to Montreal in transit towards my very first work rotation. The following day, I was booked on a commercial flight to Radisson, a remote town in the James Bay region of northern Quebec that serves as a gateway to many exploration projects in the Canadian north.
It felt good being up in the air and traveling again, even if it was part of work
Before that, however, I had half a day to spend in Montreal. The manager I had spoken to during my interview invited me out for a drink with him and a few of my new colleagues. At that point, there wasn’t technically an office yet. Everyone was still working remotely, so this was the perfect opportunity to meet some of the people I would soon be working alongside.
After our relaxed social gathering, I returned to the hotel for a good night’s sleep. It was time to start preparing for early mornings, long working days, and three weeks filled with new experiences and challenges. The following morning, I arrived at the airport ready to check in for my flight north. I was about to head somewhere that relatively few people ever visit: Canada’s true north, in the middle of winter.
Airport Shenanigans
At the manager’s recommendation, I had bought a pair of enormous steel-toed winter boots that looked like they belonged to a science-fiction power armor suit. Despite their size, they were surprisingly light thanks to their composite construction. Graceful, however, they were not. I was incredibly excited about what lay ahead.
Then the Air Inuit employee asked me a simple question. “Do you have your PCR test?” For those who have thankfully forgotten, PCR tests were one of the COVID-19 requirements still floating around at the time. Nobody had mentioned anything about needing one. She asked what kind of work I was travelling north for. “Geologist in Mineral Exploration” I replied. Judging by her expression, that answer didn’t really help. She simply responded that everyone travelling north needed a PCR test. And just like that… the troubles began.
I immediately called one of the company managers and explained the situation. He was just as surprised as I was. Up until then, none of their employees had needed PCR tests for this type of travel. We quickly discussed our options. One possibility was finding a testing center in Montreal, keeping me there for an extra day, and trying again on the following morning’s flight. Then he asked whether testing might be available at the airport itself.
While he rushed off to deal with the logistical headache this situation had suddenly created, I hurried off to investigate my options.
COVID Chaos
I scrambled to the airport information desk hoping to find out whether I could still get tested. I had already accepted that I would almost certainly miss my scheduled flight, but there was another one leaving a few hours later that I might still be able to catch.
After some waiting, I ended up speaking with a different employee and had to explain the entire situation all over again. By this point, I was becoming both anxious and increasingly frustrated. They listened carefully before asking once more: “So… what exactly do you work again?” “I’m a Geologist,” I replied again, before adding, “…in the mining sector.”
That finally clicked. They asked whether I would be working directly with Air Inuit personnel or with local First Nations communities. “No” I said. “Oh… then you don’t need a PCR test” he replied.
…What? After all that?
That was peak COVID bureaucracy. Rules changed constantly, different people interpreted them differently, and by early 2022 it felt like just about everyone was fed up with the whole situation.
Finally, I was allowed through to the check-in counter. I immediately phoned the manager to let him know the good news. His reply? “…Ah, crap. I just cancelled your ticket.”
Oof. I stayed on the phone with him while asking the airline staff whether it was still possible to buy another ticket. Thankfully, it was. I even offered to pay for it myself just to simplify matters, knowing the company could reimburse me later. Meanwhile, the manager rushed off once again to let everyone at the project know that, after all, I was actually coming.
The Domino Effect
What I didn’t discover until I reached the project was just how many moving parts my little airport adventure had set into motion.
Radisson was still over 400 kilometres from camp, so someone had to drive out to meet every incoming flight. By the time news reached camp that I supposedly wasn’t arriving that day, the driver—let’s call him Bob—had already left.
Unable to reach him by radio or any other means, the team made the decision to send the helicopter after him to signal that he should turn around instead of wasting an entire day’s drive. However, when it turned out that I was, in fact, still coming after all, another message had to be rushed through telling everyone to call the helicopter back.
Somewhere in the frozen north of Quebec
As funny as the story is now, it also illustrates how quickly small logistical changes can snowball into much bigger ones when you’re operating hundreds of kilometers from the nearest town. Every last-minute adjustment costs time and money, especially when helicopters become involved.
Fortunately, the helicopter hadn’t taken off yet, and the replacement airline ticket ended up costing exactly the same as the original one. In the end, no real harm was done. Just a healthy dose of unnecessary stress before my first official day on the job.
