By the time May came to an end, Montreal was beginning to feel like home. I had explored my new surroundings, made some new connections, and already packed an absurd amount of adventure into my first month. But my new life had another side to it.
Every two weeks, I would leave the city behind and disappear into the wilderness of northern Quebec, trading cafés, concerts and city streets for drill rigs, helicopters, mosquitoes and twelve-hour shifts. Then, two weeks later, I’d return to Montreal and slip back into a completely different world. I hadn’t really appreciated it at first, but over the course of that summer I was beginning to build two lives simultaneously.
Summer in the North
Summer was the busiest time of year for us at work. It was essentially the only part of the year when extensive field work was possible, once the snow had finally disappeared and the landscape became accessible again. It was also the best season for drilling, so the entire exploration program ramped up: prospecting, geological mapping, sampling and drilling were all happening at once.
Northern Quebec. Land of lakes and trees
Our team grew considerably as well. A group of students joined us for summer internships, helping with field work, while several seasonal workers came aboard as additional technicians, geologists and support staff. As the exploration program ramped up, more and more helicopters began appearing around the camp.
We weren’t the only ones busy. Another company was also operating out of Mirage and exploring the surrounding area, bringing their own large crews and equipment. At the height of summer, there must have been six or seven helicopters flying around the area. It was crazy to watch.
Our growing fleet of helicopters
What had started as a relatively small operation had transformed into a miniature aerial traffic network in the middle of northern Quebec.
A Taste of Everything
My shifts mostly remained on the familiar two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off rotation, with one particularly memorable exception: a four-week stint that felt like an eternity by the time it was over.
Most of us were rotated between the core shack and field work, which I actually preferred. The constant change kept things fresh. There is only so long you can perform the same repetitive tasks inside a garage, twelve hours a day, before time itself seems to slow down and your mind begins to feel trapped in a depressive eternity of repetition.
Overcast days brought better temperatures, but more bugs
Field work was a very different beast. Every day brought something different, but it was also considerably more physically demanding. Long hikes through difficult terrain, coupled with weather that could swing from hot and humid to miserably wet, made even relatively simple tasks exhausting.
Then there was channel sampling.
The process began with digging trenches through the soil to expose the underlying bedrock. On a hot, sunny day, this was simply brutal manual labor, with sweat pouring down us as we hacked away at the ground. On an overcast and rainy day, it became a battle against mud and rapidly filling trenches.
Once the trench was prepared and the sampling boundaries marked, we reached what I considered the peak back-breaker of the operation. Holding a large rock saw, bent over an outcrop for hours at a time, we would cut channels through the exposed rock to obtain representative samples. We took turns, of course, but there was usually one more experienced or physically fit person who ended up doing most of the cutting, while the other person performed the considerably less glamorous task of continuously spraying water onto the blade.
Geared up and ready to fly out
And naturally, all of this happened while fully clothed and often wearing a bug net to protect ourselves from the millions upon millions of winged, blood-sucking insects that seemed to follow us around like a dark cloud of torment.
Work was hard. But it was never boring.
Beyond the Core Shack
Every now and then I also got to take on some of the more auxiliary outdoor tasks.
Some were directly related to drilling, such as scouting and spotting new drill holes or carrying out borehole deviation surveys once a hole had been completed. Others were less technical: long drives to exchange crews, or chauffeuring investors, clients and other visitors around the various sites.
Paying a visit to one of the drilling rigs
I really came to appreciate the sheer variety of the work. There was always something different to do, somewhere different to go, or something new to learn. Compared with the repetitive routine of some other jobs, the diversity of tasks was one of the things I enjoyed most about working for this company.
There was simply never a dull moment.
Off on another errand
Meanwhile, life inside the core shack continued to evolve as well. As we became more familiar with the workflow, we were constantly looking for little things we could improve. Sometimes that meant building an extra table or stand to make a particular task easier. Other times it was simply about making the workplace a little more comfortable.
It was beginning to feel less like a temporary workplace and more like something we were collectively building. And as our little work family grew closer, the post-work entertainment started evolving too.
Northern Quebec Cinema
One of the big hits in 2022 was movie night.
We had a projector sitting around that wasn’t being used, along with a massive garage door. Once we found a large white canvas to cover it, we had everything we needed for the ultimate northern Quebec cinema. It was… unconventional.
The canvas was thin enough that some of the thick tags and markings that had accumulated on the garage door over the years remained visible through it. Depending on the movie, these strange shadows and shapes could turn what was supposed to be a terrifying horror scene into an unintentionally hilarious comedy.
Then there were the sounds. The garage had a habit of producing its own soundtrack, with random machinery, water sprayers and other mysterious noises occasionally bubbling, rattling or squeaking in the middle of a movie.
It wasn’t exactly Hollywood. But those nights were a blast.
Two Lives
When I started this job, I hadn’t really intended to make friends.
That sounds harsher than I mean it. I obviously wanted to be friendly with my colleagues and get along with the people I worked with. But I deliberately wanted to keep my work friendships separate from my personal life. I didn’t want the same group of people I spent two weeks living and working alongside to also become my entire social circle back home.
Birdy nesting in the heli mechanic’s shack
Part of my reasoning was practical. In a work environment where people live together, work together and spend long stretches of time in close quarters, friendships can become an all-consuming social ecosystem. And while that can be great when everything is going well, I could also imagine how easily personal disagreements or drama could spill back into the workplace.
I wanted a boundary. Work was work. Home was home.
The irony, of course, was that I was beginning to develop a genuine social life in both worlds anyway.
The Transtaiga turnoff on the Bill Diamond Highway
There was a strange duality to my life during this period. At work, I was highly active and constantly engaged. I was surrounded by geology, field work, helicopters, drill rigs and people for twelve hours a day. There was always something happening, and I was generally in a very outgoing, energetic state.
Then I would return to Montreal and my other self would emerge.
At home, I naturally slipped back into my more introverted and sedentary mode. I enjoyed having my own space, spending quiet evenings by myself and generally doing very little when I wasn’t actively pursuing something. I wasn’t unhappy or antisocial; I simply needed considerably more motivation to turn an idea into an actual social outing.
Sunset view during one of my drives
The problem was that building a social life from scratch requires exactly that: getting off the couch and actually going somewhere. Fortunately, I had a plan.
Finding People in Montreal
Making new friends had generally come fairly easily to me, but bars and clubs had never been my thing. If I was going to meet people, I needed a different approach.
Enter the glorious Meetup app. I’d briefly used Meetup back in Denmark after a friend recommended it, so when I arrived in Montreal I decided to see what was available. Quite a lot, as it turned out.
Monument to Sir George-Étienne Cartier, northeast Mount Royal
Montreal had an active social scene built around all sorts of groups and activities. There were people organizing city walks, bowling nights, debates, bar meetups and countless other gatherings. It was practically a buffet of opportunities for someone trying to build a social life from scratch.
This was the way.
Over the following months, whenever I was in Montreal, I joined whatever outings caught my interest. I met quite a few people and made plenty of friendly acquaintances. But there was one persistent problem. My work schedule.
Eastern view of Montreal from Kondiaronk Belvedere
I’d go out, meet someone interesting, have a great conversation and perhaps suggest doing something again. Then I’d disappear back into northern Quebec for two weeks or more. By the time I returned, I would finally work up the energy to organize a spontaneous get-together, only to discover that they already had plans.
“How about next weekend?”
Sure. Except by next weekend, I would be back at work again.
Street Art is a big thing in Montreal, and the city has a lot of great hidden gems like this one
My two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off schedule simply didn’t fit neatly into the rhythm of normal Monday-to-Friday life. Other people could casually make plans for next Saturday. For me, next Saturday could mean being several hundred kilometres into the wilderness.
I was meeting people. I was making connections. But turning those connections into proper friendships was proving considerably more difficult.
Exploring Montreal Further
Of course, my inability to coordinate with other people didn’t mean I had nothing to do. My unusual schedule left me with entire stretches of weekdays free, and I quickly realized there was no reason to wait for the weekend to explore Montreal.
One of the places I finally returned to was Saint Joseph’s Oratory. I’d first spotted the enormous basilica during my early exploration of Montreal, but at the time the construction work in front of it had made the entrance seem inaccessible. This time I found another approach, following Chemin de la Côte-des-Neiges around Mount Royal before cutting through Summit Woods and approaching the Oratory from behind.
And suddenly, there it was. The great dome rose above the trees and residential houses. No construction site blocking the approach this time.
The massive dome of Saint Joseph’s Oratory
Behind the basilica I discovered something I hadn’t expected: a peaceful enclosed garden known as the Garden of the Way of the Cross. It was apparently designed as an outdoor setting for the traditional Stations of the Cross, with a winding path through the greenery accompanied by a series of large sculptures.
The sculptures were scattered among trees, shrubs and winding paths, giving the whole place an almost secluded atmosphere despite being surrounded by one of the busiest parts of Montreal. There were flowers and patches of carefully maintained greenery everywhere, but the scale of the sculptures made the garden feel more like an open-air gallery than a conventional park.
Sculptures in the Garden of the Way of the Cross
It was one of those unexpected little discoveries that made wandering around Montreal so rewarding. You could leave a busy street, disappear into a patch of greenery and suddenly find yourself somewhere that felt completely removed from the city.
This was another one of those places where I quickly realized that I had underestimated just how much there was to see. The garden occupies roughly 75 hectares and contains around thirty thematic gardens, an arboretum and numerous exhibition greenhouses.
Deep red and lime-edged coleus at the Montreal Botanical Garden
Rather than feeling like one enormous conventional flower garden, it was more like a collection of different worlds stitched together into one sprawling landscape. Different sections had their own character, vegetation and design philosophy, so walking from one area to another could feel like stepping into an entirely different environment.
There were gardens dedicated to plants native to Quebec and North America, collections of medicinal plants, alpine plants, roses and other specialized flora. Elsewhere, the landscape became increasingly exotic. The Indigenous Peoples Garden explored the relationships between First Peoples and the plant world, while the Chinese Garden used traditional landscape principles, ponds, bridges and classical structures to create something that felt almost theatrical.
The Chinese Garden sections felt like stepping into another world
The Japanese Garden was more restrained. Its carefully arranged trees, shrubs, stones, streams and waterfalls created a much quieter and more meditative atmosphere. There was also a collection of bonsai and penjing that I found particularly interesting, with miniature trees painstakingly shaped to resemble their much larger counterparts.
And then there was simply the sheer amount of space. Paths wound through trees and flowerbeds in every direction, with benches and quiet corners scattered throughout. I could spend hours wandering without feeling as though I was retracing the same route.
Mini maple tree in the Japanese Garden section
The Botanical Garden also housed the Insectarium, as part of a much larger complex of attractions around the Olympic Park, including the Biodôme and Planetarium. I didn’t visit the Insectarium on this particular day, though I would eventually return to the area and give some of those other attractions the attention they deserved.
For now, I was perfectly happy just wandering through this enormous collection of plants and gardens. But while I was becoming increasingly comfortable exploring Montreal on my own, I was also slowly beginning to establish a few connections outside of work.
A Day on Île Notre-Dame
One of the people I met was Adam, a Canadian from out west who had recently moved to Montreal looking for a change of scenery. We had met at one of the Meetup social gatherings, and eventually arranged another outing together at Parc Jean-Drapeau.
This time I got to discover the second major island of Montreal’s downtown recreation complex: Île Notre-Dame. We had initially come simply to cool off on a warm summer afternoon at the island’s beach. But, as I was beginning to discover, Montreal had a habit of hiding considerably more interesting things behind seemingly ordinary places.
More cool street art from Montreal
Île Notre-Dame turned out to be a rather bizarre collection of attractions. There were the Olympic Basin, built for the 1976 Montreal Olympics and used for rowing and other aquatic sports; the Circuit Gilles-Villeneuve, the Formula 1 race track that winds around the island but spends much of the year open to cyclists, runners and pedestrians; and, somewhat incongruously, the Casino de Montréal.
After cooling off in the lake, Adam and I decided to investigate the casino. I’d never actually been inside one before, so I was curious to see what the place was like. The casino occupied the former French pavilion from Expo 67, a suitably futuristic-looking building that had been repurposed into Quebec’s first government-run casino in 1993. It had since expanded into the neighboring former Québec pavilion, creating a sprawling multi-level entertainment complex.
Inside, there were floors of flashing electronic games and slot machines, along with the more traditional tables. Blackjack and roulette seemed to be particularly popular, with crowds gathered around the tables and people watching every move.
I was mildly disappointed not to see any poker tables. Maybe there was a secluded poker room somewhere that I simply never found. Or perhaps I was just looking in the wrong place.
The Casino also had a bunch of these places to pose for photos, so we couldn’t resist
Either way, neither Adam nor I had any intention of seriously gambling. We decided to each sacrifice about twenty dollars to the gods of probability, with the agreement that if either of us somehow doubled his money, we’d cash out and treat ourselves to dinner.
The casino had other plans. Our machines swallowed the money remarkably efficiently. No jackpot. No fancy dinner. Just free coffee and tea. Honestly, not the worst gambling loss imaginable.
The Idea of Seeing Clearly
Somehow, between exploring Île Notre-Dame, cooling off at the lake and donating twenty dollars to the Casino de Montréal, the subject of eyesight came up.
McGill University in Montreal — one of Canada’s top Universities
I’d worn glasses for most of my adult life and had never been particularly fond of them. They had simply become something I accepted as part of everyday life. Every now and then, though, I’d entertain the idea of getting rid of them permanently. Corrective laser surgery had been sitting somewhere in the back of my mind for years, waiting for some combination of money, trust and courage to make it happen.
Adam’s response was remarkably straightforward. “Why don’t you just get LASIK?” He had already undergone the procedure himself in Montreal and spoke extremely highly of the clinic and its surgeons. He had even specifically researched one particular surgeon, Dr. Bashur, whom he considered to be among the best in the world.
Adam had specifically asked for Bashur himself, but ended up having the procedure performed by his apprentice. The second-best surgeon in the world. At least according to Adam.
Saint Joseph’s Oratory from the Garden of the Way of the Cross
Jokes aside, his recommendation got me seriously thinking. I’d already been considering LASIK for years, but hearing about someone’s firsthand experience — and learning that Montreal indeed had some very highly regarded specialists — pushed the idea much further forward.
And as it turned out, Adam wasn’t going to be the only person encouraging me to take the plunge. Around the same time, the subject came up at work as well.
1000 Rue De la Gauchetière Business Center
I’d been talking with our project manager when he pointed something out to me on a laptop screen. Without my glasses, I couldn’t make out what he was showing me from a few meters away and had to lean practically into the screen to see it. He then rather unexpectedly, gave me almost exactly the same advice.
He had recently undergone LASIK himself and described it as a life-changing experience.
Suddenly I had two people, from the two very different worlds I’d been trying so hard to keep separate, independently recommending the same thing. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something.
Mary, Queen of the World Cathedral, downtown Montreal
So I decided to listen. It would still take some courage and research on my own part to actually go through with it.
Taking the Plunge
I started doing some serious research into LASIK and, before long, booked an evaluation at a Montreal clinic. The consultation involved a series of tests and scans to assess whether I was actually a suitable candidate. They found that I had both astigmatism and hypermetropia. The astigmatism could apparently be corrected very effectively, while the hypermetropia was a little trickier and meant the result might not be quite as perfect. Still, they expected the procedure to improve my vision substantially and, most importantly, potentially leave me without any need for glasses in everyday life.
That was good enough for me. The clinic and its surgeons also came highly recommended, which helped settle the remaining doubts. I decided to go ahead and booked the surgery for a couple of months later. My nervously joking statement to them was simply: “Please try not to blind me.”
Researching how the procedure worked was unnerving at first, but I soon managed to tap into my inner curiosity. After watching several rendered videos showing the process step by step, I gradually stopped shuddering at the thought of a blade cutting into my eyeballs.
It really was, and still is, I think, the blade aspect that gives people the heebie-jeebies when they think about LASIK. The laser ablation is more abstract. A blade, however, is something everyone can instinctively understand as a sharp, piercing object being brought anywhere near the most vulnerable parts of the human body.
A Gift From the Heavens
With the surgery still several weeks away, life carried on as usual. I returned to northern Quebec for another rotation, and for the moment, LASIK became something lurking somewhere in the back of my mind rather than the immediate concern it would eventually become.
Dusk in Northern Quebec
Then, completely unexpectedly, something rather more exciting came out of nowhere.
Adrien, my old friend from Chicoutimi, sent me a message asking if I’d be interested in a free ticket to a metal concert in Montreal. He was supposed to go himself, but couldn’t make it because of his work schedule — the same kind of two-weeks-on, two-weeks-off life that I was living. Since it was fairly short notice, he was simply going to give the ticket away.
The gesture itself was already incredibly generous. But the band… the band elevated this act to something approaching a gift from the heavens. It was Rammstein.
Love them or hate them, Rammstein are one of the biggest names in metal. They are also famous for putting on some of the most spectacular live shows on the planet, combining their heavy music with elaborate theatrics, enormous stage effects, and enough fire and pyrotechnics to make the average concert look like a school talent show.
Nicknamed the Bumblebee, this Bell 212 was the biggest helicopter we ever had on the project. Only available option at the time. Looked and sounded badass… and cost the project a small fortune
I was speechless. Of course I accepted. My shift would end a few days before the concert, so the timing worked out perfectly. Respect and a huge shout-out to my man Adrien. Thanks again for the fantastic gift!
