Juhtmejutud

Making it official

2011-10-19T16:20:00.003+03:00

Let's state the obvious: I'm on a long holiday from blogging. I have no excuses other than "life is happening". See ya!

(Photo: Ardèche, France; kayaking with John in September)

Iceland-Sliceland

2011-10-04T10:43:00.008+03:00

I kissed the pastry chef goodbye and quickly escaped his room in the restaurant where, according to the rules, I was not supposed to be sleeping anyway. Then I raised my thumb and hitched out of Switzerland, crossing the Alps to Italy through the gorgeous Great St Bernhard Pass.

Two days later I crawled out of my sleeping bag, praising the relative comfort of the tiled floor in London Gatwick airport compared to the sweaty, noisy 24-bed hostel room in Milano. I grabbed a duo pack of sawdust-dry Scottish eggs from Mark & Spencer's for breakfast and a duo pack of books in an attempt to reach the luggage weight limit. Then I sat down for coffee with Alice who had descended from the North to join me on the flight to Iceland. Outside, the paintings on the plane said something about it being the Iron Maiden tour plane "Ed force one" and something else about a monster from another dimension flying it. Inside, a (the?) pilot was sleeping just next to me across the aisle. Eventually we touched down safely in sunshine, met a smiling and jolly Elsbeth in the baggage claim area and then all three of us, and our clones stowed away in our ridiculously huge rucksacks, successfully hitched the 50km to Reykjavik. Welcomed by the inimitable Frosti, we made ourselves at home in his very cosy abode, and began plotting how to conquer the island most efficiently.

Three weeks later I texted the pastry chef goodbye again, this time believing it to be for good, before starting to scramble down the mountain on which I was sure I was going to die. As I'm still here, typing, you will hear about this marvellous zen-experience later. But, for now - back to the beginning.

In Hveragerði, we had the honour of most probably being the last visitors ever to see Bobo's reincarnation as the legendary mechanical monkey of Iceland. That night, Bobo's home - Garden of Eden - burned down to the ground together with its banana trees and postcards and expensive wool sweaters. Fortunately we managed to save the best bits of it as a series of photographs. Might it have been the volcanic heat that made the whole area look like a steaming cooking pot? It sure was hot in the boiling river. We got to take a picnic-bath in there after having walked across those colorful mountains that matched Elsbeth's red hair and green sweater so well that she could have easily fused into the background and become invisible.

Of a certain pond called Lake Geneva

2011-07-13T21:59:00.000+03:00

Tick, tick, tick, the time is flying by. Tick, tick, tick, almost two months have flewn by in this city where even the air smells of money - Geneva. Tick, tick, tick, those tiny reliable hands of all the Swiss watches continue racing in circles... but at the same time these two months have been full of novel tastes and activities that make it seem as if I've been living here forever.

Geneva. It is a lake city, which for me is almost equal to a sea city. Satisfied with the mountains, I had dashed to the Atlantic coast in the beginning of May in Morocco to smell some salty ocean air and fight the waves with the help of a surfboard in Essaouira.

Back on the supercontinent of Eurasia and still on holiday, I managed to pull together a team of people to rent a yacht for an evening and go sailing tourist style on Lake Geneva. It had been almost ten years since my hands had last grabbed the rope, but some reflexes apparently never disappear. The most important of them all - ducking suddenly when the sail even hints at the change of wind - aquired on a small one-teenager boat where getting a hard hit on the head by the boom and going for a surprise swim (and learning the lesson of why you should always wear a life vest) is an running joke, because most beginners in the history of the sailing camp I went to learned ducking in time the hard way.

A month later, once again on holiday, I was taking a break from chilling out by hanging out on my regular late afternoon hangout time on my regular hangout spot on the grassy beach of Creux-de-Genthod. All of a sudden, some sailors approached, looking for crew members to help them take their 1903-style yacht on the lake for the evening. How could I have said no to free sailing class with snacks, tea and white wine included?

At other times, one of my pastimes was to watch the baby ducks that had recently crawled out of their eggs plod in a line behind their mum, growing fluffier feather coats by the day and then all of a sudden - apparently I had been away and busy for a month - be big, strong and almost flying. Or I would keep a keen eye on my sandwich while reading and writing, because there would be someone else keeping a keen eye on it: a duck mum who's inching closer and pretending to look away until being forced to flee by a duck dad sneaking in for a rape attack in the hopes of making a new little fluffy nestling of plodding creatures. The social interaction patterns between the ducks of this bay are intricate.