Looking back, it was a rather fitting introduction to life in mineral exploration. In remote field operations, even the smallest hiccup can ripple through an entire chain of carefully coordinated logistics. As I would discover, adapting to the unexpected was simply part of the job.
Following months of intense work under mounting pressure, an eerie stillness settled over my life. The article had been submitted. The thesis had been submitted. After spending so long managing one disaster after another, trying to keep an increasingly unstable structure from collapsing around me, there was suddenly very little left to do.
Now came the waiting. It would still take over a month before the reviews returned and I would have to address any final comments, corrections, or suggestions. But until then, for the first time in what felt like forever, I could finally relax. Or at least attempt to.
After the Storm
With only a few weeks of autumn remaining, Taylor and I returned to the Saguenay Fjord National Park for one final late-season hike. I must admit, few things compare to the vibrant forests of Canadian autumn. Vast hills and mountains disappeared beneath a sea of yellow, scattered with patches of deep red and lingering green. Beneath the clear blue sky, the Saguenay River cut through the landscape like a winding ribbon.
Walking straight into autumn’s golden embrace
The trip became part of a slow readjustment back toward normal life. A life where I was no longer constantly on edge, managing crisis after crisis while trying to hold together a life that increasingly felt like it was coming apart. I had to relearn how to disconnect. How to exist without immediately anticipating the next catastrophe. Though some part of me still expected another disaster to emerge at any moment.
The following month of November was not entirely uneventful either. Our small research group was scheduled to attend the first conference held in person since the beginning of the Covid crisis. Well… partially in person. It was technically a hybrid conference, and remote participation was still strongly encouraged.
After the months I had survived, reaching the top of those cliffs in Saguenay felt like climbing on top of the world
But honestly, we simply wanted to escape Chicoutimi for a while. We wanted to see other places again. Other people. Signs that the wider world still existed beyond lockdowns, laboratories, and endless administrative nightmares.
Glimpses of a Different Life
The GAC-MAC conference was being held in London. London, Ontario. Not the capital of the United Kingdom. North American city names and their complete lack of originality… am I right?
Getting there required an entire day of driving, but nothing our two experienced and enthusiastic drivers, Taylor and Alexandre, could not handle. Two major things from that journey stayed with me vividly. The first was Montreal. The second was Highway 401 near Toronto.
Reaching for whatever’s left of summer
Despite having lived in Quebec for over two years by that point, I still had never properly visited Montreal. I had only briefly passed through its airport during my arrivals back in 2019. Alexandre had visited before and spoke highly of it, despite not being particularly fond of large cities himself. Compared to Chicoutimi, however, Montreal represented something entirely different. Movement. Opportunity. Life.
Even just passing through the northern parts of the city left a surprisingly strong impression on me. And this wasn’t even the glamorous side of Montreal. Yet it was enough. The dense residential neighborhoods, the characteristic duplexes of the old French quarters, the busy streets, the sheer feeling of urban energy… all of it immediately resonated with me. After years spent in what increasingly felt like an isolated academic outpost, the city felt alive in a way I had almost forgotten was possible.
For the first time in a long while, I could clearly envision a future beyond Saguenay. All I needed to do now was graduate and secure a flexible job that would allow me to move there.
Canada’s iconic maple leaf showing off in full Quebec autumn glory
After Montreal came Toronto. Or more specifically, the legendary Highway 401. The city itself barely registered in my memory compared to the sheer insanity of that highway system. Endless lanes. Interwoven overpasses and underpasses. Traffic moving at speeds that felt borderline absurd. The only apparent rule of the 401 was momentum. It looked terrifying.
This was one place I never wanted to drive myself. Taylor, of course, loved it. She had grown up driving everywhere and handled the chaos with complete confidence. I, meanwhile, had always considered myself far more of a proud pedestrian than an enthusiastic driver. But Canada is vast, and my legs alone were never going to carry me very far across it.
Eventually, after a very long day on the road, we finally passed through Toronto and arrived in London.
A Breath of Normalcy
London itself seemed like a fairly modest mid-sized city. Clearly larger and livelier than Chicoutimi, though nothing particularly spectacular. The university campus, however, impressed me immediately. Especially the old stone tower building rising above the grounds. It gave the place a strangely classical atmosphere, like a miniature version of Cambridge or something along those lines.