The Build-Up
The spontaneous concert gave me something else to occupy my mind during my August time off. Work helped too. When I was up north, I could completely immerse myself in work and shut out everything happening back home, including the surgery slowly approaching on the horizon. It made the waiting period considerably easier.
The Bumblebee in action. Slinging equipment in the field
I also discovered that one of my colleagues, let’s call him Max, who I had gradually become friends with, was going to the concert as well. So on the evening of August 21, we met up and, together with some of his friends, headed toward the mass of people gathering on Saint Helen’s Island at Parc Jean-Drapeau.
The sheer scale of the event was already obvious on the metro. The trains heading toward Jean-Drapeau were packed with metalheads of every variety.
Once we reached the island, things got even more serious. The whole setup looked less like an ordinary concert and more like a small temporary festival. Booths and bars lined the walkways toward the stage, selling merchandise, food and drinks, while tens of thousands of people gradually packed into the enormous concert area.
And then there was the stage.
The Towering Black Citadel
Rammstein had brought their enormous custom-built stadium production with them, designed specifically around the band’s particular brand of theatrical insanity. A towering central structure dominated the scene, crowned by the giant illuminated Rammstein logo. The whole thing looked less like a stage and more like some enormous industrial fortress that had been dropped into the middle of the island.
The mythical Rammstein stage in all its glory
There was a very good reason for that. Rammstein’s pyrotechnics are so extensive that the production is effectively built around them. The 2022 stage incorporated specially engineered pyro systems and custom touring structures, with the central tower alone rising roughly fifty meters into the air. The Montreal production was around sixty meters wide, and getting the whole monster from one city to the next required a staggering logistical operation.
The area in front of the stage was divided into several sections. The very front was the infamous Feuerzone, essentially the place where you voluntarily paid extra to stand closer to the flames. We had regular tickets, but managed to squeeze our way nearly to the front of our section. This was as close as we could get to the stage. Two enormous towers stood on either side of us, already giving us a pretty good indication of what was about to happen.
As dusk settled over Montreal, the lights came on.
The beginning of a word-class spectacle
Then, with the thunderous roar of more than forty thousand of people, Rammstein took the stage.
A Night of Fire
Rammstein had been one of the first bands that got me into metal nearly two decades earlier. My musical tastes had long since moved toward more technical and complex styles, but they had, and always would remain an iconic and legendary band for me.
Standing there in front of that mighty stage, headbanging alongside thousands of other fans while hearing their music performed live, felt like a genuinely historic experience.
A night to remember
Max and I sang along to most of the songs. Well… sang is perhaps being generous. We shouted the lyrics in tandem, in our respective broken and mediocre German.
Meanwhile, every song seemed to have its own visual identity. The stage constantly transformed between pulsating light shows and what looked like an enormous industrial furnace. As the music intensified, flames erupted not only from the main stage but from the towers on either side of us as well, blasting heat into the night and illuminating the sky.
Like a raging industrial furnace the stage blasted fire and smoke from everywhere
We could feel the heat even from where we stood. I could only imagine what the people in the VIP section directly in front of the stage were experiencing. Absolute pyrotechnic madness. And it was glorious.
Adieu
From beginning to end, it was easily the grandest spectacle I had ever attended. I dare say it was one of the greatest live shows ever.
We later heard that the concert had been so loud that residents of Longueuil, across the St. Lawrence River, had complained about the noise. Considering the concert was taking place on an island with no residential neighborhood immediately surrounding it, that was quite an achievement in itself.
After roughly two hours of adrenaline-pumping spectacle, the show eventually reached its emotional finale. The final song was Adieu.
Fittingly enough, the title itself seemed almost tailor-made for the occasion.
End credits rolling after a phenomenal performance
The song stayed with us long after the concert was over. In fact, my colleague and I liked it so much that it eventually became something of a ritual at work. For months afterward, we’d play Adieu on our last day before heading off for our time off.
The song had become the unofficial soundtrack to saying goodbye to another rotation.
The concert had been absolutely epic, and I genuinely hope Adrien eventually got to experience it himself. It was one of those shows that I think every metalhead should see at least once in their lifetime.
The Season Begins to Wind Down
The summer had passed, and early September found me back up north for another rotation. The field season was gradually winding down, the air was getting noticeably colder. My LASIK appointment was no longer some distant event sitting on the calendar. It was getting close.
Fortunately, there was still plenty of work to keep my mind occupied. By this point, my paperwork with the Ordre des géologues du Québec had finally been approved, and I had officially moved into the exploration geologist role. After months of working in the core shack and watching the other geologists log, I was finally getting to do it myself.
Mad scientist with a hand-held “laser gun”
It was a transition I had been looking forward to since early summer. I had spent a lot of time observing how the others approached their logs, comparing their interpretations with what I could see in the core and gradually developing my own ideas about how I would approach the same task. Now I finally had the opportunity to put all of that accumulated knowledge into practice.
The learning curve seemed mild and enjoyable. Just as teching had eventually turned into a little friendly competition, logging soon became its own informal race. How much core could you get through? How quickly could you log it without sacrificing quality? Who was the fastest logger in this part of the core shack?
It was another welcome distraction from the increasingly imminent LASIK appointment.
Team Dynamics
The team itself had also continued to evolve. One of the newer additions over the summer was a French geologist I had become quite friendly with. I’ll call him Luc. He had previously worked for another exploration company before joining us, along with several other French colleagues.
The all too familiar bridge just before Mirage — a place we’d sometimes stroll across for an evening walk after work
Interestingly, that was the same company I had nearly ended up working for earlier that year, before ultimately accepting the position that brought me to Mirage. Hearing Luc and the others talk about their experiences there made me realize just how close I had come to taking a very different path. Let’s just say that, in hindsight, I had apparently dodged a fairly substantial bullet.
Luc and I also discovered that we shared a similar brand of European humor, which made working together particularly entertaining. We were both fairly ambitious and competitive by nature, and that attitude quickly found its way into more than just our geological work. Before long, we were competing over logging speed and quality during the day, and occasionally recreational activities after hours.
The Garage Gym
There wasn’t really a gym at Mirage, or at least, not much of one at the time. So, as usual, we improvised.
I had been pushing for more regular workouts after our shifts, partly because I genuinely wanted to train and partly because getting other people involved gave me an extra reason to do it myself. We used whatever we could find around camp. For a while, some wide wooden beams served as our pull-up bars. The garage door also became an improvised piece of strength-training equipment.
At one point, Luc and I turned one-arm shoulder presses into yet another completely unnecessary competition. He won… by just one repetition. Considering that we were both taking the whole thing far more seriously than was remotely necessary, I was ridiculously proud of how close it had been. I suspect he was a little surprised too.
Drilling day and night
The improvised workouts became another small part of our routine. Nothing fancy, nothing resembling a proper gym, but it gave us something physical to do after twelve-hour shifts and another excuse to mess around with each other.
Looking back, it was these little things that made the camp experience so enjoyable. We were working hard, but we were also gradually developing our own routines, competitions and inside jokes. But the work shift wasn’t going to last forever. Soon enough, I was back on the plane, heading home to Montreal and I had a rather intimidating appointment waiting for me in just a few days.
The Night Before
I lay in bed the night before the procedure, trying to calm my nerves. Slowly coming to grips with the fact that it was out of my hands now. I wasn’t going to chicken out at the last minute. After all, I was going to be in the hands of some very highly qualified professionals… who hopefully wouldn’t leave me blind.
Oh well. At least I got to see Rammstein live with my own eyes. What more could I ask for?
What will be will be.
The Waiting Game
At the LASIK clinic on the day of the surgery, I spent a considerable amount of time signing various forms and papers across different offices, as well as paying the hefty sum for the procedure. Each checkpoint brought me one step closer to the surgery. And each step came with another stretch of waiting. The waiting was the worst part. It gave my imagination more time to come up with things to worry about.
At the time I felt like I was sitting on this guy — porcupine sculpture at the Montréal Botanical Garden
The staff knew this quite well and offered patients a Xanax pill if they wished. Despite my nervousness, however, I refused it. Was it my stubbornness? Hard-headedness? Was I trying to prove some macho point to myself? I don’t know. All I know is that I wanted to confront the whole thing with a clear mind and remain fully aware of what was happening.
Eventually, after the long paper trail, I found myself sitting in a sofa chair in the dimly lit hallway next to the operating room. I watched the patients ahead of me go through the various stages before entering the room myself. Eventually, the nurse came to me.
I tilted my head back as instructed so she could put the local anaesthetic drops into my eyes. Except “drops” wasn’t really the right word. It felt more like a water fountain of liquid solution being blasted directly into my eyeballs. She kindly reminded me to keep my eyes open. I did my best to comply, despite my eyes being absolutely drenched in the stuff.
After the eye shower, I didn’t immediately feel anything. The nurse told me it would start feeling a little strange. Within a couple of minutes, it sure did.
My eyes after the anesthetic drops… basically this well (Montreal Botanical Gardens)
The best way I can describe it is that my eyes felt drunk. My brain and everything else felt completely normal, conscious and aware, yet my eyes somehow felt as though they were floating independently of the rest of me. Weird stuff.
A few minutes later, I was invited into the operating room.
Meet the Best in the World
The surgeon introduced himself as Dr. Bashur, the best in the world. I replied “Oh, I know. I read your résumé.” What a boss introduction. Somehow, that immediately made me feel more relaxed.
The room itself had a very calming ambience. The lighting was dim and warm, and the whole place genuinely felt inviting. I had to give them credit: they were doing a very good job of making what was about to happen feel considerably less terrifying.
Soon enough, I was lying down on the operating table and receiving instructions from the staff. They gently positioned my head into the support apparatus and secured it in place. At one point, I recall Dr. Bashur asking me to blink. So I did. Awkwardly. “No, no. Blink normally.” I tried again. “Is that normal?” I started laughing. Apparently I had forgotten what normal, relaxed blinking was like.
Once I passed the blinking test, they prepared my eyes for the procedure and somehow secured my eyelids in place. I’m not entirely sure what mechanism they used; I remember feeling some light pressure, but there was no real discomfort.
Then came the most important instruction: don’t blink, and simply stare at the green light on the optics of the laser device that had been brought up close to my face. They even gave me a stress ball and told me that if I felt the urge to blink, I could simply squeeze it instead.
My mission objectives were clear. Stare at the green dot at all costs. No blinking. I was in a video game.
Then they began talking to each other in their strange alien doctor language, throwing around various technical terms that I couldn’t understand.
Mad Scientist Mode
After all the videos I’d watched, I had the entire procedure more or less memorized in my head. Once they began, I found myself curiously paying attention to each step and mentally visualizing what part of the process they were performing. After stressing about it for the entire morning in the waiting rooms, I somehow managed to flip a switch in my head. My scientific curiosity completely overrode whatever anxiety was still lingering.
The staff also made sure to tell me what I was about to see or not see. At one point they warned me that things in my right eye would go dark or fuzzy for a few moments. They then covered the eye with some kind of device. Soon afterwards, the device was removed and I could see again, although everything was considerably blurrier. I could also make out what looked like a piece of something sitting on my eye.
From everything I’d learned, I knew what this was. They had made the incision and lifted the famous LASIK flap. Holy… crap. I had a piece of my eye… on my eye. My mind was blown. This was insane. In a cool way. I didn’t feel a thing, by the way.
Also, the “blade” they used apparently wasn’t really a knife-like object as I’d imagined. It was more like a tiny sliding potato peeler. Which, when you think about it, makes sense. Eyes are kind of potato-shaped… Next came the laser. I could hear the machine priming itself before producing the familiar rapid-fire ta-ta-ta-ta-ta sound.
I was already quite familiar with laser ablation from my own research work, although I’d used it on minerals rather than human eyeballs. Then came the smell. It was faint, but unmistakable. The same smell as when we caught insects in the electric bug zapper during my work rotations. Ho…ly… crap. I was smelling my eyes burning. WIIIILD.
I’m telling you, I was in full mad-scientist mode, even though I was the subject being operated on. And somehow, this made the whole thing absolutely fascinating rather than scary.
And Then It Was Over
They repeated the procedure on the other eye and then covered both eyes, letting them rest for about a minute. Afterwards, they examined both eyes with their observation equipment and quickly gave me the green light to go home, along with instructions for medication and rest over the following days.
The entire procedure had taken less than ten minutes. I never felt any actual pain throughout it. There was some mild discomfort once or twice, but really, nothing worth writing home about.
Afterwards, my eyes felt strange. I was given a pair of black plastic protective glasses, but even with them on, once I stepped outside I could somehow feel the wind blowing into my eyes. Like… inside them. That was weird. And not particularly pleasant.
I’d asked the person at reception to call me a taxi, so I didn’t have to wait long before getting into one. I could see, but the combination of the discomfort and the knowledge of what my poor eyes had just been subjected to made me keep them closed as much as possible, only opening them slightly when I needed to see where I was going.
Once home, I lay down on the couch and called my mom to update her. We talked for about an hour while I rested my eyes before I eventually ventured out to buy the necessary eye drops at the pharmacy.
I was still wary of opening my eyes too much. But I vividly remember the first moment I looked into the distance while walking down the street. The sharpness of my vision was incredible. I could make out an old lady’s face from across the street. And this was barely a couple of hours after surgery.
My friends were right. This really was life-changing
Laser Eyes
Any lingering discomfort and strange sensations were gone by the second day. I took care to drastically limit my screen time and simply rest and medicate my eyes as instructed.
The following morning, I returned to the clinic for my first follow-up appointment. It was a Saturday, and the otherwise busy downtown building was eerily quiet. The only people wandering through the elegant marble-clad corridors seemed to be other post-op patients like myself, silently making their way to and from the clinic. All of us wearing the exact same black shades. We were agents of the Matrix. The follow-up went well. My eyes seemed to be healing fine. Just some lingering inflammation that could last for a while. The eye drops would help with that.
I got upgraded
Over the following weeks, I kept testing my vision while walking around the city. I’d often find myself wondering whether I was still seeing as well as before, or perhaps better, or maybe somehow worse.
The mind has a funny way of adapting to new visual settings very quickly, so after a while it became surprisingly difficult to judge whether anything had actually changed without a professional test. As I read, second-guessing yourself after the procedure was apparently quite common and could persist for a long time.
Hell, even today, years later, I still occasionally catch myself wondering: Do I still see that well? Has anything changed? The best way to know, of course, is to get a proper checkup. So far, so good.
The Comfort of Independence
My LASIK experience had been overwhelmingly positive. But another thing worth noting in retrospect was the fact that I had gone through the entire process alone.
I mean, I obviously had supportive and encouraging words from my family, but physically, I was alone. I never asked anyone for help. Not even something as simple as a car ride home after the procedure, which I’m sure any of my colleagues would have gladly offered.
No. I chose to do this alone, just as I had chosen to do many things alone over the previous years. I don’t know if that was a good or a bad thing. Maybe neither. I’m not even trying to make some grand statement about it. I’m simply observing that somewhere along my journey, I had become extremely independent.
Another one of Montreal’s fantastic murals
Part of it was probably my undying pride, still clinging to the idea that I could and would do anything and everything on my own. Not to prove a point to anyone. Not even to myself anymore. Just because.
I guess it had become my comfort zone. I had learned to trust myself more than anyone else. Perhaps to the detriment of my relationships with other people.
By that point, the thought had begun floating around in my head that perhaps I had developed some serious trust issues over the past years. But who cares, I’d say. People come and go anyway. I’d always have myself to keep me company.
The Last Rotation
I was back up at Mirage for my final rotation of the year. The weather had turned grey and grim, with plenty of rain and fog. The last of the helicopters were now struggling to take off in these conditions, making field operations more difficult this late in the season. We were slowly closing up the final drill holes and finishing our work in the core shack. The hectic, high-energy environment of the summer had gradually dialed down into a much more mellow pace.
Our resident fox was back roaming around the camp
Among our team, we were discussing plans for the rest of the year. I definitely had some big ideas for late October: a well-deserved week of sun and fun somewhere far to the south, close to the ocean. We also discussed our futures with the company, since many of us were still working on temporary contracts that would be ending soon. Our field lead assured me and the others that we would be back the following year.
That was very comforting to hear. I had thoroughly enjoyed my professional journey with them so far and was very keen on staying.
Flying back to Montreal after the last rotation
Thus, my field adventures in 2022 were coming to a close on a very hopeful note. On top of that, I now had my newfound sharp eyesight. Not 100% exactly, but something like 85%, according to the last checkup. It was a good number. More importantly, I didn’t need glasses anymore. Not for driving. Not for anything. I was happy with it.
I had also experienced one of the greatest live shows on Earth during the summer.
And to think that earlier the same year I was still in frozen Chicoutimi, recovering mentally from the nuclear year that was 2021 and dealing with my best friend moving back to Europe. By this point, I had experienced so much already. 2022 truly felt like the antithesis of 2021. But it wasn’t over just yet.
Mr. squirrel had big plans
The sunny shores of South Beach, Miami, were waiting for me. There was just one small complication.
Before I could get there, I had to deal with the rather complicated matter of getting into the United States. And that meant taking a little detour back to August, when I found myself travelling to Ottawa on a rather unusual mission: obtaining a US visa.
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.
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.
Picking up right where we left off, I had just wrapped up my stay in Patras. The long-awaited day had finally arrived. My ferry was scheduled for 1 PM, so I had time for a slow breakfast before heading down to the port. Boarding the ship to Ithaca, I soon found myself sailing the final leg of my Greek Odyssey.