Or we would rent a kayak and try to go as far as we could get with a mission of paddling to Montreux on the other end of the lake, having only two days at hand. We got as far as Yvoire and then some, which makes a little under a third of the lake's length. Having prepared more for pleasure than for sport, it was an exhausting two-day exercise nonetheless, particularly on the way back with the wind and the waves against us most of the time. Even the second morning started off beautifully, with hot sunny weather and the emerald green lake as smooth as a mirror. The treacherous sky around Mont Blanc rarely has mercy on the domain of this tremendous shiny watchman. An all too familiar surprise-storm transformed the mirror into an enchanting pool of quicksilver with metal spikes protruding from its surface wherever any of the billion heavy raindrops hit it. The chilly wind and the waves sloshing into the cockpit across the edge arrived later in the evening. The lake started demanding more attention. Fortunately we'd already done enough sightseeing to be tired of pointing at the villas of the rich Swiss, because by this time it was clear that those on the French side were much cuter. I knew which castle I wanted to buy and I was able to direct my affection fully to the water all around me.

Packing for pleasure and in haste made for an interesting survival course. Unpacking in the evening on a narrow strip of a pebble beach in order to build a bed under the stars and a fire to cook on revealed the lack of any kitchen gear. At lunch, in order to get the spaghetti covered in gooey tomato sauce from the pot into the mouth without the amazing eating skills of the Indians who eat without tools, we quickly improvised some chopsticks after a prompt glance in the direction of the nearest bush. Now, to boil pasta, the best option was to scavenge an empty coca-cola tin from the bin, add it to the one we'd actually bought and then collect a third one from under a bush for tea. Half a plastic spoon was to be picked up from under the pebbles and rubbed with sand in the lake, but fortunately several bits of wood, polished by water, presented themselves in time for dinner and proved efficient enough so that I could avoid that icky piece of used plastic. Keeping an eye open for possible plates, I couldn't help giggling when I found myself staring at a shovel propped up against the fisherman's shed, contemplating washing off the rust and adding it to our marvellous collection of silverware.

Eventually, the pasta boiled on coals inside coca-cola tins and glued onto slabs of tree bark by melted Parmesan, and a side dish of grilled veggies, must have been the most delicious, interesting and filling camping meal I've ever eaten. I had a hard time finishing the carrots that we eventually had to warm up in the morning and eat with freshly-caught perch for breakfast. For my morning coffee, of course, we needed to paddle into civilization. A good thing about small muscle powered vehicles such as a kayak is that it's easy to sneak it into a harbour or onto a swimming-only beach without disturbing anyone or paying for parking.

Red hot Atlas mountains

2011-06-14T11:16:00.000+03:00

Once settled in a hotel, we haggled half a night over an overpriced map that we didn't want to buy anyway. Neither of us had any intention of paying 15€ for a map dating back to 1994, a year before a natural catastrophe washed away most of the paths drawn on it. Keeping a straight line is not all that easy when a gang of hardened locals does its best to discourage you from walking in the mountains on your own. Too hard for you! Very difficult! was the reaction of most people we talked to. It wasn't easy to explain to all the eager mountain guides that even if we wanted their services, we wouldn't pay anything near their price, which was equal or greater to our whole trip budget. It was even harder to elaborate on the concept that being British is not necessarily the same as being obscenely rich. These are the moments when I can smugly pull out the trump-card from my sleeve - slapping pesterers with the name of a strange foreign land called Estonia that nobody has ever heard about promptly ends 99% of arguments and unwanted pre-mapped conversations, be it in Morocco, India or under the Eiffel tower.

Luckily both of us already have solid experience in ignoring all discouraging advice, because there it couldn't have been further from the truth. While the aforementioned map was hanging on the wall, I wisely took a photo of it, which served as a reference when asking locals on the road to point us towards this or that unpronounceable and unmemorably named village. No professional guides needed.