Heading to Western University in the late afternoon
We had several days to spend there attending the usual conference activities. Presentations, networking, poster sessions, and awkward academic small talk. In my case, I presented a poster based on the research work that had consumed most of the previous year of my life. Oddly enough, it felt good. Rewarding even.
After so much isolation, uncertainty, and endless work, simply being surrounded by other people again felt refreshing. Conversations flowed naturally across the conference floor as students and researchers drifted between presentations. And since this was Ontario, everything suddenly became much simpler for me linguistically as well. No constant anxiety over French. Just smooth communication.
The Clocktower at Western
It was a breath of fresh air. Well… a masked breath of fresh air. But still. You get the idea.
The London Evenings
Once conference hours ended, I insisted we actually go out and do things rather than retreat straight back to the hotel each evening. Partly because I genuinely wanted to enjoy the trip, but also because I was trying to reclaim some semblance of normal life after the psychological trench warfare of the previous months.
The first evening, we settled on bowling. Reaching the venue required a surprisingly long walk across the city, but it was worth it. A couple of drinks, some terrible bowling technique, and several rounds of friendly competition turned out to be exactly the kind of normal social interaction I had been missing for far too long.
Masked bowling bandits in London, ON
The following evening, I convinced Alexandre to come watch Dune, which was still playing in cinemas at the time. The theater was almost completely empty. Naturally, Alexandre and I immediately claimed the best seats directly in the center of the room while the few other visitors scattered themselves far apart across the giant theater. The reclining VIP seats were absurdly comfortable. It honestly felt like we had rented out a private cinema for ourselves. The movie itself was excellent too.
A Worthwhile Detour
Once the conference concluded, the original plan was to drive straight back to Chicoutimi. But we also wanted to take advantage of the rare opportunity to do some sightseeing. And what better destination than one of Canada’s most famous landmarks? Niagara Falls was relatively close after all. Just a “small detour” on the drive back toward Quebec.
We left early in the morning and headed directly toward the falls. Fortunately, the weather could not have been better. Sunny, warm, and clear despite it already being November. After spending so much time in northern Quebec, I think I had genuinely forgotten what a normal temperate autumn was supposed to feel like.
Welcome to the town of Niagara Falls — Canada’s Vegas
The town of Niagara Falls itself felt hilariously North American for lack of a better description. The entire place seemed built around tourism, entertainment, and consumerism. Bright attractions, themed restaurants, oversized signs, casinos, souvenir shops — a miniature Las Vegas wrapped around one of the world’s great natural wonders. Many places were closed for the off-season, but the atmosphere remained unmistakable.
Niagara Falls
Then we finally reached the river valley itself. A massive bridge stretched across the gorge toward the United States. I could practically smell the freedom blowing in from the south.
I have no words for this one…
Parking near the falls, however, was an entirely different battle. After circling around for a while, we finally managed to secure a spot with an aggressively strict timer attached to it. Taylor warned us that parking enforcement here apparently operated with military precision and that our truck would probably be towed into another dimension if we overstayed by even a few minutes.
Eventually, though, we reached the falls themselves. And honestly… they really were magnificent.
It’s crazy how much can change within a short time span
Standing there overlooking that immense wall of roaring water, it became difficult not to reflect on how absurd the previous months had been. Barely weeks earlier, I had been trapped inside a psychological pressure cooker, unable to think beyond the next deadline, the next administrative obstacle, the next potential disaster.
And now? Now I was standing at Niagara Falls with friends and colleagues beneath clear autumn skies, feeling hopeful about the future again. The entire London trip had started to feel less like a conference and more like a strangely well-earned vacation. A reward at the very end of survival.
Weathered and worn by time, but still facing the falls with quiet strength
Finally, it was time to return home. Home. Or at least the temporary home that Chicoutimi still remained for a little while longer.
Running on Fumes
Sometime in early December, I finally received my thesis back from review. It was time for the last round of revisions. There was just one problem. I was mentally finished. Completely disconnected from the entire process.
The intense months leading up to submission had drained whatever reserves of motivation I still possessed, and the quieter weeks afterward had extinguished the rest. The comments themselves were not disastrous. Numerous, yes, but manageable. Still, the moment I opened the document and saw another avalanche of red text and corrections splattered across the pages, I felt physically nauseous.