From Patras to the Ionian
We left Patras behind. The journey was to take around four hours. Whenever I could — and for most of the crossing — I stayed out on the open deck to catch every sight as the sea journey unfolded.
By this point, I was pretty much listening to Symphony X’s “The Odyssey” on loop — my personal anthem for this trip. The cool wind whipped across the deck as the boat sliced through the Ionian Sea. Every time I spotted land on the horizon, I tried to guess which island it belonged to — more often than not, it was Kefalonia.
At one point, as I stood near the railing with my camera in hand, a sudden strong gust tore the lens cap right from my fingers. It vanished instantly — either flung straight into the sea or thrown far back across the ship where I couldn’t go. Damn it, Poseidon, I clenched my fist in abject annoyance. But if this was the price I had to pay to finally go home, then so be it.
Leaving mainland Greece behind
A few hours into the trip, the silhouette of a second, smaller island began to take shape on the horizon. Was it truly? Could it be? Ithaca, at last. In my mind, I imagined the kind of thrill one must feel after years — no, decades — adrift and far from home, finally glimpsing familiar shores again.
First, however, the ferry made its routine stop at the port of Sami on Kefalonia — a small tease before the epic conclusion.
Landfall on Ithaca — First Glimpse of Home
Not long after departing Sami, it was finally time to raise the proverbial sails and charge toward Ithaca. The crossing was straight as an arrow, the ferry ripping across the water with the wind howling in my ears. This was the final crescendo before landfall on the long-imagined homeland.
The final stretch of my journey to Ithaca
And then, just like that, the “song” began to settle as we arrived at Ithaki — Pisaetos. A small, unassuming ferry terminal greeted us: a few low buildings, a modest parking area, quiet and understated. It didn’t matter in the slightest. After the emotional build-up I had carried all this way, I could have landed anywhere and still felt exhilarated.
Arriving at Pisaetos ferry terminal in Ithaca
My hotel in Vathy offered car pickup from Pisaetos, so all I had to do was message them and wait. Within minutes, my driver arrived — a super chill, middle-aged Greek guy with long wavy hair and aviator sunglasses just like mine. If it weren’t for his impressive Super Mario mustache, I might have thought I was looking into a mirror.
We chatted easily about life in Ithaca as he drove us up the rugged southern cliffs. Then, at the very top, came one final bend in the road — and suddenly the island revealed itself in full. A breathtaking paradise: lush valleys unfolding in a sweeping semi-circle down gentle mountain slopes toward the shimmering bay of Vathy. That moment nearly brought tears to my eyes.
Arriving in Vathy
I arrived in Vathy, the main port-town of Ithaca, and from the moment I stepped into its calm harbor light, I felt the weight of homecoming. Vathy is a compact, picturesque town — whitewashed houses with colorful shutters, narrow alleys sloping down to the water, small fishing boats bobbing gently in turquoise coves, and lush hills circling the bay.
My first glimpse of Vathy, Ithaca
I was staying at the cozy Mentor Hotel, right in the town center. My room came with a small balcony that overlooked the bay — an ideal perch to watch the soft changes of light on water, and to breathe in that salty Ionian air as I settled into this new little slice of paradise.
Once I’d dropped my bag and taken a long glance out over the water, I couldn’t wait to stretch my legs and feel the island underfoot.
Sea, Sand & Solitude — Late-Afternoon at Loutsa
After a quick refresh, I set off for Loutsa Beach, about thirty minutes’ walk from my hotel. The path wound out of Vathy, climbing gently through forested coastal hills and offering shimmering glimpses of the Ionian Sea beyond. Near the top, I found an old Venetian cannon, still perched toward the bay — a silent sentry once guarding the narrow strait that leads into Vathy’s harbor, now watching over carefree hikers and daydreamers instead of warships.
Venetian canon — forever defending the entrance to Vathy
Reaching the beach felt like arriving at another world: fine, pale sand, sun umbrellas shading small clusters of sun-seekers, and eucalyptus trees swaying gently in the breeze. The water was warm and welcoming. For the first time in weeks, I had no immediate plans. No rucksack, no ruins, no hurry. I just relaxed and enjoyed the tranquil beach.
The tranquil beach and gentle sea at Loutsa Beach
The golden-light late afternoon, the gentle sea, the slow rhythm of waves… I don’t know if it was my overloaded imagination after all the myth and history, but I truly felt like I belonged. No objectives, no ticking off historic sites — just being. For some reason, it seemed like Ithaca was meant for such moments.
Sunset Stroll & Island Memories
Later, as the sun leaned toward the horizon, I wandered back into town along the bay of Vathy. I read somewhere that the Ionian Islands — including Ithaca — were among the few parts of Greece that never fell under full Ottoman control, instead spending centuries under Venetian or British influence. Perhaps because of that, the old ways, the local customs, and a certain quiet charm feel more preserved here than in many more touristic corners of Greece.
Strolling back to Vathy through the forest path
I found myself thinking back to the conversation with my driver earlier that day. I’d been bubbling with questions about Ithaca and what it must feel like to live on a legendary island like this. He spoke of the quiet, familial rhythm of life here — how locals and visitors alike drift to the same bars at the same hours, seeing the same faces night after night. Conversations start easily, not as strangers, but almost as neighbors.
I dreamt that the next time I returned to Ithaca, it would be by boat
Even for outsiders. Ithaca has a way of folding you into its slow, familiar heartbeat, and I was already feeling it — not even a day in.
The ancient King of Ithaca
As I continued walking, I had one final mission in mind: to find the statue of the legendary hero himself. And soon enough, there it was—the statue of Odysseus, King of Ithaca. Modest in size, yet to me still larger than life.
Nearby, a small group of English-speaking tourists were loudly confessing their ignorance about who the figure was meant to represent. I couldn’t resist politely intervening, offering them a quick rundown of Odysseus—king, wanderer, cunning hero—and a few words on why this little island matters so much. It felt good. It felt right.
Odyssian and Odysseus — Two travelers, one island
As my first day on Ithaca wound down, I felt like I was floating — carried by the sea breeze, the soft unhurried rhythm of the island, and a quiet sense that, for once, I had truly arrived.
Choosing a Direction on a Small, Wild Island
Come morning, map in hand, I realized something important about Ithaca: it may look small on a screen, but it does not unfold small under your feet. The island’s strange, broken shape hides steep hills, long distances, and very little in the way of convenient public transport. The western side, pinched off by a narrow strip of land, rises sharply into rugged, serious terrain—beautiful, but no casual stroll. A full crossing there and back would have been ambitious even for me.
The winding paths up the hills of Ithaca
So I chose to stay on my side of the island—the east—and roam southward at my own pace, letting the day decide the details. Somewhere along that stretch waited one of Ithaca’s eastern beaches. Whether it was Talaros, or Kaminia beach, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Above Vathy, Between Sky and Stone
Climbing the hills behind Vathy was quite rewarding. From above, the town hugged the curve of the small gulf, spreading only sparsely inland, cradled by tall, rolling, lush hills. The calm sea stretched outward in layered blues, and in the hazy distance, Ithaca was framed by faint islands resting on the horizon. One of those “stop walking, just stand there” views.
Panoramic view of Vathy and the bay from the top of the hill
Nearly every path climbs, dips, and climbs again. Somewhere along the way—either going up through Perachori or passing back through it later—I wandered through its steep streets: quiet, sun-washed, almost suspended in time. A few locals zipped past on scooters, which felt not just practical, but essential in a place shaped like this. Another sleepy village, another reminder that life here moves without spectacle.
Some of the scattered ruins I came across
Scattered along the route were traces of older lives: fragments of stone walls in the brush, half-swallowed by earth and shrubs. One cluster was clearly the remains of a small church. No signs, no plaques, no tidy explanations. Just stone, silence, and imagination filling in the centuries. Alongside them stood several newer chapels—whitewashed, modest, still breathing with quiet purpose. Old faith and living faith sharing the same paths.
Rock, Shade, and Turquoise Silence
By noon or early afternoon, I finally reached the beach. No sand this time—just pale rocks and worn stone sloping into impossibly clear turquoise water. By the time I arrived, the sun had slipped behind the tall cliffs at my back, leaving the entire cove in cool shade. The water still glowed.
Arriving at either Talaros, or Kaminia beach—I can’t recall which one this was
I didn’t swim. It felt too rugged, too sharp for that. Instead, I stayed with the theme that Ithaca had gently imposed on me: no objectives, no milestones—just sitting, looking, breathing. Letting the scenery do the work. It was enough.
The typical rocky beaches of Greece
Later in the afternoon, I turned back toward Vathy, retracing the hills for another hour or two—time loosens its grip out there. By evening, I was back where I had started, carrying that pleasant, full-body tiredness that only long walks earn you.
My final dinner on Ithaca deserved its own quiet ceremony: swordfish, perfectly cooked, a glass of crisp white wine, and the slow burn of sunset spilling across the bay. The water caught fire in golds and soft reds, boats drifting like commas in a sentence that didn’t want to end.
Final sunset dinner in Ithaca—waiting for the swordfish to jump into my plate
I already knew—I felt it in the way I lingered over every bite—that this was goodbye. My last night on the island. And even now, writing this, I feel that same gentle ache in my chest. Not sadness exactly. More like gratitude stretched just far enough to hurt.
From Ithaca to Kefalonia
Before leaving Ithaca, I treated myself to one final stroll around Vathy. The ferry to Kefalonia wasn’t until around noon, and the hotel driver would take me to the port, so there was no rush.
I wandered through the narrow streets, pausing at small shops and cafes, imagining what it might be like to retire here one day — to simply live in rhythm with the gentle pace of the island, with the bay and hills outside your window every morning. A new dream added to the file.
A miniature trireme riding painted waves on solid ground – some boats prefer pavement to the Ionian Sea
By noon, I boarded the ferry bound for Kefalonia, likely docking at Sami. From there, I caught a KTEL bus to Spartia — a journey of over four hours, giving me plenty of time to reflect on the fragmented patchwork of memories and photos that make up this trip. Arriving late afternoon, golden hour was already painting the village in soft warm light.
Arriving in the small village of Spartia in Kefalonia
In Spartia, I checked into an Airbnb apartment, my fourth style of accommodation in Greece — after hostels, camping, and hotels, now a small, cozy flat. I half-joked to myself that I was living like a professional travel reviewer: rating, reviewing, and documenting everything with meticulous care each night.
Dinner at Cavo Liakas
That evening, I found the village’s lone open restaurant, Cavo Liakas — a small, family-run patio place. The food here was a revelation. Generous portions, expertly prepared, affordable, and utterly delicious.
I discovered two new favorite dishes: feta me meli, a phyllo-wrapped baked feta with honey, and lamb kleftiko, slow-roasted lamb with vegetables, cooked in parchment paper. These meals legitimately made me pause, fork in hand, and sigh in sheer appreciation.
A Godly meal at Cavo Liakas: feta me meli and lamb kleftico
Greece continued to surprise me, even after Ithaca.
Spartia Beach
The following morning I picked out the nearest beach with a high rating on google and went for it. Thus far, I had visited a couple of beaches here and there, like the two on Ithaca and the one in Kira, but most of these were small, rocky, and I was just passing by. This time, I decided to dedicate a full day to a proper sandy beach.
Spartia Beach — the best sandy-beach I’ve seen in Greece
Spartia Beach didn’t disappoint: fine sand stretching out for hundreds of meters below the eroding cliffs, a real contrast to the rocky stretches I had endured before. Everywhere I looked, seashells were embedded in the limestone cliffs, a tangible reminder that this entire land had once rested beneath the sea before tectonic uplift transformed it into the islands I now explored.
Shells of all shapes and sizes in the eroding rocks of the old sea bed
Even with a few families and small groups dotting the sand, Spartia Beach never felt crowded. The people there moved with the same unhurried rhythm as the island itself: some reading under umbrellas, a few wading in the shallow turquoise water, others collecting shells along the shoreline.
A Day of Sea and Sun
I found a quiet spot and settled in, letting the warm sun and gentle sound of the waves sink in. Between the limestone cliffs, the glint of seashells, and the calm Ionian waters, the beach became a perfect blend of nature, history, and human rhythm — the ideal setting to just be, to do nothing but soak in the day.
Spartia beach from on top of the cliffs
The water itself was pure delight: warm, clean, and only occasionally tangled with a stray bit of algae. I alternated between long dips in the turquoise Ionian Sea and lying on the soft sand, slowly evening out the tan lines from days of hiking under the Greek sun. In the hotter hours, I’d retreat to the shade of the cliffs, only to return to the water as soon as the sun eased. For a few hours, I felt like a child again, fully immersed in the simple joys of sun, sea, and sand.
The Greek Orthodox Church in Spartia
Late afternoon, as the sun softened over the village, I returned for another memorable dinner at Cavo Liakas. The smiling host highlighted the day’s fresh catch — today it was bass — and I indulged, accompanied by crisp roasted zucchini as an appetizer. Simple, fresh, and gloriously Mediterranean, it was the perfect ending to a day devoted entirely to enjoyment and rest.
The Castle of Kefalonia
For my final in Spartia, I decided it was time for one last proper trek. My goal was the Castle of Agios Georgios, standing roughly an hour and a half away on foot.
The route led me along quiet countryside roads, the kind traced only by the occasional car and the slow passage of locals going about their day. For a long while, the scenery unfolded as wide open farmland with distant mountains sitting low on the horizon. Pleasant, but subdued. It wasn’t until I neared the village of Peratata that the views truly began to open up.
Castle of Agios Georgios view from the village of Peratata
Perched high above the lush Livathos valley, the Castle of St. George crowns a 320-meter hill in southern Kefalonia. From below it already looked imposing, but once inside the walls, the scale of the place really set in.
This was no lonely watchtower — it had once been a full-fledged fortified town. From the ramparts, the view stretched in every direction: over rolling olive groves, toward the endless blue of the Ionian Sea, and across to the distant bays of Lourdas and Trapezaki. A clean, sweeping 360° panorama that made the climb instantly worthwhile.
Old Stones and Epic Views
The heart of the fortress still bears the elegant stamp of its Venetian rulers. Above the main entrance, the ornate Venetian pediment remains proudly intact, even if the heavy wooden doors beneath it are now held together with modern supports.
The grand (and slightly patched-up) Venetian gateway into Kefalonia’s medieval past
The site itself traces back to the 12th century under the Byzantines, but it was the Venetians who transformed it after 1500 into the island’s capital — a self-contained city with mansions, cisterns, prisons, and even legend of a secret tunnel leading down to the sea. At its height, some 15,000 people once lived within these walls.
Looking out over the castle’s weathered walls: a sea of green rolling hills and the distant peaks of Kefalonia under an endless blue sky
The castle remained the island’s administrative and political center until 1757, when the Venetians relocated the capital to Argostoli to boost trade, leading to its gradual abandonment. Wandering along the uneven cobblestone paths between crumbling bastions, I once again found those familiar silhouettes of Venetian cannons — rusted, silent, but still defiantly aimed over the valley as if guarding a long-forgotten frontier.
A lone Venetian cannon still guarding the endless Ionian views
The site suffered further damage from wars, occupations (including French), and the devastating 1953 earthquake, which destroyed much of the island.
Quiet, Untouristy, Perfect
High on the fortress walls, a tattered Greek flag snapped in the wind against the rugged outline of Mount Ainos, Kefalonia’s highest peak. Below it, the simple stone façade of the old Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos stood in quiet contrast, its weathered sundial and arched doorway catching the light.
The weathered Catholic church of Agios Nikolaos inside the castle walls – sundial, stonework and all
What struck me most, though, was how wonderfully untouristy the place felt. The entrance fee was modest — under five euros if memory serves — and for views like these, it felt almost symbolic.
A truly unforgettable journey was coming to a close
Leaning over the fortress walls, the warm wind rising from the valley below, I couldn’t help but think how fitting this moment was. Standing atop ancient stone, overlooking sea and mountains alike, it felt like a proper, epic punctuation mark at the end of a journey rooted in legends.
Echoes of the Bronze Age
As I left the castle behind, I took a small detour on my way back to Spartia to visit another historical landmark I had spotted on Google Maps: the Mycenaean Necropolis of Mazarakata, the largest and most important Mycenaean cemetery in the Ionian Islands.
Stepping back 3,400 years through the doorways of Mycenaean chamber tombs at Mazarakata
Dating to the Late Bronze Age, roughly 1400–1100 BC, this site belongs to the same dramatic era as the palaces of Mycenae and even the legendary Trojan War. This was the time of the Odyssey — my ancient times. The site was free to enter and wrapped in a deep, unbroken calm. If the castle had been untouristy, this place felt almost completely off the radar, which only made it more special.
An entire Mycenaean city of the dead
The necropolis consists of seventeen rock-cut chamber tombs carved into a gentle hillside and arranged in three separate clusters. These were family vaults, used over generations, with some tombs containing up to thirty burials. Standing there among those silent stone chambers was yet another reminder of just how densely layered Greece truly is. Even in what feels like a quiet, rural corner of Kefalonia, you can still stumble upon traces of lives lived over three thousand years ago.
The ancient dromos (passageway) into a silent Mycenaean family vault
As a small side note, my review of this site ended up becoming my most viewed one on Google — probably helped by the low number of reviews at the time, which pushed mine right to the top. Every now and then I still get an email saying how many people saw it, and it always makes me smile, knowing that this tiny, peaceful place continues to ripple quietly through other travelers’ journeys.