Tourism is a big business there - actually the only business these days that gets the mouthes fed. But in my opinion that does not take away anyone's right to walk freely in the wilderness. No guides needed does not mean that they are easy to avoid. If a path goes through a village, which it often does, everyone suddenly becomes insistingly helpful and most unwanted help starts or ends with asking for money. Or chocolate. Or a pencil. Or whatever else they see, as in a case of two so small children that they hadn't even learnt enough French to call me Madame instead of Monsieur when alternately pointing at my GPS watch and then their mouths. These two had been sent off to hassle us by their mother as an educational passtime. Not to mention the little boys that ganged up in a berber village to guide us down to the river and across it with many a gallant gesture and sentences made up of a combination of yes, no and madame: "YES, Yes, yes, yes, yes, NO, No, no, no, no, no, YES, Yes, yes, madam, no, No, NO, YES!" There, I lost it.

Their help was a horror we had to endure and couldn't escape. It cost us an extra hour and for me personally, another one of my nineteen lives when I managed to turn a nearly fatal fall into landing on the safe side and getting another major bruise next to the almost gone purple giant from the ski slopes. The little bastard scurrying between my legs and disturbing my safe movement across a dodgy surface made me explosive. One of the main ingredients in the steaming mixture was probably hunger. I badly needed a snack already an hour earlier when the bunch gathered too closely around my bag the moment I had stopped on a rocky path to open it and pull out something edible. So I closed the zipper again in the hopes of finding a more private stopping spot soon. Because, if a tourist stops to open her bag, it is obviously to give a gift to anyone who might be within visual range. Eventually we got rid of them with the help of a professional guide walking in front of a group of slow overequipped hikers who had caught up with us when we had been slowed down by the swarm of kids. Grateful for help, we got to stop, I got to eat (and Alice got to watch me eat and feel the nasty stomach bug laugh inside her) and then we got to run past the group once more.

We did two long day-hikes in the beautiful red Atlas mountains that were very slippery with loose gravel and suitably for Africa, hot and dry - at least until the afternoons when the clouds started gathering. The paths wound through the bright green fertile valleys, taking us up to the yellow sandy mule paths zigzagging on the lower hillsides and to the higher red rocky mountains, all the while the glistening white summits standing on guard high above everything. Sometimes the path would climb up the river valley, forcing us to hop on the rocks for an eternity, followed by a walk on the high edge of an irrigation channel, then leading us to stroll through someone's back yard, rush through minuscule village streets and creep in the dark tunnels under the kasbah.

Starting from the altitude of 1740m, we reached the passes at 2200m on the first and 2400m on the second day, following the path down into the river valleys at midway only to climb back up again later. If I normally don't feel the difference that the three months in Val d'Isère has made, then here it became apparent: being used to Alice running far ahead of me while I'm gasping for breath and feeling a hundred years old, then this time it was the other way round. The 20% less of oxygen had no more effect on me, I was simply struggling with the uphills, which was a fight on it's own on the second day. Slugging painfully slowly up, only faintly confident that the direction picked would take us home and that the top of the hill was where we supposed it to be inside that thick mist, we were surprised to see an old man in flip-flops practically run past us - on the same slope we were busy dying on! He generously waved us back onto the right path, then ran ahead again and waited around the corner to see us coming the right way. We couldn't even shake him off with a lunch stop, because he would wait for us somewhere, lying on his back and leisurely chewing on a straw. This was one of the few occasions when we actually met someone genuinely nice, all the while being scared shitless that they are going to ask us for money in return for their services of accidentally having walked in the same direction. When we had reached the pass and recognized where we were, he simply smiled, waved and took off downhill after a short break to admire the amazing view.

Lets talk about your gazelle

2011-06-13T10:16:00.000+03:00

Having already covered a considerable distance, we both realized about at the same moment the potentially insane setup of the situation: two European girls shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip with five big Moroccan men crammed inside a car that claims to be a taxi driving us to Imlil. We had even fought a few hard battles for the right to pay a fair enough price to get a place in each of the dubious vehicles that we had to take and that some random dude loitering nearby pointed us to. All of them might equally have been waiting for just such an opportunity to kidnap a bride for personal use or for exchanging on a camel fair.