No more revision please…
I simply could not stand looking at that thesis anymore. Unfortunately, I had no choice. The corrections still needed to be completed before the winter break so the final version could be resubmitted on time. So once again, I dragged myself back into revision mode.
Some of the funniest comments involved criticisms of the French language itself. I honestly had no idea whether the French in the document was good, bad, or somewhere in between. I had translated large portions using software before handing them off to Lucie for corrections and improvements. So from my perspective, the reviewer was essentially criticizing my French supervisor’s French.
I found this hilarious.
One More Lockdown
Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I eventually slogged my way through the revisions and reached a satisfactory final version. What fascinated me in hindsight was how much more difficult this comparatively minor workload felt psychologically than the brutal months preceding it. Earlier in the year, I had survived near-impossible pressure through sheer momentum. Now that momentum was gone. I had simply run out of steam.
A snowy Monts-Valin north of Saguenay
After a final round of frustrating back-and-forth exchanges with the reviewer, the revised thesis was finally accepted. At that point, everything remaining was purely administrative. Technically speaking, I had graduated.
The entire process, however, had resurfaced enough lingering frustration that I instinctively decided to head over to the gym afterward to burn it out physically one last time. Except this time, the gym doors were locked. Another apology notice had been taped to the entrance announcing renewed lockdown restrictions. I just stood there cursing to myself. When was this shit ever going to end?
What Else Indeed…
Around that same time, Lucie invited all of us from her research group over to her place in Jonquière for Christmas dinner. Our colleague Nesrine had recently obtained both her Canadian driver’s license and her first car, so she offered to drive Alexandre and me there for the evening. Since she was still fairly inexperienced behind the wheel, Alexandre sat in the front seat to help navigate while I sat in the back.
I had prepared my staple Greek moussaka to bring along for dinner, though emotionally I was in an absolutely miserable mood. The renewed lockdown had somehow managed to feel like the perfect final insult from 2021. I had no holiday spirit left whatsoever. Honestly, I felt emotionally exhausted to the point of emptiness.
What else could this ridiculous year possibly throw at us?
As we approached the final intersection near Lucie’s place, I heard Alexandre calmly tell Nesrine to turn left. Without hesitation, the car immediately began rolling into the intersection. Now, as I have admitted multiple times throughout this blog series, I am hardly some superior driver myself. Yet even from the back seat, my instinct immediately made me glance forward toward oncoming traffic. And there was definitely traffic coming.
I reacted with the most bizarrely calm and almost amused tone imaginable, slowly muttering “Waaatch ooout…”, intentionally dragging out the words as though I were already watching the inevitable unfold in slow motion. A fraction of a second later, Alexandre’s eyes snapped forward and he shouted: “Attention!”… but it was too late.
A violent bang erupted through the cabin followed immediately by an immense jolt. And all I did was sigh. Not shock, nor fear… not even surprise. Just pure exhausted disbelief at the seemingly endless stream of absurdity that had become 2021.
Collision Day
Our vehicle spun sideways across the street and came to rest nearly perpendicular to the road. The windshield cracked. The airbags had exploded outward and were now plastered awkwardly against the faces of the two motionless figures sitting in front of me. My own back ached sharply from the force of the seatbelt, but otherwise I was completely fine. The seatbelt prevented me from smashing my head directly into the seat ahead.
What surprised me most, strangely enough, was the dust. The entire cabin was filled with it. I genuinely wondered where all this dust had suddenly come from — poor housekeeping? I later realized it was residue from the airbags deploying. Apparently that was normal. The more you know.
This car had seen better days
With a mixture of mild irritation and dark humor, I groaned: “Anyone else still alive?” A few seconds later, both Alexandre and Nesrine began moving and responding. Thankfully, neither of them appeared seriously injured. Nesrine had a bloodied lip or nose, while Alexandre described feeling hazy and disoriented afterward for several days. Looking back, we later suspected he may have suffered a mild concussion from the airbag impact, though he never actually got himself checked.
And then my priorities immediately shifted toward something far more important. The moussaka. I rushed to check whether it had survived the collision. Thankfully, it had. In fact, it tasted excellent later that evening. I would eventually joke that the secret ingredient had been a violent collision to properly mix the layers together.
Looking back, my reaction to the accident was genuinely strange. The adrenaline certainly kicked in hard, but instead of fear, I mostly felt detached amusement mixed with exhaustion. It was almost as though my brain had simply become too burnt out to process yet another disaster normally.