Argostoli — Wandering Between Departures
On my day of departure, I had a late-night flight from Kefalonia to Athens, followed by an early-morning connection out. There was no rush to the airport just yet, so I took a morning bus from Spartia to Argostoli to spend my final hours roaming the island’s capital one last time.
Walking along the promenade in Argostoli
Even though Argostoli is the beating heart of Kefalonia, it never felt overwhelming. Within minutes I had walked along the northern promenade by the shore, watching boats idle in the harbor and the town ease into its daily rhythm. As the day warmed up, I drifted toward the park and spent a few slow, quiet hours migrating from bench to bench, updating my mom on everything I had seen and felt over the past days. It was one of those soft pauses in travel where nothing spectacular happens. An epilogue to the story I guess.
Victorian-era bandstand in Napier Park, Argostoli
When hunger finally set in, I picked a small, family-run taverna near the port and ordered a spread that felt like a farewell feast to Greek home cooking. There was gemista — stuffed tomatoes heavy with rice, herbs, and a hint of sweetness — imam baildi with its glossy, olive-oil-soaked aubergines, and a generous plate of horta, simple wild greens dressed with lemon and olive oil. Nothing fancy. Just honest, comforting food. Exactly what I wanted on my last afternoon.
Walking the Long Goodbye
By mid-afternoon, I had completely run out of plans. Even though I had loved my days in Kefalonia, I’d already been saying my internal goodbyes to Greece ever since Ithaca. I still had hours to fill, but no more destinations to chase.
So I did what I had done best for two weeks straight — I walked. This time slowly. Toward the airport. Letting memory after memory drift by with every step: Athens, Delphi, Patras, Ithaca, Spartia. The excitement had softened into something heavier now — not sadness exactly, but that gentle ache that comes when an adventure is truly ending.
Makris Gialos Beach with daily flight’s overhead
At some point along the way, it hit me that if I still had time, I might as well spend it properly. The road toward the airport followed the southern coast of Kefalonia, and just like that, Makris Gialos Beach presented itself as my final refuge. Big rucksack and all, I settled into the sand and watched the waves roll in under the golden evening light, planes carving quiet arcs overhead as they came in to land. It felt like the island itself was escorting me to the end.
Full Circle
A few hours and one short flight later, I was back in Athens, spending the night once again on an airport floor — just as I had before this entire journey began. Only this time, the conditions were far kinder. Athens Airport, with its dark corners and surprising pockets of quiet, earned a quiet victory over Geneva in my internal ranking of places one can actually sleep.
A pleasant overnight snooze awaited in a dim-lit corner of the Museum Section in Athens Airport
And just like that, the circle closed.
Greece had delivered everything I had hoped for — and more. This truly was my personal Odyssey. One I know I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. Somewhere between myth and memory, sun and stone, sea and ruin, Greece had become more than a destination. It had become a distant, familiar home in my heart.
My Odyssey in the Mountains began after three full days in Athens, when my journey carried me northwest toward the ancient sanctuary of Delphi. For any traveler drawn to the spirit of classical Greece, Delphi is almost a pilgrimage. Delphi was once revered as the navel of the world, where seekers came to receive the oracle’s cryptic guidance before facing the unknown. Following the old paths through the rising slopes of Mount Parnassus and down toward the Gulf of Corinth, I set out to trace a small part of that ancient landscape myself.
The rugged mountains unfortunately did not offer any respite from the heat
It was an Odyssey in the Mountains shaped by history, mythology, and a fair bit of summer heat—an experience that unfolded slowly, step by step, as I left the city behind.
But first, I had to reach and board a bus in Athens…
From Athens to Delphi
The KTEL bus terminal was about an hour’s walk from my hostel, and with my departure set around noon, I had the entire morning to burn. So I did what I always do in these moments: I walked. No rush, no plan—just letting the city reveal itself one last time before I traded the concrete sprawl for mountains and myth. It felt good to wander through the lived-in streets of Athens once more, soaking up that final dose of frantic capital energy. Still, part of me was already leaning toward the other side of the journey, eager for the slower rhythm of the Greek countryside.
The cats are back!
At the terminal, finding the right bus turned out to be surprisingly easy thanks to the drivers—every single one of whom seemed to speak enough English to cut through any confusion. Within minutes, I’d settled into my seat, ready for the three-hour ride northwest.
The journey out of Athens slipped by with Greek-vibe music in my earphones, matching the unfolding landscape outside the window. Between glances at the passing hills, I went down a rabbit hole of ancient myths and stories on the internet—because what else does one do on the way to Delphi, the legendary source of prophecy?
Myth and Reality
Somewhere between Athens and the mountains, the sense of adventure really hit me. I started chasing increasingly bizarre theories online, trying to see what scholars, dreamers, and conspiracy-enthusiasts had cooked up about The Odyssey. And then I found it: a delightfully unhinged theory proposing that Odysseus didn’t merely wander the Mediterranean for twenty years, but had actually circled the entire world. The author had charts, maps, astronomical guesses, linguistic acrobatics—everything but a sworn affidavit from Homer himself.
Cruising through the gorgeous Greek countryside
Ridiculous? Absolutely. Entertaining? Extremely. And for anyone curious about the sort of thinking that fuels these ideas, it was likely a twist on Enrico Mattievich’s Journey to the Mythological Inferno (2010)—a book that attempts to reframe Greek myth through far-flung global explorations. Whether brilliant or bonkers depends on your tolerance for speculative archaeology.
For a good hour or two I let myself fall into the “what ifs,” imagining Odysseus navigating oceans far beyond the known world, his legend stretching continents.
My first glimpse of the Gulf of Corinth in the distance
And somewhere in that swirl of mountains, myths, music, and madness, I realized just how ready I was for Delphi.
Arriving in Delphi
The bus dropped me off in the modern town of Delphi in the afternoon, and from there I made my way toward the campground I’d booked—a bit of a walk outside of town. When I checked the map, I realized it was almost an hour on foot from the ancient ruins. Bah… who cares? Every day is leg day.
The Oracle of Delfi awaits
Apollon Camping turned out to be the perfect choice for me. It had everything a traveler could want: affordable accommodation ranging from simple cabins to shared tents, a small restaurant, showers, laundry facilities, and even a swimming pool. But what really made it special was the view. On one side, the landscape opened into an endless sea of olive orchards cascading down toward the Gulf of Corinth. On the other side, the rugged slopes of Mount Parnassus rose like a stone fortress.
A lovely little corner at Apollon Camping
I was also surprisingly lucky with my shared tent. It was technically meant for four people—two bunk beds squeezed into a canvas shelter—but I only remember having a roommate for a single night. The rest of the time, I had the entire tent to myself, which made it feel more like a private little hideaway than a shared backpacker setup.
And no place in Greece is complete without at least one cat
By the time I’d settled in, the day was slipping into evening. I didn’t have the time to explore much beyond the campsite, so I simply wandered the grounds, and soaked in my surroundings. As night fell, the stars sharpened above the valley, bright and countless, stretching across the sky like ancient lanterns guiding travelers on their Odyssey in the Mountains—mine included.
Morning in Delphi
The following morning, after a simple breakfast at the campsite, I set off toward the Delphi Archaeological Site—about an hour’s walk along the winding road. The air was still cool, and the town had not yet fully stirred awake. By the time I reached the entrance, the place was quiet; none of the big tour buses had arrived yet, giving the sanctuary that rare early-morning stillness that lets you imagine what Delphi might once have sounded like before crowds, cameras, and guidebooks.
Bronze votive animals, 8th–5th centuries BC on display at the Delphi Archeological Museum
I began at the Delphi Archaeological Museum, a compact but brilliant collection that frames the entire site with context. Inside, the first rooms were filled with delicate gold trinkets, bronze figurines, and small votive offerings—objects gifted to Apollo in hopes of favor, prophecy, or redemption. Many were shaped like animals, warriors, or abstract symbols of wealth and devotion.
Display of the surviving gold and ivory items from life-size chryselephantine statues dedicated at Delphi
There were also helmets offered by victorious generals, ornate tripods dedicated by cities, and fragments of statues whose presence must once have overwhelmed ancient visitors. It’s one thing to imagine people seeking the oracle; it’s another to stand inches from the physical gifts they left behind to secure the god’s ear.
Bronze infantry helmets dedicated as war booty or personal offerings
What struck me most was how these artifacts weren’t simply religious items—they were political messages. In antiquity, city-states sent offerings not only to honor Apollo but to signal alliances, advertise victories, and compete for prestige. Delphi wasn’t just a spiritual center; it was a Panhellenic stage where power was displayed in bronze and marble.
Into the Ancient Sanctuary
Leaving the museum, I followed the stone path upward into the archaeological site. Early on, I passed one of Delphi’s most remarkable surviving structures: the famous curved polygonal retaining wall supporting the eastern terrace of the Temple of Apollo.
Polygonal retaining wall of the Temple of Apollo terrace, Delphi
At first glance it looks almost decorative. Its stones cut into irregular multi-sided shapes, fitted together like an ancient geometric puzzle. But standing close, you realize how extraordinary the craftsmanship is. Each limestone block was carved with many precise angles and then fitted into its neighbors with no mortar at all. The joints are so tight that even after 2,500 years—and countless earthquakes—you still couldn’t slip a sheet of paper between most of them.
The Athenian Treasury that used to house dedications and votive offerings made by their city and citizens to the sanctuary of Apollo
Further up stood the remains of several Treasuries, small temple-like buildings constructed by Greek city-states to store their offerings to Apollo. The most famous among them—the Treasury of the Athenians—once held war spoils, gilded statues, and lavish gifts meant to showcase the city’s power. Many of the items in the museum’s collection were originally displayed in structures like this, framed by political rivalry as much as religious devotion.
The Temple of Apollo
Soon after, the path opened onto the grand centerpiece of the sanctuary: the Temple of Apollo. Though only foundations and a few towering columns remain, the scale of the temple is impressive. This was the heart of Delphi, where the Pythia—the oracle—delivered cryptic prophecies believed to come directly from the god. Delegations came from all corners of the Greek world to seek answers here, paying hefty fees, bringing extravagant gifts, and hoping Apollo would tip fate in their favor.
Sanctuary of Apollo with gorgeous scenic view in the background
Just beside the temple stood another remarkable survivor of the ancient sanctuary: the bronze Serpent Column, one of the most famous war memorials in Greek history. Dedicated in 479 BCE by the 31 Greek city-states who united to defeat the Persians at the Battle of Plataea, the column originally stood nearly eight meters tall. Three intertwined serpents spiraled upward, their heads supporting a golden tripod and cauldron—an offering to Apollo in gratitude for victory. Unfortunately, only the bronze spiral remains today, the golden parts and the serpent heads having been looted centuries ago.
The Serpent Column with the Temple of Apollo in the background
Near the temple, I noticed a stone covered in worn Greek inscriptions. After a bit of research, I learned it resembled the Lyttian Inscription, originally from the ancient city of Lyttos in Crete, dating to around 500–450 BCE. The idea that a Cretan inscription stood here might seem odd, but in reality it makes sense: Delphi was a diplomatic theater.
The Lyttian Inscription at Delphi, dating to around 500–450 BCE
City-states erected inscribed stones to commemorate alliances, grant asylum, or declare political stances. In the case of Lyttos, such a stele might have been placed at Delphi as a public diplomatic message, invoking Apollo’s authority and broadcasting their decisions to the wider Greek world. Delphi mediated disputes, legitimized treaties, and symbolically “blessed” political acts—far more than just a mystical shrine, it was the nervous system of ancient Greek interstate relations.
The Theatre and the Stadium
Continuing uphill, the path eventually brought me to the Ancient Theatre of Delphi, perched dramatically on the slopes of Mount Parnassus. From the upper tiers, the view was almost unreal—terraces of stone seating overlooking the valley of olive orchards and the shimmering Gulf of Corinth in the distance. Here, festivals, hymns, and performances honoring Apollo once echoed through the mountains. The theatre wasn’t entertainment in the modern sense. Instead it was part of the religious calendar, a way to celebrate the god through art.
Ancient Theatre of Delphi with increasingly epic landscape views
A little higher still, at the very top of the sanctuary, lay the Stadium of Delphi. This elongated arena hosted the athletic competitions of the Pythian Games—the second most important games in the ancient world after the Olympics. Footraces, music contests, and displays of strength and skill all unfolded here. Standing on its stone starting line, surrounded by pine trees and cliffs, one could imagine the cheers of thousands filling the space during festival years.
The Stadium of Delphi where athletic displays unfolded
Yet even after reaching the stadium—the topmost structure at the archaeological site—I knew something was missing. That iconic round building associated so strongly with Delphi, the one that appears in documentaries, photos, and every pop-culture reference to the oracle…
The Tholos of Athena Pronaia
The structure I was thinking about wasn’t actually inside the main sanctuary at all. It sat a short walk down the road, past the remains of the Ancient Gymnasium, in the sanctuary of Athena Pronaia—the “Athena Before the Temple,” meaning this was the precinct pilgrims first encountered before reaching Apollo’s oracle.
I had finally found the iconic Tholos of Athena Pronaia
And there it was: the Tholos of Athena Pronaia, a circular structure with elegant columns arranged in a perfect ring. Even in ruins, it radiates an unmistakable mystique. No one is entirely sure what ritual purpose the Tholos served—perhaps a hero shrine, perhaps a place of offerings, perhaps something more symbolic—but its presence is powerful. Standing before it, I finally felt that familiar image of Delphi snap into place.
Blessing received—my journey could continue
This was the kind of spot I imagined ancient heroes visiting before setting off on impossible quests—seeking the oracle’s blessing, hoping a single prophecy might tilt fate in their favor. And now here I was, halfway through my own Odyssey in the Mountains, smiling at the timeless architecture and imagining the oracle nodding her approval for the rest of my journey.
Heat, Hills, and a Quiet Afternoon
With my pilgrimage complete, the mid-day sun began to press down with its full force. Temperatures were now climbing past 35°C. After a brief wander through modern-day Delfi, I decided it was time to make my way back to the campsite.
It was nap time for the friendly felines
Unlike my packed, power-walk days in Athens, the Delphi leg of my journey felt more balanced—part exploration, part recovery. Something about the mountains, the quiet, the air thick with history and stories, made the days feel like a kind of mental reset. Maybe even a subtle, ancient spiritual cleansing.
Even the Greek-ets were resting in the afternoon
By the time I reached the campsite, the heat had become overwhelming, so I spent the rest of the afternoon in much calmer fashion: swimming, resting in the shade, and letting the weight of the morning settle in. Sometimes travel is about movement; Delphi reminded me that it can also be about stillness.
An Ancient Pilgrimage
My following day in Delphi was dedicated to walking a part of an ancient Greek pilgrimage road. Thousands of years ago, when people crossed the Greek world to consult the Oracle of Apollo, their journey didn’t end in Delphi itself. They would first arrive by ship at the coastal city of Kirrha, the ancient harbor of Delphi on the Gulf of Corinth. From there, the sacred path led through a vast, centuries-old olive grove and slowly climbed the slopes of Mount Parnassus until it finally reached the sanctuary.
The Gulf of Corinth seen from the road near Delphi
Most visitors stopped at Delphi — after all, they had reached the world’s spiritual center — but the pilgrimage road continued even higher into the mountains, winding through forests and ravines until it reached the Corycian Cave, a place with a long, mysterious history. In myth, it was sacred to the nymphs and to Pan; in the real world, it was deeply tied to Delphi’s ritual landscape. Pilgrims, priests, and initiates came here for ceremonies long predating the Temple of Apollo, and some ancient writers even hinted that ecstatic rites connected to the oracle took place within its depths.
On this second day, I planned to walk the road all the way down to the Gulf and back. Then, on my last full day, I hoped to follow the other half — the steep path up to the cave.
The Guardian Cerberus
My journey began with a zig-zagging road descending the mountainside. There was a small village to cross before reaching the rugged “ancient Greek wilderness.” But as I would soon discover, the path was guarded by Cerberus, the hound of Hades himself.
Church of Agios Georgios Chrisso (ancient Krissa), Phocis Region, Greece 19th–20th century
I was walking through this quiet village, music in my ears, when a dog erupted from a house whose gate stood wide open. And this was not the “tail-wagging hello stranger!” bark. No. This was the “YOU SHALL NOT PASS, O MORTAL INTRUDER” kind — full territorial mode.
I stopped. Hesitated. Whipped out my phone and checked Google Maps for an alternate route. There wasn’t one. Of course.
The beast stood its ground, delivering occasional growls to remind me that mortals have limits. There was no owner in sight; no obvious escape; no diplomatic channel. My frustration rose.
A Mortal’s Resolve Before the Gate of Hades
Finally, I told myself: No mutt is going to stop Odyssian from completing his legendary journey. So with one slow, steady breath, I walked forward — calm, confident, and acting as if the underworld’s guardian wasn’t right there barking his judgement upon me.
Cerberus did not appreciate my aura of divine-level indifference. His protests grew louder as I passed, refusing to acknowledge him. I kept my stride firm. Then, suddenly — WHUMP. The hound head-butted my butt.
Not a bite. Not even a nip. Just a firm, exasperated shove from the snout, the canine equivalent of: Yeah, that’s right, keep moving, monkey. This is MY realm. I burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, tense, and utterly mythological all at once.
Descending the ancient path after my close encounter with Cerberus
We had both achieved our victories: I left his sacred territory, and he successfully defended it. And with that peace treaty sealed, the ancient path toward Kirrha lay open.