A strong white woman, not locked up to anything and no apparent owner nearby, is not something you'd walk by on a street without at least trying to pick it up. It is an expensive trade article. "Très belle gazelle, plus que mille chameaux!" ["Very pretty gazelle, more than thousand camels!"] was a starting offer that a slightly indignant Alice got for me when she herself had already been sold by Jesus to an eager berber for mere 40 camels. In this country you will always get ripped off to the bones without an accountant in your mind, ready to jump head first into a haggling fest with a ready list of current prices. As luck would have it, Alice was once again saved by Fortuna when the men agreed on exchanging the gazelle and the camels later by post. Another point to learn from here - this is what it means to be an escort of a gazelle. In a country where everyone wants to sell you something, a gazelle is a rare valuable they would like to buy.

The culinary side of Marrakesh

2011-06-07T12:16:00.000+03:00

Three days after the explosive news from Marrakesh - and after three days of monitoring the political situation - I translocated myself from Lyon to Montpellier to Barcelona Reus to Marrakesh Menara to La Place, also known as Jamaa El Fna. It was raining and it was cold and it was not what I had expected Africa to be like. Fortunately I couldn't ponder about it for too long, because a moment later I was knocked off my feet by Alice and Jesus.

Even though there was a brand new sight to see, albeit not famous for its beauty, the nightly restaurant business just in front of it went on at full speed. For starters I was basically forced by Jesus to get a bowl of slow food a.k.a. boiled snails that I bravely accepted while Alice kept gagging next to me. Deciding on the following courses wasn't as easy as one would think. Indecision, spiced up by the swarms of runner boys each one trying to throw you into his fried-fish, chickpea-soup or lambhead kitchen, often lead to choosing no-matter-which stall hassled us the least (unless it was offering freshly severed camel heads of course).

Roaming the restaurants remained the main entertainment for the next day and a half in wet, geay and freezing weather when there's not much else to do in Marrakesh besides stuffing one's belly. Wandering about the Medina, trying to please the merchants by haggling a price or two just for the fun of it was nice as an exercise but got tiring after I realized that all this haggling means that excessive brain space must always be dedicated to thinking about money. As usual, sooner than later we escaped the well-trodden paths, took a left turn here and a right turn there to sneak along the narrow passages and alleyways to see what the real old city looks like. Away from the hectic business streets just around the corner, the kasbah-style labyrinthian old town actually seemed like an exciting place in which to live out your third-world adventure movie fantasies; or simply to lead a nice quiet life - it caters for every taste. After having practiced the camel-chomp to perfection and taken the long boring walk to the big boring Menara gardens with big-mouthed greedy fish in its swimming pool, we felt that the tourist attraction of the city had given us all they had. So we resolved to return to La Place and eat some more.

It seems that all we ever did was eat. Slow food preceded by fresh orange juice and proceeded by the fruits-and-nuts smoothie that looked tempting even in its convincing disguise as the most unhygenic thing to eat on the street (as not to say vomit in a jar). To be clear, the smoothie was delicious. The smoothie salesman who worked his magic from a hole in the wall just minute's walk away from the tourist area, merited our repeat visit. We must have been an event, because we were eventually welcomed with a warm smile and a friendly handshake days later, after a good hike in the Atlas mountains. He still remembered us!:)

To name a few good names that made me want to roll like a ball and take a long siesta afterwards: pastilla or a sweet cakey thingy filled with chicken and almonds; veggie Tajine with lots of oil; peppermint tea that I would rather call sugar tea and fresh sweet yoghurt (that I would rather call sugar yoghurt) so thick that it holds a spoon upright. Take care with Moroccan cuisine, it using such amounts of sugar that on an average flight back to Europe most of the passengers seem to be trembling with sugar rush and complaining about a developing diabetes.

The very first evening in Morocco didn't leave us without a dessert. When walking back to the wonderland hotel before midnight - midnight still being a busy business time - and not paying too much attention to the surroundings, an incident happened. We were sleepily joking and generally enjoying the full bellies and the prospect of tucking ouselves up in bed soon when suddenly Alice started departing from us horizontally at lightning speed. Our first thought was that someone was trying to kidnap her! A millisecond of reflection told us it was simply her camera bag that had been targeted. The bag being well attached to her and she being well attached to Jesus, the robber's work wasn't as easy as he had expected. Our screeching and screaming during the following two seconds made a worried crowd gather and all we could witness was a slim backside sprinting into the darkness without its bounty. Half a minute later a police car had materialized from the void to chase after him and just when we had returned to our room five minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

We were guided downstairs to identify a handcuffed Moroccan dandy in white sneakers. It could have been him, but it could equally have been any other of those darkhaired boys in jeans and a leather jacket hanging out in the city. So as not to make life too easy for us, a report had to be written in the police station. The hardest part of it was insisting that we had no idea if the captured dude is The One or not. With all their hearts they wanted us to say yes, but due to a gaping hole between our ethics and theirs, we just couldn't bring ourselves to please them.