Eventually, emergency services arrived. The vehicles were moved aside, insurance information was exchanged, and Nesrine was offered transportation to the hospital as a precaution. And then, somehow, Alexandre and I continued onward to Lucie’s Christmas dinner. What a story we had to tell upon arrival.
From that point onward, December 24th unofficially became known between Alexandre and me as: Collision Day.
Diverging Paths
For the final weeks of the year, I hunkered down in my apartment. After the events of Collision Day, it genuinely felt as though that year, or perhaps that place itself, had it in for us. Me, Alexandre, or both. I didn’t feel like tempting fate any further and having a piano or an anvil dropped on my head while walking outside.
As 2021 came to a close, it brought with it the end of another chapter of my life. The end of my academic chapter. Not the finale I had envisioned when I left for Canada, but rather an unfortunate ending forced by unforeseen and extreme circumstances. Whatever the future held, 2022 was going to usher in major changes for both Alexandre and myself, that much was certain. This was where our shared path finally diverged for good.
My balcony overflowing with snow during peak winter
In January, Alexandre was making his final preparations to leave Canada and return to France. He planned to ship most of his furniture and belongings via container, which meant transporting everything to a shipping company in Montreal. I had little else to do during that period, so I offered to help. Not just with loading the rental vehicle, but by accompanying him on the long round-trip drives as well.
Thus began our final Canadian adventure together. The frozen winter road trips to and from Montreal.
A Slippery Slope
Alexandre had hoped to rent a decent-sized van, but the best vehicle the rental company could offer him at the time was a Dodge Durango SUV. A great car no doubt, but not nearly spacious enough to fit everything. We packed it as tightly as possible, though it quickly became obvious he would need to make the trip twice.
He didn’t really expect me to offer to tag along the first time, let alone the second. But as I told him, it wasn’t like I had anything better to do. Besides, I could always use the change of scenery. So off we drove toward Montreal on a chilly winter morning. Endless conversation and music filled the hours. In many ways, the trip felt like a quiet homage to our summer road adventures through northern Quebec over a year earlier.
The Saguenay once again froze over completely
The roads remained relatively clear until we entered the Laurentides Wildlife Reserve. There, fresh snowstorms and frost had reclaimed sections of the highway. Alexandre occasionally remarked that parts of the road felt slippery, though he also commented on how stable the SUV handled despite the conditions. I barely noticed anything myself. It was the sort of subtle loss of traction only the driver paying close attention would detect. Then came the descent.
We were driving down a long, steeper stretch of highway when the car suddenly began slipping. Apparently, my guy had been going a little too fast for the icy conditions. Under normal circumstances it would have been fine, but this time the road had other ideas. I felt it immediately.
The vehicle started swerving violently. Alexandre instinctively tried to reduce speed, but that only made things worse. The SUV fishtailed across the highway — ninety degrees right, one eighty back left, then fully spinning around. Fortunately, there were no other cars nearby, giving us two entire lanes to skid across uncontested.
For what felt like the longest ten seconds of my life, we became passengers inside a giant metal hockey puck. Eventually, the vehicle came to a stop with its rear corner buried in a snowbank.
A semi-truck driver who had witnessed the entire spectacle pulled over to check if we were alright. We were fine. Just another absurd little joyride added to our ever-growing list of near-disasters. Even the SUV survived mostly unscathed. The bumper had partially popped loose, but we easily snapped it back into place. The soft snow and reduced speed from all the swerving had spared us from anything worse.
My Second Glimpse of Montreal
From that moment onward, Alexandre stuck rigidly to the speed limit and remained hyper-alert for any additional icy sections. Eventually, we reached Montreal and unloaded everything in good time. Afterward, we even took a short drive around parts of the city. Alexandre wanted to show me some of the nicer neighborhoods around Mount Royal Park.
Unfortunately, by then it was already dark outside, so I couldn’t see much beyond glowing city lights and silhouettes of buildings. Yet even that was enough to make me smile while fantasizing about potentially living in this vibrant city one day.
When we were finally ready to head back, I pulled out my phone to help navigate through Montreal traffic. The city’s road network was chaotic compared to anything we were used to. Odd intersections, aggressive drivers, questionable lane changes — the full metropolitan experience.