The Modern Lifeline of the Pleistos Valley
A little further down the mountain, just as the last houses of the village faded behind me, the trail crossed a curious sight: a narrow concrete water channel cutting across the hillside. It felt oddly out of place in the dry, rugged terrain — a quiet reminder that even in landscapes steeped in ancient history, modern Greece still threads its necessities through the mountains.
Coming across the Mornos Aqueduct on my journey
This was an exposed section of the Mornos Aqueduct, part of the vast Evinos–Mornos system that carries drinking water all the way to Athens. Most of the aqueduct runs hidden through tunnels and underground conduits, but here in the upper valley it surfaces briefly before disappearing back into the slopes. The terrain around it was still harsh and sun-baked, all rock, scrub, and brittle grass — no shade, no olive trees yet, and the day was already beginning to heat up as noon approached.
Scuba diving trip all the way to Athens?
For a moment a moment I contemplated having a sip. It looked clean, cool, and almost inviting. But then I remembered the long lasting downstairs consequences of drinking tainted water once. I later learned, this channel carries treated drinking water bound for Athens, part of a tightly monitored system that supplies a huge portion of the capital. Locals sometimes splash their hands in it to cool off, but it’s not meant to drink from directly.
A Chapel in the Highlands
Leaving the aqueduct behind, I continued toward the edge of the highlands and soon came upon the small Byzantine church of Agios Georgios. A 10th–12th century chapel perched quietly on the slope, it watches over the pilgrims’ trail much like it has for a millennium. From here the view spilled wide into the Pleistos Valley and out toward the Corinthian Gulf — a perfect spot for a short break in the rare patch of shade.
The Byzantine church of Agios Georgios on the ancient path
About a kilometer downhill lay Chrisso, gateway to the vast Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa — also known as the Krisaean Plain or Amfissa Olive Grove. A UNESCO-protected landscape of 5,500 hectares and more than 1.2 million olive trees, it is the largest continuous olive grove in Greece. Some of its trees date back centuries, even a thousand years, and the grove itself has roots reaching over 3,000 years into the past. This is the “Sea of Olives” the ancient pilgrims crossed on their way from the coast at Kirra to the Oracle of Delphi.
The Sacred Olive Grove of Krissa stretching out in every direction
By this point, however, I had made a rookie mistake: I’d run out of water. I was still operating on “Transylvanian / Norwegian mountains” where clean springs and streams appear regularly. Greek wilderness, as I quickly learned, is not that. Arid, sunbaked, and largely waterless — the kind of terrain that reminds you, unmistakably, that hydration isn’t optional.
Crossing the Sea of Olives
Luckily, Kirra was not far. With the steep hills behind me and the terrain flattening out into the endless olive grove, I pushed onward. The trees offered bursts of shade here and there, enough to keep me going even as thirst clawed its way up my throat.
Walking — or would it be swimming? — in the Sea of olives
One quick stop at a small store later — blessed cold water! — I had officially reached Kirra, the ancient port of Delphi. After nearly a week in Greece, I finally touched the Mediterranean Sea. The water was astonishingly warm, and the whole town felt quiet and unhurried, maybe because it was midweek, or maybe because Kirra simply is that kind of sleepy coastal place.
The rocky beaches of Kirra
After a refreshing dip, I found a nearby restaurant for lunch. I ordered chicken, which was excellent… but I immediately regretted it when the local at the next table began bragging — between blissful mouthfuls of crab — that this was the best seafood restaurant in the region. My heart (and stomach) sank. Next time, I suppose!
The Sun Strikes Back
By now, daily temperatures were climbing toward their brutal peak. My plan had been to hike all the way back up to Delphi, completing the full pilgrimage loop… but reality was setting in fast. Water would be an issue again, shade would be almost nonexistent, and the afternoon heat felt like stepping into an oven.
The Harbour of Kirra where ancient pilgrims would start their 12-14 km Sacred Walk up to the Oracle of Delphi
Eventually, I decided it was wiser — and safer — to find the bus station and catch a ride back. This also gave me the chance to buy my onward ticket to Patras and see where the Delphi bus stop was located. A practical detour in my otherwise mythical journey.
The Kiss sculpture by Kostas Varotsos on the Kirra seaside promenade
As I waited, hiding in whatever sliver of shade I could find, I checked the forecast: extreme heat warning, likely close to 40°C. No water sources, no shelter, and a steep mountain hike? More and more it looked like my plan to hike up the mountains the next day was not a great idea. After my unexpected brush with Cerberus earlier that morning, I wasn’t exactly eager to challenge Hephaestus’ furnace as well.
Pool lounging time with some serious tan lines
Back at camp, I mulled it over, but the conclusion didn’t change. And indeed — the next day was ferocious. So instead of the planned hike to the Corycian Cave, I spent most of it by the pool, dipping in and out to survive the scorching air. A little disappointing, sure, but pushing into hazardous conditions for the sake of stubbornness would’ve been foolish.
The rising moon at dusk over the Pleistos Valley
With my last day in Delphi drawing to a close, the soundtrack of my journey began rising again — that familiar hum of anticipation — as I boarded the bus toward the port city of Patras. My Odyssey in the Mountains was officially behind me.
Across the Bridge to Patras
Following a two-hour bus ride along the coast, we eventually crossed the impressive Rio–Antirrio Bridge (Charilaos Trikoupis) — a modern engineering marvel stretching almost 3 km across the Gulf of Corinth. It links mainland Greece with the Peloponnese, not far from where the ancient lands of Achaea, Elis, and the wider sphere of classical Sparta once lay. The city of Patras, Greece’s third largest, came shortly after. Not a classic tourist hotspot, but that only made me more curious about what this coastal metropolis really had to offer.
Coming up on the Rio–Antirrio Bridge
I had booked a cheap two-star hotel somewhere in the center. Out of all my accommodations during the trip, this was the most run-down looking, for sure — cracked tiles, peeling paint, a fridge that hummed like an angry bee. But it served its purpose. And the city itself, from first glance, felt rougher around the edges: lived-in, gritty, but unmistakably authentic. A glimpse of everyday modern Greece rather than a curated postcard.
After settling in, I picked out the first major attraction highlighted on Google Maps — the Church of Saint Andrew — and headed straight there.
The Church of Saint Andrew
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras is one of the largest churches in Greece and one of the most significant pilgrimage sites in the Orthodox world. The current basilica was completed in 1974, built to complement an older 19th-century church standing beside it. Its enormous central dome, crowned with a shimmering cross, is visible from a distance — a beacon rising over the western edge of the Peloponnese.
The Church of Saint Andrew of Patras
Saint Andrew himself holds a special place in both Christian tradition and local Patras identity. According to early accounts, Andrew was the first of the Apostles called by Christ, earning him the title “Protoklētos” — the First-Called. His missionary journeys eventually led him to Greece, where he preached across the Peloponnese. It was in Patras, tradition says, that he met his martyrdom: crucified on an X-shaped cross at the order of the Roman proconsul Aegeates. This distinctive form — now known globally as “St. Andrew’s Cross” — became one of the Apostle’s enduring symbols.
Preserved fragments of Saint Andrew’s cross
Because Patras is believed to be the site of Andrew’s final days, the church holds several relics directly connected to him. Inside the basilica — richly decorated with icons, mosaics, chandeliers, and sweeping arches — you’ll find some of its most treasured objects: portions of the Apostle’s skull, returned to Patras from the Vatican in 1964 in a historic gesture of goodwill; fragments of the cross on which he was martyred, preserved in ornate reliquaries; and even a section of the rope believed to have bound him during the crucifixion.
The main reliquary of Saint Andrew’s head
These relics draw thousands of pilgrims each year, especially on November 30, the Feast of Saint Andrew. Even for someone simply passing through the city, the atmosphere inside feels heavy with history — layered centuries of faith, devotion, and legend.
Among Ruins and Relics at Sunset
After leaving the grand basilica behind, I wandered through the surrounding streets as the evening light turned warm and golden. The area around Saint Andrew’s Church is dotted with layers of history, and as I meandered downhill I kept stumbling across ruins almost casually embedded in the modern city — a random Roman-era retaining wall here, the excavated foundations of an early Christian basilica there.
Roman-era retaining wall near the Cathedral in Patras
These remains belong to the ancient martyrium complex built directly over the spot where Saint Andrew is believed to have been crucified around 60 AD. Just beside the archaeological site stands the Old Church of Saint Andrew, a much smaller 19th-century structure that predates the modern basilica. Once it housed relics of the Apostle himself, but since the consecration of the new cathedral in 1974, those relics have been relocated to a special shrine in the larger church.
Excavated remains of the ancient basilica and martyrium
Patras basically built its entire religious identity around this exact patch of ground where the apostle was killed. Pretty powerful place to stumble across while just wandering the city!
With the sun now sinking behind the Gulf of Patras and the light softening into twilight, I finally turned back toward my hotel, ready to continue exploring the city with fresh energy the next day.
Walking Through the Roman Heart of Achaea
My day in Patras started with a long city walk up toward one of its most distinctive landmarks: the Roman Odeon. Patras may not have the same immediate name recognition as Athens or Corinth, but what it does have is a remarkably intact Roman layer — and the Odeon is the crown of that stratum.
The restored Roman Odeon of Patras
Dating from the 1st or early 2nd century A.D., the Odeon once served as a venue for musical events, small theatrical performances, and public ceremonies. Its size may feel modest compared to the great imperial theatres of the east, but that’s exactly what makes it so interesting: it’s a Roman building scaled to the needs of a thriving port city on the edge of Greece.
The stage building of the Roman Odeon
The Odeon was buried under earth for centuries and only rediscovered in 1889 when a landslide revealed part of the seating. Since then the structure has been impressively restored — the cavea, the stage buildings, and even the backstage complex have been reconstructed enough to give a genuine sense of how it functioned. Its red brickwork, marble seating edges, and compact proportions make it feel almost intimate.
View towards the ancient agora from near the Odeon
As far as I recall, entry here was free, and that aligns with older guides, though fees may change. Either way, it was a great first stop and set the tone for the rest of the day: Patras unfolds its history piece by piece, and most of it sits right out in the open.
The Castle of Patras
High above the modern city, on the pine-covered hill that once guarded the ancient acropolis of Patrai, stands the Castle of Patras (Kastro Patras). Built by the Byzantine emperor Justinian I in the 6th century AD on the ruins of a Roman-era temple of Artemis, it was later strengthened by Franks, Venetians, and Ottomans – every conqueror leaving their own layer of stone and story. The triangular inner keep, the deep moat (now a green garden), and the six bastions still feel like a living timeline.
The park-like alleyways within Patras Castle
The castle inner part provides pleasant walkways among its ruins with a the park-like feel to it. From the ramparts you get sweeping views of the old town and the Gulf of Patras. The mix of stonework styles makes it a good example of how cities like this evolved in cultural layers.
The sea through the castle gate
Walking around the battlements, though, was undeniably refreshing after the city streets. If Patras’ Roman side shows you its internal world, the castle gives you its vantage point. I also vaguely remember this site being free as well, but I might be mistaken.
The Archaeological Museum of Patras
After exploring the old town and castle heights, I walked about three kilometers across the city to the Archaeological Museum of Patras. Built relatively recently, with the modern building inaugurated in 2009, the museum showcases artifacts from the region spanning from the Neolithic era (4th millennium BC) up to late antiquity.
Mycenaean zoomorphic vessels (askoi), 12th century BCE. These duck-shaped ritual containers were likely used for oils or libations.
Inside, the permanent exhibition is organized into three major halls: Private Life, Public Life, and Cemeteries. The collection includes Mycenaean-era pottery, Roman-era mosaics from wealthy villas, daily-use tools, sculptures, tomb artifacts, and remnants from various aspects of private and public life. These items together offer a vivid glimpse into how people lived, worked, and celebrated life in Patras across millennia.
A young girl’s skull crowned with delicate terracotta blossoms, 300–200 BC
Among the museum’s most striking pieces were several Hellenistic-period skulls adorned with delicate terracotta or gilded myrtle wreaths, dating to roughly 300–275 BC. These decorated crania, originally part of funerary rituals, convey a deeply personal and almost haunting glimpse into ancient beliefs surrounding death and remembrance.
The Beauty of Patras mosaic (2nd century AD) — She’s still putting on her makeup.
In the Public Life and Private Life halls, mosaics from Roman-era villas depict scenes of daily activities, mythological motifs, and geometric patterns, while other objects — lamps, jewelry, household tools — make the past feel surprisingly immediate and tangible.
Mycenaean Octopus Bathtub (ca. 1300 BC) — I wouldn’t mind one of these
Compared with the National Archaeological Museum in Athens, which overwhelms with scale and monumental treasures, the Patras museum feels more personal and eclectic. Its mix of unusual and intimate pieces — from the skulls with wreaths to the Mycenaean octopus bathtub — offers a glimpse into everyday life and local practices that you won’t get in the capital. Visiting both museums gives a richer perspective on Greece’s layered history, making Patras well worth the stop.
Lunch, Late-Afternoon Wander
After the museum, I treated myself to a late lunch — paidakia (lamb chops), a hearty and well-earned meal after all the walking and sightseeing. The late afternoon sun was slowly leaning west, casting the city in warm, golden light.
Paidakia with garlic mashed potatoes
I continued my stroll through Patras through the scattered Roman ruins, including what remains of an ancient Roman stadium. The ruins lie amid the city’s winding streets; while they’re not as well preserved or grand as some major ancient stadia, they provide another layer of Roman presence beneath the modern city fabric.
The End of This Leg of My Journey
As I walked among the stones, mosaics, and fragmented walls, I felt the weight of a very different kind of history than the one I’d absorbed back in Athens. The capital overwhelms you with its grand Hellenic past — the kind of iconic, marble-crowned scenery that needs no introduction. Patras, by contrast, doesn’t deliver that same postcard-perfect Greek antiquity. Instead, it reveals its past in quieter, rougher layers: Roman arches half-swallowed by modern streets, broken mosaics exposed under patches of wild grass, and scattered ruins almost casually embedded in the city’s everyday life.
Remains of the Roman Stadium in Patras
Yet that contrast made it all the more compelling. Here, I wasn’t walking through curated monuments but through a city that had been built and rebuilt over centuries, each era leaving traces without fully erasing the last. Patras may not have Athens’ classical grandeur, but it offered a vivid sense of the Roman world lingering beneath the surface.
Patras and the Ionian Sea viewed from Patras Castle
Having now explored the legendary Athenian capital, traversed the foothills of Parnassus and the sacred olive groves, paid my tribute to the Oracle of Delphi, and delved into the rich Roman and Christian heritage of Patras, I felt the full weight and wonder of this leg of my Odyssey in the Mountains. With each step, I had moved through layers of history, myth, and modern life, and now I was ready to embark on the final stretch of my journey — a voyage across the sparkling waters of the Ionian Sea toward the storied isles of the west, to Ithaca, the homeland of Odysseus himself.
From the moment my future PhD position in Canada was confirmed in early May 2019, I knew I was going to spend that summer on a long-awaited holiday in Greece. After the surprising personal discoveries and new friendships I’d written about in earlier posts, the idea of exploring my distant ancestral roots had grown too powerful to ignore. And with my long-standing, tongue-in-cheek claim of being a modern reincarnation of Odysseus, King of Ithaca, I felt a genuine urge to embark on my own quest across the country. Thus, the planning for my 2019 Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca began.
Eternal sunshine and hot days await!
Even though I had already travelled to quite a few countries and lived abroad for several years, this was going to be my first true solo adventure — the prototype for how I’d plan all my future travels: set my key destinations, book the essentials, and then wing everything else along the way.
Planning and Logistical Challenges
My approach to this solo trip was simple. I had a starting point, Athens, and a final destination, Ithaca. Athens was the obvious place to begin: the capital, the largest airport hub, and the gateway to any Greek adventure. When searching for flights, I found a direct option from Geneva, conveniently close to Lausanne, where my friend Eddy had recently moved for his PhD. Perfect — I could spend a few days in Switzerland visiting him before heading down to Greece.
The only downside was that the flight was at 6:00 a.m. Brutal. Even worse, I wasn’t coming from Lausanne itself, but from a small village outside the city — meaning I had to get to Geneva Airport for one of the earliest departures of the day. My only option was to take a late-night train and spend the entire night at the airport.
A miserable long night in the Geneva airport…
Unfortunately, the terminals were closed overnight, so all early-morning passengers had to wait in the public area, where there wasn’t a single comfortable seat. Every bench had metal armrests to prevent people from lying down, so those hoping to rest were forced onto the cold, hard floor. I joined them. It was not a comfortable night… not at all. My overnight experience rating of Geneva Airport: 1 out of 5 stars. Terrible.
Time Allocation
Next I had to figure out how much time I would allocate to Athens, Ithaca, and any places in between. Athens is huge and overflowing with things to experience — but also expensive. I decided on around four days, staying in a shared hostel dorm to keep costs low while staying right in the center of the city.
Oh man, I’m becoming quite the map artist over here…
Looking at the map, I realized that the legendary sanctuary of Delphi was almost exactly on my route. Having been fascinated by Greek mythology through books, documentaries, and visually immersive games like Titan Quest, I felt compelled to stop there and finally see those landscapes in person. Modern Delphi is quite pricey, though… but for the adventurous budget traveler, I discovered a campsite within walking distance of town that offered shared tent accommodation for a tiny fraction of the price. Three to four days there sounded just right.