Making a habitual conversation, the officers found out that our guardian angel Jesus would fly away the following day, leaving the two girls all on their own into their country. Apparently they didn't much care for him anyway as for obvious reasons, girls are incomparably more interesting. So we were offered a city tour with one of them and got an invitation to share breakfast in the morning, become friends and so on. By that time my two friends had already spent a week in Morocco which is more than enough time to make one extremely careful about any proposition by locals, however small and innocent it may be. Nothing comes free here, not even asking directions on the street, at least not where people have a habit of interacting with foreigners. The only thing to do was to laugh, say a merry good bye and thank you to our "superheros" and flee.

The barest purest consumerism ever

2011-05-31T10:12:00.000+03:00

As an introduction to extreme environmental activism and reacquainting myself with the gatherer habits of my ancestors, I went out a few evening in Edinburg to hunt for goods as an anti-consumerist. After having dumpster dived for quality food, now being forced to throw away all those yummy goods in the restaurant where I was working hurt a lot in the beginning. Soon I froze my heart and got over it. I even got over being part of the system that sells water to people in the shape of 33cl plastic Evian bottles for 7€ a piece when there's perfectly good drinking water coming out of the tap just next to the minibar. Ouch. Luxury and ecological thinking don't match up too easily. At least I got to taste the various untouched gourmandises before scraping them off the plates at the plonge and to stretch the limits of my discrimination between what was rubbish and what was food even further. I never crossed the line yet though. Yet.

The amount of food wrap we used for packing up the hotel and everything inside it for the summer would be enough to wrap a smaller planet in and the pile of newspapers I crumpled around cups and jars would be enough to keep all Estonian hobos warm and alive throughout our winter. Can't say I cared too much. By this point I was too easily amused by the sight of how the plastic film in my hands transformed the curtains into big sausages hanging from the ceiling.

Can't always fight the system.

---

Living light

Packing for leaving the Val, i found myself cluelessly staring at my huge 65-litre rucksack. It seemed strange that I could, should and would fit all my life into this tiny space in the following three minutes*. I would part ways with my ancient ski trousers that I have only used once for skiing, once for snowboarding and countless times for rollerblading in the cripsy Nordic autumn weather; I would say goodbye to my trusty winter boots that I changed for a newer better (=bigger and waterproofer) model; I would say thank you for the information for the heavy second-hand emergency medicine textbook that I simply can't stuff in; and that's about it - all the rest is more or less essential, stuff that I either cannot or don't want to throw away. Shampoo doesn't count. Leaving behind the soap and shampoo is not that environmentally ethical either but this is the choice I had to make for repacking the pack.

*It seemed even stranger that I could, should and would cut the volume of my possessions down again by another 30 litres a week later even though that time it would be for a mere 9-day trip in Africa which should be easier.

Dance like noone is watching

2011-05-30T14:18:00.000+03:00

Putting my rucksack down and settling in one place for kind of a normal life for almost three months allowed me to enjoy the routine cycle of the entertainment options of a normal city life. What I had missed a lot during tripping around everywhere had been dancing. Dancing like I was fifteen again, at a school party again, alone on the dancefloor again, jumping around for Limp Bizkit and having the time of my life again while my peers stand in the shadows and sip liquid courage before giving the rhythm a chance.

The clubs and pubs of Val d'Isère offered me all the options for unleashing the dance beast inside me. Each of them made me pour out gallons of sweat per session. Be it dancing silly and singing along for Y.M.C.A in the nightclub on the 21st of every month or be it floating trance-like in the electronic rhythms, bouncing and undulating in a growing amplitude while the tunes gather speed and energy over the hours, carrying my mind away to another universe; be it Bomfunk MC's and the rest of the dance rock from ten years ago that make me do backwards longjumps in random directions with my hands flying everywhere and my hair in my eyes (and eventually land on the wrong spot and put one foot through the Satuday night fever style blinking dancefloor).