A dream of things to come…
The navigation app selected a southern route out of the city instead of the northern approach we had used earlier. We followed along while I remained glued to the screen. At some point, we began slowly climbing what felt like an endless elevated traffic ramp. I paid little attention at first until I suddenly realized we were now higher than many of the surrounding buildings. That was when I finally looked up and thought: Where the hell are we going? The high heavens?
An unfamiliar series of overhead electric signs displaying red crosses and green arrows stretched out above the lanes. Everything looked strange and surreal in the darkness. Then, slowly, the massive metal framework surrounding us finally became visible. We were crossing the Jacques Cartier Bridge over the Saint Laurent River.
I have to admit, that was one hell of a reveal. The rest of the drive back unfolded uneventfully.
Epilogue
Two days later, we were packing again. This time the rental company gave Alexandre a minivan instead of an SUV. Slightly more spacious, though noticeably less stable on winter roads. At least we managed to fit the remaining belongings inside.
No more dramatic slides this time around. After our previous incident, Alexandre no longer trusted the roads, the weather, or the car for that matter. He drove cautiously the entire way. Another long, tiring drive to Montreal followed. By then we were mostly recycling old conversation topics. The whole trip felt like the epilogue to our shared story.
Because of his more cautious driving pace, we ended up stuck behind a large truck for a significant portion of the highway. The constant spray of dirt and slush onto the windshield, combined with freezing temperatures, forced Alexandre to use most of the windshield washer fluid before we even reached Montreal.
This time we wasted no extra hours sightseeing after unloading. He was exhausted and still had another long drive to Montreal Airport waiting for him the following day.
One Last Near Miss
Before leaving Montreal, we desperately needed to refill the windshield washer fluid. However, Alexandre wanted to first escape the heavier city traffic before stopping. So we continued onward while I searched for nearby gas stations along the route out of town.
The washer fluid was nearly depleted, and the dirty highway conditions demanded constant use. At one point, Alexandre casually said: “Man… it’s getting pretty bad.” I lifted my eyes from the phone screen and was greeted by a completely opaque windshield covered in grime. Holy shit.
You could barely see anything anymore, and we were still barreling down the highway at roughly eighty kilometers per hour surrounded by traffic. Alexandre nervously laughed and claimed he could “still sort of see through the grains.”
Okay. This was getting ridiculous. We immediately took the next exit and slowly navigated our way toward the nearest service station. Another comical disaster narrowly avoided.
Parting Ways
The rest of the return trip became a bit of a grind. The weather worsened considerably and near Quebec City we drove straight into an ice storm that coated the roads with fresh black ice.
Conditions improved slightly once we re-entered the Laurentides Wildlife Reserve where colder temperatures meant more snow and less ice. Even so, Alexandre drove slowly and cautiously the entire remaining distance, despite knowing it meant arriving late at night and barely sleeping before his departure the next morning.
I still remember fragments of our final stop together at a convenience store where he bought a few remaining travel essentials. The poor guy looked completely exhausted. Mentally and physically drained. I embraced him farewell and wished him the best. Most importantly, I wished for him not to get himself killed during this final push.
Brothers from different mothers… fathers… and places… but still brothers
After everything we had endured together, I hoped we would meet again someday. I didn’t know when. I didn’t know where. But for the kind of friendship forged through mutual struggle and shared hardship, I was certain this would not be the last time we saw each other.
Rolling Credits
After Alexandre’s departure, things became even quieter for me.
Nothing more to do at the university. No one left to complain with about life in Saguenay. No immediate pressure, nor any concrete adventure waiting ahead. Just the quiet credits rolling at the end of a long, chaotic film.
If I were to choose a post-credit scene, it would probably be the day I finally received my MSc diploma from UQAC sometime in early February.
No graduation party with hats like after my Bachelor’s degree. No emotional celebration between friends, colleagues, and professors like when I graduated from my first Master’s in Copenhagen. Just a quiet piece of paper delivered remotely. This was the very piece of paper I had fought tooth and nail for throughout the previous year. Seemingly insignificant, yet absolutely crucial for what needed to come next.
I wasted no time. The moment my graduation documents arrived, I immediately submitted my application for a post-graduation work permit to the Canadian government. It was time to change course and begin the next major chapter of my life in this vast country.
The ultimate goal remained unchanged: to find stability.
To find a place I could finally, permanently call… home.
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.
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.
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.