Down the stairs, straight to the sea – Patras
Further west lay the larger city of Patras, at the mouth of the Corinthian Gulf — and the port from which I’d have to catch a ferry to Ithaca. I managed to find a really cheap hotel option, so I figured I’d take two nights and give myself some time to explore the city. As for Ithaca itself, accommodation options were limited, so I splurged on a proper hotel room for a couple of nights. By far the most expensive stay of the trip — but since I was “going home”, it felt like the right move.
The Plan Takes Shape
After some digging, I found bus and ferry connections for each leg of the journey. Some routes, like Athens–Delphi or the Patras–Ithaca ferry, I could book in advance. Others, like Delphi to Patras, were impossible to reserve online, meaning I simply had to trust that tickets would be available when I arrived. So be it — improvisation was part of the charm of this adventure.
As I’d soon discover, Greece has one of the largest populations of surprisingly happy stray cats… so expect plenty more random cat cameos.
The last challenge was finding a quicker route back to Athens without retracing the entire journey. The only realistic option was a domestic flight from the nearby island of Kefalonia. Not wanting to skip the chance to explore somewhere new, I booked two nights in an Airbnb in the small village of Spartia on Kefalonia as well.
Mount Ainos doing its dramatic thing, Kefalonia summer vibes
With every accommodation sorted — hostels, tents, hotels, and rural Airbnbs — and an itinerary that wove together ancient ruins, museums, mountain hikes, beaches, islands, and quiet village life, the plan was complete. I was finally ready for the adventure of a lifetime: my Odyssey on the Fly—from Athens to Ithaca.
Arrival
Memory of the flight and the journey from Athens Airport to my hostel is a bit fuzzy—mostly because of how exhausted I was. I remember flashes of being impressed by the well-decorated Athenian airport and a surprisingly smooth bus ride into the city. The moment I reached the hostel, I crashed straight into bed and slept for four hours.
A nightly walk around the neighborhood
I finally woke up sometime in the afternoon. After a desperately needed shower, I headed out for my first Greek meal: moussaka. The restaurant was right next to the hostel—kind of attached to it, but also its own thing. That meal was on a completely different level, better than anything I’d tasted before. I was instantly convinced of the superiority of Greek cuisine and ended up returning to that same spot every day. That’s also where I befriended Nikos, a cool, friendly, constantly-smiling waiter who turned out to be a fellow metalhead and music connoisseur.
Starting off strong, with a staple Greek dish: Moussaka
Once I finished that heavenly dish, I took a quick walk around the neighborhood to get my bearings. The rest of the evening I just chilled—attending the newcomers’ event, having a drink with other travelers, and enjoying the incredible view of the Acropolis from City Circus Hostel’s rooftop terrace.
Day One Detour
After a long, glorious night of sleep, I woke up fully charged and ready to walk the hell out of Athens. But before I could start exploring, I had a pretty important side quest to complete. Actually, it was more of a main quest.
At the time, I was in the middle of applying for a Canadian student visa, and for that I needed to get my biometrics done at a Canadian embassy. Luckily, it didn’t have to be done in my country of residence or citizenship. So while planning this Greek adventure, I made sure to book an appointment at the Canadian Embassy in Athens for the first day after arrival.
Panagia Kapnikarea: 1000 years old Byzantine gem casually sitting in the middle of Athens’ busiest street since forever
This meant my first morning in Greece started with a taxi ride to the northeastern part of the city, to a quiet residential neighborhood where the embassy was located. The whole process was smooth and quick, and soon enough I was free—with the entire day ahead of me. So I thought: Well… might as well start exploring from here and walk my way back downtown. Just about 10 km. On foot.
This is where one of my staple solo-travel habits was born: walk until my back breaks and my feet fall off.
Modern day Athens
So I started walking—down quiet residential streets, taking in the hot-climate architecture I’d never seen before. White and light-colored buildings everywhere, decorated with intricate grill-style window and balcony designs. Pointy rocky cliffs in the distance. Lush parks scattered along the way. Orange-tree-lined streets glowing in the sun.
Walking along Athenian busy boulevards
Orange trees. In the middle of the city. This was completely new to me. Naturally, I had to try one. Instant regret. I later learned they’re decorative, not edible.
The forbidden Athenian street oranges
But the surprises didn’t stop with the oranges. Soon I began spotting Greece’s famous olive trees. Then I passed a particularly ancient one—girthy, fenced off, standing proudly in the center of a busy boulevard. The plaque said fifteen centuries old. Fifteen centuries. Holy-oldy.
This 500-year-old olive’s seen more drama than a Greek tragedy
Nearby towered a massive modern sculpture rising above the traffic like some kind of metallic-glass titan.
Dromeas (The Runner) sculpture by Costas Varotsos, central Athens
By then, I was really feeling the midday heat. My water bottle was empty, and after hours of walking I desperately needed a boost. I ducked into a gas station and spotted a Gatorade-style drink. I normally never buy those, but if there was ever a time for electrolytes, this was it. And oh boy, did it work. Ten minutes later, I was fully recharged and marching ahead at full speed.
Athenian War Museum
Even with my energy restored, the midday sun was getting a bit too enthusiastic, so I started searching for a place where I could cool down before melting into the pavement. Since I was already close to central Athens, I had plenty of museums within reach, but it was the Athenian War Museum that caught my attention. Something about the combination of ancient Greek lore and modern warfare just clicked with my overheated, curiosity-fueled brain.
Greece’s first warplane (1912), the Daedalus, flying high in the War Museum
The museum itself was founded in the 1970s to showcase Greece’s long, turbulent military history—from classical hoplite warfare all the way to the 20th century. Walking in, it felt like stepping into a compressed timeline of the country’s battles, heroes, and strategic obsessions. Greece has basically spent several millennia fighting off everyone from Persians to Ottomans to Nazis, and the museum doesn’t shy away from any of it. If anything, it seems proud to lay out its entire warrior résumé in chronological order.
The Execution of Patriarch Gregory V on Easter Sunday (1821) by Nikiforos Lytras
Inside, the first thing that hit me—apart from the heavenly, life-saving burst of cold air—was a wall of iconic medieval shields. Round ones, kite-shaped ones, Maltese-style crosses, all neatly arranged like some kind of “Choose Your Fighter” selection screen from a medieval RPG. Nearby were tables and displays full of swords, halberds, axes, and all kinds of pointy objects that would make even a fantasy dwarf proud. I probably spent way too long just staring at steel.
Replica medieval weapons and shields (Byzantines, Franks, Hospitallers, and Teutonics)
From Ancient to Modern
Further in the exhibits jumped forward in time. Suddenly I was surrounded by WWI and WWII-era weaponry—machine guns, flamethrowers, uniforms, radios, and other gear from Greece’s involvement in the wars. There’s something surreal about seeing the evolution from bronze shields and hoplite helmets to gas masks and belt-fed machine guns under the same roof.
From Medieval times to German WWII weaponry
Somewhere between these halls of steel and gunpowder, one quieter but far more emotional piece caught my eye: The Execution of Patriarch Gregory V on Easter Sunday (1821) by Nikiforos Lytras. The painting portrays the moment the Patriarch was executed by the Ottomans at the start of the Greek War of Independence — despite the fact that he had publicly denounced the uprising. Lytras captured the tragedy with stark intensity: the tension of the ropes, the muted horror in the surrounding faces, the clash between spiritual authority and authoritarian power.
German naval guns from 1940s cruisers
Back outside, the museum courtyard delivered an entirely different vibe: a lineup of full-size military hardware from the modern era. Helicopters, artillery pieces, and sleek fighter jets stood silently under the blazing sun — an open-air gallery of 20th-century firepower contrasting sharply with the many ancient and medieval artifacts inside.
A Stroll Through the National Garden
Once I left the cool comfort of the war museum behind, I instantly felt oppressed once more by the scorching afternoon sun. Luckily, a nearby grand park offered just the right shaded environment for a gradual reacclimatisation to the high temperatures — the Athens National Garden.
Chilling with the Kri-Kri goats in the shade at the Athens National Garden
Originally commissioned in the 19th century by Queen Amalia, the first queen of modern Greece, the garden still carries her imprint everywhere. As I wandered in, exhausted but determined, the shift from blazing concrete to deep, lush shade felt almost magical. Tall palm trees, winding gravel paths, and dense greenery wrapped around me like a cool oasis in the middle of the capital. It was the perfect place to slow down, rehydrate, and give my legs a fighting chance after hours of constant walking.
The National Garden’s deep green shade felt heavenly in the blazing afternoon heat
At one point I reached Queen Amalia’s Pergola, one of the garden’s most iconic structures — a long walkway lined with tall Corinthian pillars, once covered in vines and still carrying that mix of royal elegance and Mediterranean charm.
Queen Amalia’s Pergola in the Athens National Garden
Between the shade, the occasional breeze, and the pockets of history tucked into the greenery, the National Garden became the perfect intermission in my long Athenian march. After exploring a more modern setting of Athens, it was now time to slip much back in time again — all the way to the birthplace of the first modern Olympic Games. With renewed energy and curiosity, I set off toward the legendary Panathenaic Stadium.
The Marble Furnace of Athens
From the shady park back out into the blazing sun, the Panathenaic Stadium ended up being only a brief stop. I’m pretty sure the closed metal gate didn’t allow casual visitors to waltz right in, but honestly, it could just as well have been the desolating sun blasting the entire stadium without a single ounce of shade. As impressive as that horseshoe-shaped arena looked from outside, the idea of stepping onto a giant marble heat magnet in 30-plus degrees was a level of suffering I was not keen on enduring.
The marble summer heat magnet that was the Panathenaic Stadium in Athens
The Panathenaic Stadium, though, is undeniably iconic. Originally built in the 4th century BC for the Panathenaic Games, it was refurbished entirely in white marble by Herodes Atticus in Roman times — a unique feature it still boasts today. Centuries later, in 1896, it became the venue of the first modern Olympic Games, symbolically linking ancient athletic tradition with the rebirth of the global sporting event. Even from the outside, its gleaming tiers of marble radiate a kind of timeless grandeur… and also, on that day, enough heat to cook a gyros.
Aristotle’s Lyceum
Moving on, I finally headed to my first major archaeological site in Athens: the Ancient Gymnasium — Aristotle’s Lyceum. It was here that I bought the unifying 7-site Athens pass for the incredibly reasonable price of 30 euros, granting access to the major archaeological sites across the city. A true bargain… and sadly one that was discontinued in 2025.
Statue of Aristotle in the National Garden
The Lyceum itself isn’t a grand towering ruin but rather a quiet, open archaeological space — the foundations of ancient training grounds, lecture areas, and courtyards that once buzzed with brilliant minds. This was the very place where Aristotle taught his students while strolling through the peripatos, shaping ideas that would echo through millennia. Walking through it, with the dusty outlines of old walls, one could imagine the philosophers debating under the same Athenian sky thousands of years ago.
Ruins of the Ancient Gymnasium: Aristotle’s Lyceum (Lykeion)
Despite its modest size, the site has a uniquely contemplative atmosphere. The shaded patches of trees and the soft hum of cicadas gave it a peaceful, almost academic calm — fitting, considering this was one of the birthplaces of Western philosophy. I lingered for a while, soaking in the blend of ancient intellect and having another shady bench-rest, before heading out toward my next stop.
Temple of Zeus
With the worst of the afternoon heat finally easing, I continued onward to the Temple of Olympian Zeus — a site that, despite being mostly open to the sky, felt surprisingly manageable in the mellowing light. The approach led me first through the ornate Hadrian’s Arch, which still stands like a proud ceremonial gateway separating old Athens from the new. Passing beneath its marble frame felt like stepping through a threshold in time.
Passing under Hadrian’s Arch, straight into the shadow of the colossal Temple of Olympian Zeus
Beyond it stretched the vast archaeological grounds of the temple itself. Even in ruin, the sheer scale of Olympian Zeus’s sanctuary is staggering. Only a handful of its towering Corinthian columns remain standing, but those that do rise with such improbable height and elegance that it’s easy to imagine the full colonnade dominating ancient Athens.
Only 15 columns left of what was once the largest temple in Greece – yet they still dwarf everything, with the Parthenon watching from the hill
The fallen drums lying around them add to the dramatic sense of age, as if the gods themselves had toppled the temple in slow motion over the centuries. Apart from these striking remnants, the archaeological grounds were a relatively brief walk — a final open-air stretch before I moved on to the last target on my day’s ambitious hit list.
National Archaeological Museum
After hours of wandering through the layered story of Athens—its streets, its gardens, its memories—I made my final stop for the day: the National Archaeological Museum. The building exudes the gravitas of a place that guards not simply artifacts, but identity—centuries of artistic vision, religious devotion, war, myth, and memory distilled into stone, bronze, and clay.
Odyssian approves of these vases
Inside, the first items that spring right up are the pots. Those ancient Greek vases—depicting hoplites, centaurs, scenes of war, and countless other figures and activities—crafted in such precise, elegant forms that they immediately drew me in. I simply adore the effortless balance of the silhouettes, the way the clean black lines capture motion, tension, and personality with such economy. I could really see myself owning a few of those one day, decorating a fancy kitchen in a hypothetical future home of mine—One day…
Beyond the Artefacts
As I moved deeper into the galleries, the sculptures took center stage. The serene faces of the korai, with their almond eyes and faint, enigmatic smiles, radiated a stillness that felt almost alive—like they were quietly observing each visitor, deciding whether to reveal their secrets.
Archaic korai (550–480 BC) from the Acropolis standing guard in the museum
A remarkable piece that stood out to me was the relief of a centaur in violent combat with a Lapith man. A relief sculpture that used to adorn the Acropolis depicting a powerful mythological scene. The scene likely belongs to the mythological cycle of the Centauromachy, symbolizing the conflict between order and chaos, civilization and barbarism.
Relief sculpture of a centaur in violent combat with a Lapith man
Finally, there were the pigments — a vivid wake-up reminder that these statues and reliefs were once drenched in color. As modern-day visitors wandering among bleached-white archaeological sites, temples, and sculptures, it’s easy to forget that in their own time these places were alive with striking, saturated hues. The fragments and ruins we see today are really just the outlines of an empty coloring book, their details long washed away and eroded by the passing millennia.
Ancient pigments: raw minerals and powdered dyes used by the Greeks to create paints for pottery, sculpture, frescoes, and decorative objects
After walking nearly 20 kilometers on my first day in Athens, I was more than ready to return to the hostel for a hearty meal and a well-earned rest. As the sun began to set, I paused by one of the museum’s high windows and gazed out at the Acropolis glowing on its rocky throne above the city. With a tired grin — and a spark of anticipation — I looked forward to finally standing up there the following day.
Another day, another 20 km walk
Fast forward to the next day, my lower back was slightly sore from the long march of the day before, but I wasn’t going to let something like that slow me down. In fact, if memory serves, the second day I ended up somehow walking even more than on my first. And it all starts with the hike up to the Acropolis.
The final steps up to the Propylaea of the Acropolis
The ascent begins with a steep climb of roughly 157 stone steps, each one worn smooth by thousands of years of footsteps. At the summit, you’re greeted by the Propylaea, the monumental entrance gate of the Acropolis, with its grand Doric columns and majestic symmetry. Walking through this ancient portal feels like stepping directly into the past, each stone a silent witness to the rise and fall of civilizations.
Temples, ruins and swarms of tourists—welcome to the Acropolis
Once inside, the Acropolis reveals itself as a sprawling complex of temples, monuments, and sacred spaces. Originally built in the 5th century BCE, this citadel has been a center of religion, politics, and art for over two millennia. Today it’s the center of the daily swarms of tens of thousands of tourists.
The flag of Greece flying proudly atop the Acropolis hill
The Acropolis survived Persian invasions, Roman occupation, and centuries of decay, yet its elegance still commands awe. The view of Athens sprawling below is breathtaking, a mosaic of terracotta rooftops and bustling streets framed by the distant mountains, with the Greek flag flying proudly above as a reminder of resilience and heritage.
Temples and Monuments of the Acropolis
From the summit of the Acropolis, the ancient city unfolds in every direction, dotted with temples, monuments, and reminders of the religious life that once thrived here. One of the most striking is the Temple of Athena Nike, a small yet exquisitely preserved temple that sits gracefully on a bastion overlooking the city.
Temple of Athena Nike with its kore sculptures frozen in time
Dedicated to Athena as the goddess of victory, it’s renowned for its elegant Ionic columns and the kore figures adorning its friezes. These finely carved maidens, which I also encountered the previous day in the National Archeological Museum, depict both ceremonial processions and mythological scenes, giving a vivid sense of the devotion and artistry that characterized ancient Greek worship.
No amount of scaffolding or 20,000 daily visitors can steal the Parthenon’s thunder. Timeless, crowded, perfect
At the heart of the Acropolis stands the Parthenon, the temple dedicated to Athena, goddess of wisdom and war. Constructed between 447 and 432 BCE, this masterpiece of Doric architecture is famed for its perfect proportions and intricate sculptures, particularly the friezes that once depicted the Panathenaic Festival in vivid detail.
One of the most beautiful ancient structures on Earth still standing today
Walking around it, you notice the subtle curvature of the columns and the optical illusions built into the design, a testament to the genius of ancient Greek architects. During my visit in 2019, the a large portion of the structure was blanketed by a web of scaffolding as it underwent reconstruction. I’m not sure of the state of it today.
The Acropolis skyline
From atop the Acropolis hill, Athens becomes a treasure map of ancient ruins among the modern day labyrinth. For example the massive ruins of the Temple of Olympian Zeus stand clearly in the distance. After my visit there the previous day, seeing the entire site from above was quite rewarding.