As a cherry on top of the cake of a long day on the ski slopes, half way downhill there's a legendary nightclub (or should I say dayclub? afternoonclub?) that closes its doors at five in the afternoon, finishing work at the same time with the ski lifts. Skiing across the last hill separating me from La Folie Douce presented me with an incredible setting. I saw hundreds, maybe thousands of people jammed on the sunny terrasse of this high altitude bar, all modelling your average fashion skiwear that might not pass as normal in a normal city: outrageously colorful combinations such as fluorescent yellows, pinks, blues, greens and violets, often all together on the same person, with neither sex spared; almost invariable owl-tan from the ski mask; often topless, not limited to one sex either. While the DJ is playing the popular club tunes such as "I just wanna daaaaaance, I don't even caaaaaare" and "Hello, o o o o o o!", the very feminin blond male singer on the bar provides the vocal, a real life violinist on the balcony improvises a new dimension for the sound and the drummer on the second balcony adds yet another level of background. The rough wooden tables are obviously built with the regular destructive dancing on them in mind. Heavy ski boots glue all the feet firmly to the ground, making jumping impossible so the tired sporty crowds simply stomp in extasy on every conceivable flat surface, relishing the after-effects of an adrenaline-filled day, of the hot sun, the music and the rush of emotion amplified by the crowds.

Tuesday nights were for moshing and crowd surfing in the English pub. With some annoying exceptions such as an occasional Ms.Pretty or Mr.Muscle doggedly guarding the ground under their feet, choosing to be seen rather that feel the unity of the masses swaying in collective psychedelic euphoria. Unlike the habitual consistency of the crowd in Frenchier venues, this one was mostly made up of British snowboarders who were big, strong and violent enough that I could afford to regularly launch myself in a random direction with eyes closed without the fear of causing any deaths.

Mullit is my new favorite rockband. They gave their show in pub Morris usually at Tuesday nights, playing all the good old pieces of all my favorite rock bands over the years in the course of one evening, ranging from Sweet to Oasis to Limp Bizkit to Prodigy. They always put so much heart into doing their job that at the latest 20 minutes into the concert, sweat jets start flying both ways between the manically jumping public and the enthusiastic band, creating a kind of cross-fire zone in the narrow "no man's land" safety zone. On one lucky occasion they played Friday night as well, permitting me to jump up and down and back and forth into my birthday. I took it as a good omen for my new year.

Often I dressed in bouncy running shoes and a black dress with two tiny pockets to shake off the work stress on a day off. My home was as nearby as everything in Val d'Isère and the only necessary treasure I needed to carry along was a lonely key - kept safe inside my shoe - and sometimes my phone. The latter had already hopped out of my pocket while I myself jumped towards the roof and it took a few moments' effort to locate it and peel it off the floor while somebody's foot was stomping on it. Too big to stuff into my shoe, the only other place I could keep it was in my bra, where I efficiently drowned it to death in my sweat. However, a petty misadventure of this kind was no reason for worry, as the years spent in the circle of computer people has taught me how to fix soaked electronics. The secret is to wait until it dries and, hurrah! it will revive in no time. It did.

...and some love

2011-05-23T11:24:00.000+03:00

Living in the Hotel California was like living in the kind of isolated student campus that I never lived in. Everthing is done together: you work, eat, party, sleep, do sport or watch tv next to the same people all the time, forgetting that an outside world exist, all the while collectively dreaming about the magical times in the far future when The Ordeal will be over. The workplace is a hook-up spot at the same time (as I've heard): couples sprout up like mushrooms after rain - and most often split up as fast. Any girl (or any pretty boy, for that matter) emerging on the horizon is checked up and charged at by a pack of hungry wolves before she (or he) gets to mouthing the jour part of Bonjour.

It's all right for the girls, I guess, because we're kind of used to too much attention, at least as long as it stays in the boundaries of a conventional approach. As usual, I had laughed very hard when my efforts of mixing my two-word Spanish with my three-word Russian were successful in the sense that I eventually understood what the Bulgarian trucker wanted to buy from me. However, when the boy-runners started getting late-night texts from their chieftain with an offer to earn some extra cash by providing some extra services, things went bad. The chieftain was kicked down from his place on the throne and banished from the Land of the Eternal Christmas until the end of times. It must be a tough life if the failure in getting free love will be topped off by an epic failure in trying to buy it.

Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes Benz
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.

Sport, sport, sport, all we need is sport

2011-05-17T11:39:00.009+03:00

Most people working in the restaurant business in a ski station don't have enough free time to keep up another real life next to working. Volatile scheduals make any planning efforts futile, therefore it's better and more logical to concentrate on the moment and enjoy what is available on the spot. The entertainment in options in Val d'Isère were pretty much covered by partying and sporting and the majority of people around didn't hold themselves back doing either or both of them. In a holiday town the word weekend has no meaning and the possibilities for both are always abundant.

When my fellow waitress broke her knee in the first hour of skiing she ever did, I was asked to stop doing sport or else the restaurant would have to close due to the lack of workers. Our team had already been missing forces and from that moment on I was required to double my efforts, become Super Trinity (with eight hands, four legs and teleportation power) and push for three instead of one-and-a-half-man I had already been. By that time I was already too scared of injury anyway, to start learning how to go downhill on two sticks or a board. The density of medicopter traffic above the heart of the metropolis did not enncourage me to start learning snow sports - neither did the endless crowds limping around on crutches or without as if I were living in a war zone.

However, I continued running at lunch hours whenever I managed to prevent myself from collapsing into a comatose 3-4 hours' siesta between the morning and evening services. Most of the "easy" runs I did meant about 150m elevation gain in 3km, often into heavy headwind, and then racing back down with the speeds I had never before seen my legs achieve. Add 1850m of starting altitude into the equation and the 30-40 minutes' crawl-sprint looks already quite impressive. Level ground was nowhere to be found, making longer distances look like Mission Impossible, especially when considering that I'm already doing sport at work for 9-10 hours a day. While taking it, "easy" with running, I was pretty good with swimming. Gasping for air and trying to crawl through a slow kilometre without drowning developed quickly into 3km pool sessions that left me feeling I could go for the 4th if I only had more time before returning to work.

Once in my daytime break I hitchhiked out of the Val to try running all the way to Bourg Saint Maurice - the nearest actual civilization - about 26km by the road and 1000m lower down. I picked up a trail on the Northern (muddier, shadier, unstabler) face of the valley at about 1550m altitude and jogged along it as long as I could. The path wound through as variable terrains as dry firm ground, loose rocks, mud and knee deep snow, carrying me on for about 5km and descending slowly for a hundred meters while not failing to present a few slight ascents from time to time. Then came tarmac and hairpin bends that I sometimes cut by bushwacking straight up the hillside. Then came an icy forestiers' track that I still could follow at a trot, gradually slowing down as the gradient increased. Then there was a moment when I was all excited about being forced to grab tree roots for safety while carefully placing my feet over the rocks and lowering myself down over the turfs. Then came the moment, a few minutes later, when I discovered myself in the middle of a vertical half-grassy cliff face, gripping the water bottle between my teeth while balancing on five toes and desperately trying to see across the overhang just below my feet separating me from safe ground some fifteen meters below.

I took a moment to breathe. I switched on my brain that I had so efficiently switched off in the morning for work. I looked down again and cold sweat started forming in my palms. The turf I was standing on and the other two I was holding firmly in my hands were both made of grass and mud held together by a skimpy piece of ice. (S***). More cold sweat started forming on my forehead.

After a long moment of weighing up the wish to get down there against the odds of staying alive, I climbed reluctantly and very carefully back up to find an alternative pass down to the river valley. As I was breaking my way through the winter-ravaged bushes and crossing slippery avalanches, I never found any way down that would avoid more exposed rock faces dropping down for hundreds of meters. I could only continue breaking my way further up through the dry undergrowth that was cutting into my legs. Just short of getting very worried I reached a dense forest of ancient fir trees where I was able to pick up a goat track leading somewhere down. Stumbling downwards on the ~70-degree slopes included plentiful climbing across storm-broken giant trees, crawling under bushes, slipping, falling and sliding on loose rocks and mud that often hid treacherous ice underneath, all the while surrounded by the aura of a magical thick forest: a deep-green mossy boulder here, an enormous frozen waterfall there...