Temple of Olympian Zeus viewed from the Acropolis hill
Nearby, the Philopappos Monument crowns its own hill, visible from many points on the Acropolis. This grand funerary monument, built in the early 2nd century CE, commemorates Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos, a prominent Roman consul and benefactor of Athens. Its commanding position makes it an integral part of the Acropolis skyline, a reminder that even outside the citadel proper, ancient Athenians celebrated civic pride and personal legacy with impressive architectural statements.
Philopappos Monument for Gaius Julius Antiochus on Philopappos Hill
Another striking temple, the Hephaisteion, or Temple of Hephaestus, rises atop the ancient Agora. This Doric temple is one of the best-preserved classical Greek structures in existence, its sturdy columns and well-defined proportions hinting at the craftsmanship and reverence for symmetry that defined the period.
Temple of Hephaestus (449–415 BC)—the best preserved ancient Greek temple in the world
Though I would visit it later, even from afar its presence reinforces the richness of Athens’ sacred landscape, a testament to centuries of religious devotion woven into the very fabric of the city.
The amphitheaters
After spending a good chunk of time soaking in the sights atop the Acropolis, I slowly made my way down on winding paths descending the slopes opposite of the many stairs and grand entrance. Smaller temples and sanctuaries decorate the path on the way down. Below, two grand amphitheaters are carved into the side of the hill.
Hidden beneath the Parthenon: a tiny Mycenaean shrine from 1300 BC, quietly carved into the cliff
The Odeon of Herodes Atticus, a stone theater built in 161 CE, still hosts concerts today, its acoustics as perfect now as they were nearly two thousand years ago. Likewise, the Theater of Dionysus, the birthplace of Greek tragedy, is occasionally used for performances, connecting the modern city with its dramatic past.
Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the 1,900 years old open-air concert venue
Walking these paths, it’s impossible not to feel the hum of history beneath your feet, as if the whispers of philosophers, playwrights, and citizens long gone linger in the air
From the Acropolis to the Agora
After leaving the Acropolis behind, I made my way to the next big target on my checklist: the Agora. Basically the big public gathering space for ancient Greek city-states, the Agora was where everything happened. It was the beating heart of civic life—athletic competitions, artistic performances, political debates, philosophical arguments, business transactions, religious processions… if the Acropolis was the sacred realm of the gods, the Agora was the everyday realm of the people.
Ancient meets Modern—Stoa of Attalos with train tracks and graffiti walls
One of the first structures to command attention is the Stoa of Attalos, a long, brilliantly reconstructed 2nd-century BCE colonnaded building that now runs along the eastern edge of the site. A stoa was essentially an ancient Greek shopping arcade and public meeting hall—a covered, open-sided walkway designed for merchants, philosophers, and everyday Athenians seeking shade or shelter.
Walking beneath the roof of the Stoa of Attalos
The Stoa of Attalos is one of the most striking reconstructions in Greece. Restored in the 1950s by the American School of Classical Studies, it gives a rare and vivid glimpse of what ancient Greek architecture actually looked and felt like when it was new. The polished marble columns, smooth wooden ceilings, and symmetrical two-story layout make it easy to imagine bustling stalls, citizens debating the latest decrees, and students gathered around their teachers. It’s one of the few places in Athens where the ancient world feels almost tangible again.
Exploring the Agora and its Museum
Inside the Stoa lies the Agora Museum, home to an array of artifacts unearthed from the site. The collection is filled with more of my favorite painted vases, some depicting mythological battles and others adorned with simple everyday scenes—athletes training, women preparing for festivals, men at symposia.
Theatrical masks and small votive figurines inside the Museum of the Ancient Agora
There are also terracotta figurines and theater masks, tokens of the city’s artistic spirit, alongside jewelry, tools, coins, and personal items that once belonged to the Athenians who walked these very streets. Each display case offers small windows into daily life 2,500 years ago—objects touched, worn, and used by people whose names history has long forgotten, yet whose lives helped shape Western civilization.
Walking among the residential ruins of the Agora, with the Acropolis in the background
Stepping out of the museum into the large Agora, I walked along the maze of scattered low ruins of Classical and Hellenistic period houses, their red-brick courses still clearly visible. These foundational remains outline courtyards, workshops, kitchens, and living spaces, giving a sense of how densely packed and vibrant the neighborhood once was.
Humble foundations of an ancient Athenian home in the foreground with the flawless Temple of Hephaestus in the back
The walls are low now, barely knee-high, but they trace the footprint of an entire community that thrived here centuries before modern Athens rose around it. In the distance, rising above the tangle of ancient streets, the Temple of Hephaestus stands like a sentinel—unyielding, unmoved, and utterly intact. Two and a half millennia have slipped by, yet the god of fire and metal still watches over the Agora from his marble fortress.
The Temple of Hephaestus
And then, of course, there is the Temple of Hephaestus—the jewel of the Agora. Dedicated to Hephaestus, the god of metalworking and craftsmanship, this temple is one of the best-preserved ancient Greek temples in the world. Built around 449 BCE, its sturdy Doric columns and marble entablature have survived millennia of earthquakes, wars, invasions, and weather.
Inside the Temple of Hephaestus
What makes it especially magical is that it remains almost entirely intact: the friezes, the cella walls, even the original roof structure are still in place. It’s one of the only places in Greece where you can stand inside a 2,500-year-old temple and look up to see the same beams, the same interlocking marble slabs, that ancient Athenians walked beneath.
Panoramic view from the northwest corner of the Agora
Just a short walk downhill from the Temple of Hephaestus stands another remarkable structure—much younger, yet still centuries old—the Church of the Holy Apostles of Solakis. Built around the 10th century CE, it’s one of the earliest surviving Byzantine churches in Athens, marking the transition from the classical world to the Christian era.
Church of the Holy Apostles (11th-century Byzantine gem)
Its compact, cross-in-square design, graceful arches, and weathered stone walls give it a quiet charm, as if it has been tucked into the Agora to watch over the ruins with gentle patience. The church’s interior is small and intimate, but the frescoes and icons echo the devotional life of medieval Athens, reminding visitors that the Agora didn’t simply vanish after antiquity.
Agora hopping
Having finished exploring the ancient Greek Agora of Athens, I made my way toward another agora close by—the Roman Agora, along with a neighboring archaeological site: Hadrian’s Library.
As if it were indignantly saying: What are you looking at, monky?
On the way, I encountered more of the happy stray cats that Athens has in abundance. Completely unfazed by the endless traffic of people and vehicles, they lounged in the sun, stretched on marble blocks, or dozed in the shade of ancient stones. These are their lands, and we are mere servants passing through their kingdom.
Gate of Athena Archegetis—entrance to the Roman Agora
The Roman Agora is smaller and more compact than its grand Greek predecessor. Built in the late 1st century BCE and early 1st century CE—after Athens became part of the Roman Empire—it served as a new commercial hub for the city. Unlike the sprawling, multifunctional Greek Agora, the Roman one was more purpose-built: a tidy marketplace framed by colonnades, shops, and administrative buildings.
Today’s surviving ruins of the Roman Agora
One of the highlights here is the Gate of Athena Archegetis, an elegant marble entrance supported by towering Doric columns. It feels like the gateway to a miniature city within the city. A few scattered ruins stand beyond it—broken columns, fragments of workshops, and paved walkways that hint at the bustle of Roman-era trade.
The Tower of the Winds
Another interesting structures within the Roman Agora is the Tower of the Winds, an octagonal marble clocktower built in the 1st century BCE by the Macedonian astronomer Andronikos of Kyrrhos. Part scientific instrument, part architectural curiosity, it’s essentially the world’s first multifunctional weather station.
Horologion of Andronikos Kyrrhestes—the Tower of the Winds
Each of its eight sides is carved with a relief of a different wind deity, representing the cardinal and intercardinal directions—Boreas, Notos, Zephyros, and the others—each depicted with their own personality and symbolism. Inside, the tower once housed a complex water clock powered by a system of aqueducts, while the exterior featured sundials to mark the hours throughout the day.
Interior of the Tower of the Winds. The circular floor shows the line where the bronze water tank stood
Despite its age, the structure is impressively intact, and its sharp geometric form stands out beautifully against the surrounding ruins. It’s one of those buildings that feels ahead of its time—a reminder that ancient Athens wasn’t just about temples and philosophy, but also about engineering, science, and ingenuity.
Hadrian’s Library
Just next door lies Hadrian’s Library, commissioned in 132 CE by the Roman Emperor Hadrian—a famous Hellenophile who adored Greek culture and tried to revive Athens as an intellectual capital of the empire.
The library wasn’t just a place for scrolls; it was a grand cultural complex. It once held lecture halls, reading rooms, gardens, and a central courtyard lined with 100 columns. Today, only portions of the massive outer walls and a line of restored columns remain, but they give enough shape to imagine its former scale.
Stepping through the grand Propylon of Hadrian’s Library
Nearby are the remains of the Tetraconch Church, a Byzantine addition built much later. Its four-apsed design is still visible in the foundations, marking yet another layer of history stacked onto this compact patch of Athens.
Despite their modest size, both the Roman Agora and Hadrian’s Library feel like a small microcosm of the city’s long story—Roman ambition, Greek legacy, Byzantine faith—all coexisting within a few hundred meters.
Six down, one to go
With these two last sites being much smaller, I had now managed to tick off six of the seven major archaeological ruins of Athens on my pass. And with one and a half days left, I had plenty of time. So, to avoid the deadly noon heat, I retreated to the hostel for lunch and a bit of rest.
The only drawback of Greece in the summer were those deadly hot hours of noon and early afternoon
The cool interior was a welcome relief from the sun-baked streets, and I refueled with a hearty lunch: a chickpea stew to start, followed by osso buco with orzo and parmesan. Absolutely delicious, the rich, tender flavors of the osso buco paired with the creamy, cheesy orzo made it an instant favorite—so much so that it ended up becoming one of my staple “learned” Greek recipes together with the traditional moussaka.
Top: chickpea stew. Bottom: osso buco with orzo grated with parmesan
After the meal, I rested for a couple of hours, letting the midday heat fade and enjoying a bit of downtime. During that quiet period, I reviewed the photos I had taken so far, reliving the incredible sites I had explored that morning. With the seven major archaeological sites of Athens almost behind me—save for the final stop—I also began planning targets for the next day, which I envisioned as a more relaxed city exploration walk, capped with a hike up another of Athens’ iconic hills.
Once rested and recharged, I was ready to head out to Kerameikos Archaeological Site, the last of the seven, to complete my archaeological journey through the city.
Kerameikos Archaeological Site
The rest helped for sure, but the moment I got up to walk, my back and legs felt sore as hell again. Luckily, the Kerameikos Archaeological Site was just 10 minutes away from the hostel. By the time I arrived, it was golden hour. The slowly setting sun cast a warm, honeyed light across the ruins, illuminating the city and creating the perfect conditions for photography. This was, without a doubt, my favorite time to explore and capture Athens.
Kerameikos ancient cemetery in the early evening
I still had about an hour to wander before closing, and after the bustling crowds at the Agora and Acropolis earlier in the day, Kerameikos in the early evening felt like a quiet, almost meditative oasis.
Kerameikos was ancient Athens’ main cemetery, active from as early as the 12th century BCE and continuing through classical times. It also encompassed part of the city walls, including the impressive Dipylon Gate, where funerary processions would begin. Walking through the site today, low stone walls and fragments of tombs create a park-like landscape, blending solemnity and serenity in equal measure.
Tombstones of different sizes with ornate sculptures
The remnants of funerary steles, altars, and columns rise here and there, whispering stories of Athenians long gone. Some are elaborately carved, others simple markers for everyday citizens, yet each carries the weight of centuries of memory.
Olive Trees and the Kerameikos Museum
Interspersed among the ruins, I spotted olive trees heavy with green fruit—a first for me! After the whole bitter orange experience earlier, I wisely didn’t try these either, but it was fascinating to see them thriving among the tombs.
Ancient pots and gold bracelet at the Kerameikos Museum
Nearby, the Kerameikos Museum offered one last dose of artistry for the day. Inside, beautifully preserved vases, figurines, and sculptures illustrated the funerary practices and everyday life of classical Athens, a perfect complement to the outdoor experience of the site.
Nearing closing time, I left Kerameikos and decided to explore some more of the neighborhood in the twilight.
Reflections on the Troubles of Modern Athens
On my way out, I remained a little wary—Athens in the evening had its charms, but also its hazards. Earlier in the afternoon, back at the hostel, I had a brief adventure that reminded me of this. A Japanese girl staying at the hostel was on the verge of tears: her wallet, containing money and ID, had been stolen somewhere near the Acropolis.
I offered to walk her to the nearest police station to file a declaration. At the station, the officers were all very serious, tough-acting types, and I had to clarify that I was just a friend helping her out. Eventually, one of the more approachable officers softened, and we had a short conversation about petty crime in the city—a reality of Athens in 2019, with immigration waves and economic pressures often creating friction.
Funky street art on the Athens Retro festival building
Another encounter earlier in the day had been equally vivid: a group of street vendors approached me, aggressively offering bracelets for charity, insisting I pay for them, and creating a tense-but-absurd moment. After a mix of small change and a 5-euro note, the situation resolved itself, but it reminded me to stay vigilant while exploring.
An Evening in Athens
With these experiences in mind, I walked carefully through the streets of Athens, passing residential areas, parks, and canals, heading toward a local metal bar recommended by a girl at the hostel after noticing my rocker bracelets and long hair. By this point, I wasn’t much of a night owl anymore, so my goal wasn’t to drink heavily or mingle late; I just wanted a glimpse of the city at night and maybe discover some new music.
Small outdoor concert in preparation?
The bar was quiet—9 PM still early by local standards—but perfect for a relaxed beer. I chatted with the bartender at Intrepid Fox about Greek metal bands, and this is where I first learned about the deviously delightful Septic Flesh, a symphonic death metal band that would become one of my favorites. After finishing my beer and soaking in the early evening ambiance, I headed back to the hostel, letting the city settle into its nocturnal rhythm.
Intrepid Fox Rock/Metal bar and club in Athens
Day two had been long, packed with history, exploration, and a few minor adventures. According to my pedometer, it also held the record for my longest daily walk thus far—around 22 km—a title it would keep for a long time. As I climbed into bed, I felt both exhausted and exhilarated—ready for whatever the next day in Athens would bring.
Day Three – A Different Kind of Exploration
The next day was my last full day in Athens. Since I had already visited the seven major archaeological sites—along with a couple of major museums—I felt like taking things a bit easier. No more racing between ruins with my pedometer having a nervous breakdown. Instead, Day Three would be a leisurely city walk, rounded out by one final hike up one of Athens’ great hills.
Athens from the Acropolis hill
Athens, after all, is a city built on hills as much as around them. The most famous, of course, is the Acropolis—but two others rise prominently from the urban landscape as well. To the southwest sits Philopappos Hill, topped by the impressive Philopappos Monument, while further northeast stands Lycabettus Hill, the tallest of the three, crowned by a small whitewashed chapel visible from nearly anywhere in the city. For today’s adventure, I decided to set my sights on Philopappos.
But before heading toward its green slopes and winding footpaths, I wanted to explore some of Athens’ more modern landmarks—its neoclassical heart.
A Leisurely Morning in Modern Athens
I began my morning stroll toward the Hellenic Parliament, one of Athens’ most recognizable and symbolically important buildings. Though it’s relatively modern by local standards—completed in 1843 as the royal palace of King Otto—it still carries itself with an understated authority. Its long, symmetrical façade and the colonnaded front entrance feel like a respectful nod to the city’s ancient DNA.
The Hellenic Parliament (former Old Royal Palace) on Syntagma Square
In front of the parliament building I came across one of the Evzones—the elite Presidential Guard—standing at his post in the iconic blue-and-white guard shelter (known as a “phroura” or sentry box). Their traditional uniform is striking with a red feathered cap, a white fustanella kilt with 400 pleats symbolizing the 400 years of Ottoman rule, embroidered vest, white leggings (perahan), and tsarouchia (pom-pommed shoes).
An Evzone of the Presidential Guard stands in solemn vigil before the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Syntagma Square, Athens.
Witnessing such a meticulously preserved tradition right in the heart of the city made me notice something else too: Athens doesn’t just hold on to its past in ceremonies and uniforms—it does so in stone. As I continued walking, I realized that even its “modern” architecture is threaded with echoes of antiquity. Columns, pediments, and careful symmetry aren’t merely stylistic flourishes here; they feel like a natural continuation of the city’s identity.
The Academy of Athens designed by Theophil Hansen in the 1870s–1880s
A short walk away, the neoclassical style becomes even more striking. Buildings like the National Archaeological Museum and the Academy of Athens show just how willingly the city embraced its ancestral aesthetic.
Where Modern Stones Wear Ancient Shapes
The Academy, especially, looks like a temple that simply decided to time-travel into the 19th century—complete with Ionic columns, a sculpted pediment, and statues of Athena and Apollo standing guard from atop tall, elegant pillars. It feels deliberate, almost defiant: a country reclaiming its heritage after centuries of Ottoman rule, rebuilding its identity not with glass and steel but with marble, myth, and memory.
The polychrome frieze and sculpted figures embodying the Academy’s dedication to science, arts, and the enduring legacy of Hellenic culture
Yet the closer you look, the more the building reveals itself as something more than a neoclassical homage. The pediment above the entrance depicts the birth of Athena, rendered in a beautifully balanced composition that echoes ancient temple sculpture without ever pretending to be ancient itself. The figures—gods, goddesses, and divine attendants—are frozen in that solemn, harmonious moment when the goddess of wisdom emerges fully formed, the centerpiece of the scene. Along the façade, traces of soft polychromy survive, giving hints of how vibrantly such sculptures once looked in antiquity.
Athena Promachos, guardian of wisdom and war, stands eternal atop the left column of the Academy of Athens, her spear and shield raised against the sky
Flanking the staircase, the tall columns carrying Athena and Apollo add a sense of ceremonial grandeur. Athena stands poised with spear and shield, the eternal protector of the city, while Apollo holds his lyre, patron of the arts—together embodying exactly what the Academy aspired to cultivate: knowledge, creativity, and the spirit of Hellenic culture. With the Greek flag waving above it all, the building becomes almost symbolic, a physical assertion that modern Greece chose to root its future in the language of its past.
The Quiet Hill Overlooking Athens
I then left behind the neoclassical district and marched across towards one of Athens’ hills again. I wanted to end my Athenian journey somewhere a little quieter—somewhere above the noise, away from the crowds, with a final wide-angle look at the city I had just spent days exploring from the inside out. So I turned southwest, toward the green rise of Philopappos Hill.
Passing by the Acropolis crowds on my way to Philopappos
Philopappos Hill—one of the trio that shapes Athens’ skyline—sits right across from the Acropolis, close enough to share its breeze but far enough to escape its chaos. Unlike the marble crown across the way, this hill is free to climb, covered in wandering footpaths, shade trees, and pockets of silence. The ancient Athenians knew it well too: scattered across the slopes are remnants of old roads, meeting spots, sanctuaries, and caves woven into philosophical lore.
Caves and tranquil trails
My first stop was Socrates’ Prison, a small stone-cut chamber carved directly into the bedrock. Historically, unconfirmed whether Socrates was ever held here, but tradition is stubborn and the place has become a symbolic site connected to his final days. One could imagine the philosopher’s calm acceptance of his fate—the cup of hemlock, the arguments about the immortality of the soul, the devotion of his students gathering around him as he turned his own death into one last lesson. Whether or not this was truly his cell, the atmosphere carried the weight of his story: a reminder that Athens wasn’t only a city of temples, but a city of ideas, lived and died for.
Socrates’ Prison on Philopappos Hill
Further up the slope I came upon the Fountain of the Pnyx—or at least, what remains of it. Today it’s sealed behind a metal door, but historically it was part of a larger waterworks system connected to the ancient political gathering place of the Pnyx, where Athenian democracy was literally spoken into existence. The fountain once supplied water to the area, serving the citizens who met here to debate, vote, and argue their way into political history.
The entrance to the Fountain of the Pnyx was unfortunately closed
Past the cave, the path softened into a leafy park-like trail—palm fronds, pines, shrubs, and that bright Mediterranean glow reflecting off everything. After two days of battling crowds at the Acropolis, Agora, and every other major site, this felt like discovering Athens’ hidden breathing room. I walked slowly, enjoying the shade and the breeze, letting the soreness in my legs spread out and settle.
A Final Gaze Over a Legendary City
The final ascent brought me to the summit, crowned by the Philopappos Monument, the grand Hellenistic mausoleum dedicated to Gaius Julius Antiochus Epiphanes Philopappos. The same monument I had seen the previous day from the Acropolis hill.
Enjoying the tranquility up to the summit
Today however, the tables were turned and I beheld the perfect, unobstructed view of the Acropolis. From this angle the entire complex stands proudly: the Parthenon blazing in the sun, the Erechtheion’s caryatids in silhouette, and the long procession of tourists crawling up the marble steps. I finally got my perfect view and shots of the legendary ancient ruins completing my checklist of Athens. I lingered for a while, taking in the panorama. It felt like a fitting farewell.
The crown jewel photo—The Acropolis in it’s full splendor, with Lycabettus Hill behind
After descending the hill, fatigue finally hit me. Rather than push myself further, I returned to the hostel and spent the rest of the evening resting, sorting through all the photos and planning the next leg of my journey. This was my final night in Athens, and although I didn’t do anything noteworthy after the hike, I didn’t need to. The city had given me more than enough.
The following morning, I would board a bus to Delphi—leaving the sprawling metropolis behind in exchange for mountains, myths, and the whispers of the ancient oracle. My odyssey was far from over.
After the memorable spring of 2019, with a new future awaiting me in Canada that fall, I was determined to make the most of my summer holiday cravings. Following a short stop in Romania, my first destination was once again Switzerland. But not Zurich this time. Instead, I was heading to the western French-speaking part of the country — Lausanne. And as I would soon discover, it felt like stepping into unexpected tropics in the heart of Switzerland.
I went there to visit Eddy, my close friend from university back in Denmark. He had recently moved to Lausanne to begin a PhD at the local university.
Tropical Switzerland
The weather was blisteringly hot. Not just hot, but humid-hot. Tropical hot. This was June 25th, and summer was already in full swing. I had just landed in Geneva, and the heat hit me like I’d stepped into a steam room. I’m guessing the 30 degrees and the massive lake had something to do with that. Still… it was Switzerland. I hadn’t expected such heat in Switzerland of all places. Back in the summer of 2008, when I went camping in the mountains, I didn’t recall it being anywhere near this intense.
Arriving in Lausanne on a hot summer day
In any case, I arrived in Lausanne and quickly met up with Eddy at the university. He gave me a tour of the campus and introduced me to some of his new friends before wrapping up his work for the day. Soon after, we made our way to the Lausanne Aquarium.
Diving Into AQUATIS: A Freshwater Odyssey
After our walk and settling in, Eddy suggested we visit AQUATIS Aquarium-Vivarium in Lausanne, where I hoped we’d get to cool off a bit. The aquarium was split into different sections reflecting different biomes, and we started out in the tropical one which felt just wonderful: more heat, more humidity, waves of warmth and mist pressing in…
Eddy was in his element and I looked like the crazed uncle—the humid heat was getting to me.
Just what I dreamed of after escaping the scorching sun outside. Stepping through that door was like entering a steam room of nature. On the bright side, when we emerged from it, the Swiss heat suddenly felt much more tolerable.
Free me, human, and I will grant you your heart’s desire!
AQUATIS is Switzerland’s large freshwater aquarium-vivarium, a place that doesn’t just show fish, but builds entire environments. The building spans some 3,500 square meters over two levels, with dozens of aquariums, terrariums, and vivariums.
A prehistoric grin under the waves
The biomes take you from the Rhône’s glacial sources, through Alpine rivers, along Lake Geneva, and all the way to tropical wetlands, mangroves, Asian rivers, African Great Lakes, Amazonian rainforest—and even Oceania’s ecosystems.
Mongoose/Meerkat pups
Among the many species on display they even had one of my personal favorite reptiles. The King of all living lizards today—Big daddy Godzilla himself… or herself… I guess she might have been a female. Regardless, none other then the famous Komodo Dragon!
Look at that cute little dino-face giving me the sass!
It had been forever since I’d gone to any aquarium, and seeing all those colorful aquatic species—fish flashing, tropical plants dripping moisture, amphibians perched or creeping, reptiles sliding through their tanks—was a real treat to behold.
A colorful display of shallow sea life
After sweating through the tropical greenhouse, the cooler Alpine and freshwater biomes felt wonderfully refreshing. The shift in temperature and atmosphere was immediate—soft blue lighting, rippling reflections, a calmer rhythm in the air. It was a relief after spending so much time in the heat outside, and it made the experience even more immersive.
A shy axolotl peaking from around the corner
We lingered over the axolotl display for a while trying to find the critter. After a while the fella peaked around the rocks with a goofy grin and frilly gills sticking out like antennas. It looked part dragon, part cartoon character. Just another Pokémon.
Preparing for the Next Day
After the aquarium, we headed to the train station to catch a ride to where Eddy was living — a quiet spot just outside Lausanne in the countryside. I also had to figure out what to do the following day since Eddy would be working. There was no shortage of things to see in the area, but to get around I’d need a travel pass.
Walking through Lausanne
Like everything else in Switzerland, the cost of the pass was steep. Still, it offered unlimited access to all sorts of transportation: trains, buses, and even ferries. As stingy as I could be, my trip there was a once in a lifetime experience, so I could convince myself to forget about the cost that time.
Beautiful old castle remnants all over the city
With the pass in hand, I pulled up Google Maps to get a sense of the landscape and attractions nearby. And there were plenty! The railway line along the shores of Lake Geneva promised a scenic ride through several picturesque towns, stretching from Lausanne all the way to Veytaux. Castles, museums, famous casinos and more awaited.
Sunshine & Exploration: Arriving in Montreux
The next day was just as hot. On the flip side, you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful, sunny day to spend wandering the Swiss coast of Lake Geneva. Early morning, I hopped on the train in Lausanne, heading to Montreux.
Lake Geneva with the Alps in the background—what a sight!
I had no real idea what the place was all about. On the map it just looked like a resort-y town you get off the train in, soak up sun, maybe eat ice cream. As it turned out, Montreux had a seriously rich history. It’s made up of three formerly separate communities (Le Châtelard, Les Planches, and Veytaux) that merged in 1962, and lies along several kilometres of lake shore, protected by mountains that shelter it from strong winds. Because of its setting, natural beauty, and mild climate, Montreux long ago became one of Switzerland’s most fashionable health resorts.
Montreux—must be an amazing place to live in
To top it off, Montreux is famous in my book because it was a favourite haunt of (among others) Freddie Mercury. Yes, that Freddie. He frequented Montreux and was deeply connected to the Casino Barrière and the old recording studio there.
Casino Barrière Montreux & The Queen Studio Experience
Naturally, I felt compelled to visit the casino—to walk in Freddie’s footsteps. The Casino Barrière Montreux isn’t just a pretty building by the lake; it played a part in rock history. I wasn’t there to gamble, simply to soak in the vibe. Fun fact: this was the first casino I’d ever stepped foot into… and of course it had to be a place that’s been graced by rock royalty.
Statue of Freddy Mercury in Montreux
Inside the Casino is Queen: The Studio Experience, which used to be Mountain Studios, the real deal where Queen recorded many of their albums from around 1978 through the 1990s. The studio was theirs between 1979 and 1993.
‘A Kind of Magic’ vinyl and iconic stage costumes
The museum is a gem. Memorabilia everywhere—handwritten lyrics, costumes worn on stage, instruments, promos, photos, tape boxes (some marked with early, even abandoned titles). The control room is preserved more or less as it was (there’s even a reproduced Neve mixing desk so visitors can try remixes of Queen classics).
‘Made in Heaven’ memorabilia at the Queen Studio Experience
One cool highlight: in the “Made in Heaven” room, you stand in the very spot where Freddie laid down his final songs. It’s emotional but in a grounded way—less shrine, more quietly powerful.
Freddie Mercury’s handwritten lyrics and heartfelt reflections on Montreux
One surprise after another, Montreux was impressing me more and more by the minute. My next stop would be a lakeside castle on the far-eastern end of town, Château de Chillon.—but more on that in a bit.
A Medieval Break: Château de Chillon
One thing I absolutely love about travel passes is that you can constantly hop on and off rides. This definitely made my day a lot easier rather than having to walk long distances in that merciless sun. Still, by the time I reached Veytaux at the far eastern tip of Montreux, I was sweating buckets. What better way to cool off and escape the glare, than by stepping inside a medieval lakeside castle?
The bridge entrance to Château de Chillon, Montreux
Château de Chillon sits on a rocky islet just off the shore of Lake Geneva, connected to the mainland by a wooden bridge that creaks slightly underfoot — charming, a little rustic, and perfect photo material. The castle has been there for a very long time: the first written records go back to around 1150, though archaeological digs show that its rocky base was used even in the Bronze Age.
The little moat-like part of the lake surrounding the castle
Walking over the wooden bridge you pass by the surrounding moat-like defenses (though it’s more of a lake boundary than a full moat in the stereotypical sense). You enter into the inner courtyard — stone walls, towers rising overhead, a hushed kind of grandeur. Inside, there are underground rooms with Gothic vaults built into the rock itself; these were used as armories, stores, and then later dungeons.
A historic cannon stands guard in the ancient stone halls of Chillon Castle
Beneath the elegant towers and stone courtyards lies a dungeon where countless prisoners once languished in the damp shadows. The walls are etched with names, prayers, and perhaps curses—ghostly echoes of people who never made it out. Iron grates, thick chains, and a single wooden pillar with a shackle still stand as chilling reminders of what went on below.
The Castle of the Counts of Savoy
One room that stuck with me was the prison of François Bonivard, a Genevan monk and political prisoner who was chained to a pillar for years by the Duke of Savoy. The pillar is still there—simple wood, scarred and old—with a single iron chain dangling from it.
Wooden pillar in the castle dungeon that shackled François Bonivard
Lord Byron later immortalized Bonivard’s story in his poem The Prisoner of Chillon, even carving his name into the wall himself when he visited in 1816. Standing there, I couldn’t help but picture the flicker of torchlight, the echo of chains, and a poet scribbling notes in the dark.
The view from the uppermost tower was quite something
Chillon wasn’t always a prison, though. For centuries, it served as a luxurious lakeside residence and strategic fortress for the powerful Counts of Savoy. Its position—guarding the narrow road between Lake Geneva and the Alps—made it a key checkpoint for trade and defense.
Centuries old wall murals highlighting the French heritage of the castle
These days you’ll find a surprising blend of military architecture and aristocratic elegance in the castle museum—inner courtyards lined with Gothic arches, murals still faintly visible on faded walls, and massive oak barrels once filled with Savoy wine.
I assume these barrels were decorative, but they sure looked yummy!
Somewhere in a corner room, I stumbled upon a guestbook and couldn’t resist signing it—adding my name to the long list of travelers, dreamers, and history nerds who’d been captivated by the same walls.
I wonder if they still have this old guestbook laying around there
Before leaving, I caught a view through the barred prison window: the lake shimmering outside, and a little French ferry sailing past. For a moment, the castle’s past and present felt intertwined—centuries apart, yet somehow connected by that same stretch of water.
French ferry of freedom seen trough the oppressive grate of the dungeon
With half the day behind me, I had learned so much about Montreux and its history, both old and more recent. However, my tummy was rumbling, and I had to find a place to eat soon. Not an easy task when you’re on a budget in one of the most expensive places in the world! Those exact thoughts running through my head, with travel pass in hand, I suddenly had a crazy idea: since ferries were included, why not hop across the lake to France and eat cheaper? The ship was right there, showing me the way from between the dungeon grates!
Bonjour France!
As soon as I made my way back to Lausanne, I headed straight for the port to catch a ferry. Ferries across Lake Geneva between Switzerland and France ran quite frequently, so I didn’t have to wait long at all. The crazy twist came when I realized where in France I’d end up—it wasn’t just any border town, but one of the most famously pricey spa resorts in the country: Évian-les-Bains.
Even the ferries there had this retro-luxurious look to them. What a place…
Yes, that Évian—the birthplace of the world’s most overachieving bottled water. Nestled at the foot of the French Alps, Évian is a charming lakeside town known for its Belle Époque architecture, therapeutic springs, and air of old-world elegance. A place where people once came “to take the waters,” and where today, the waters come to you—in a plastic bottle with a designer price tag.
I did not see this coming when I started planning my summer travels
Still, no matter how expensive, France was cheaper than Switzerland! And here I was—a soon-to-be humble PhD student, still unemployed at the time, somewhat thriving on savings from my old student cleaner job and Danish unemployment benefits (thank you again, Denmark)—casually ferrying across Lake Geneva to have lunch and explore Évian. I couldn’t believe it. It all felt so surreal!
Another ornate casino on the opposite side of Montreux, across the lake
Yet there I was, strolling along the sunlit resort streets, then sitting down at a lovely patio on a cobblestone lane, ordering my meal. Man… life was good. Such a powerful feel-good memory—one that still makes me smile from ear to ear as I write this years later.
My cheap late lunch in France after a day of exploring Switzerland
After a leisurely late lunch, I started feeling thirsty. And being in Évian, what else could I do but find the public spring of the famous water itself and fill up my bottle straight from the source? The taste was incredible—fresh, crisp, and delightfully pure. Hydration never felt so poetic.
The holy fountain of fresh liquid wealth. Even the statue can’t handle it
Now that I knew what liquid luxury tastes like. I was ready to become a millionaire!
Late in the Day
I spent a bit more time exploring Évian before heading back to Lausanne. Soon enough, I met up with Eddy to relay my wild adventures of the day. He absolutely loved it—especially the part about taking a boat all the way to France just to find a slightly cheaper meal. The stingy student spirit never dies.
Walking back to the ferry dock on the French side, Alps in the background
We spent the rest of the evening hanging out at his place. If I’m not mistaken, I had a plane to catch super early the next morning from Geneva—and since trains didn’t run all night, my options were limited. I’d have to catch the last train around midnight and spend the night at the airport.
One last look across Lake Geneva—wondering if I’ll ever go back there again
That night marked the beginning of many airport sleepovers to come. I even started ranking airports by “overnight comfort level” later on. Midnight came sooner than I expected, and by the skin of my teeth I managed to catch the last train. Would’ve been pretty stupid to miss that one!
Although my time in French-speaking Switzerland was short, it was wonderfully sweet. If it weren’t so bloody expensive, I’d go back in a heartbeat.