When I eventually reached the road level to hitchhike back in time for work, muddy and bloody as I was, I had ascended for 700m (and dropped for 500m) where the plan had been to enjoy a long easy all-downhill afternoon run. Of course, I was as excited as ever about the adventure, expressing it with sparkling eyes, shaky hands and all the usual symptoms of a strong adrenaline shot, contrasting strongly with my dull monkey suit once I was back to the Bonsoir-monsieur-du-pain-de-l'eau? cycle in the evening.

I managed to snowboard for one day, followed by about two weeks of painful butt; and in the middle of April when most of the snow and the crowds where gone, I eventually got over my fear of breaking a leg, attached the skis and had the most amazing day up on the glacier. Even though the biggest bruise I got, a good big fist-size blueberry on my left calf, will take at least a month to cure, I could have never guessed that I'm that good on skis! Once every ten years on a mountain combined with a torturous childhood on cross-country skis followed by a few years of racing the cars in the center of Tallinn on rollerblades, are apparently a good enough base for dashing downhill in the snow soup. Lucky that it was snow soup and not an ice cake where I face planted in a little mound after an accidental unprofessional double jump off a wave, hehe. Now I can imagine only too well what breathing inside an avalanche might taste and smell like.

Welcome to the Hotel California

2011-04-25T16:58:00.003+03:00

Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said 'We are all just prisoners here, of our own device'
And in the master's chambers,
They gathered for the feast
They stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can't kill the beast

The price of living in the ski station and earning money for future trips is hard work. For a week I was able to live my vision of a tamer version of Magenta from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Then I had to start looking like I mean business. When the supervisors had discovered the special abilities of all (which means, both) the runner-girls, it was made my main task to carry everything heavy that needed to be carried, at top speed and smiling, for hours and weeks and weeks on end. Along with the enforcement of this new subspecialization, my short-sleeved, red-lipped, tight-skirted French maid costume was changed for the official monkey suit that made me look like a gorilla in a skirt.

How to prepare onself for military service

You know those cute candles on every step of the stairs, on the tables and shelves, that make the atmosphere indoors so romantically brilliant? My lung capacity went up by X0% due to blowing out 102 candles every evening for two months.

And how do they get the forks so shiny? My fingers went coarse while I was busy becoming the Mistress Cutlery Polisher of the restaurant and I will probably stink of vinegar for the rest of my life.

My biceps have gone up two sizes and support well the wrists that masterfully balance 14 big wine glasses on one tray. I'm astonished at myself if I compare it to the first week when I sloshed a client with beer splurting out of the lonely Leffe bottle that I dropped off the tray.

I have a PhD in serving bread with an oversized pair of fork and spoon. Obtaining it was like a nightly circus school: invariably, I made the little buns and minibaguettes fly across the restaurant or bounce merrily on the tables between wine glasses, indecisive whether to land on the bread plate of the glam mister or the glam misses. The visual circus was always accompanied by the soundtrack of me laughing and overusing descriptive phrases like Oops! or Ooh-la-la! Les baguettes, elles veulent sauter aujourd'hui!

I can speak English with a slight French accent to confuse Estonian customers. Deceiving them into not realizing that I can spy on their conversations wasn't much fun though, because they didn't hold any conversations. To compensate for boredom, they grabbed the bread with their hands like the tiniest of the French children often used to, saving me from the eternal Oops I dropped the bread! game. Unfortunately, the morning when I was off, I missed an entertaining opportunity to drop a comment in the lines of Pole paha... Instead, it was my colleague who was shocked the whole day after having stumbled upon a naked guy walking out of shower while she was serving them breakfast in the room. I would have laughed and saved the story for my great grand children.

By some strange twist of fate I always manage to find the young managers tripping on power or else they are simply too numerous to efficiently avoid them. This job did not spare me either, pushing me constantly into a verbal fight with a certain Napoleon who was sporadically exploding and switching between Bonaparte and Dynamite. Mostly I had to battle for my rights of getting some sleeping hours at nights or a rare 20-second break between hours of racing around with heavy loads. Needless to say, I always lost, for he obviously outranked me in the line of command. Often it seemed to me that the necessity of having me (or anyone for that matter) there and the quality of my work was measured more by how I managed to make myself look busy on the rare moments of inactivity than by how much I sweated for the rest of the 45-55h working hours of the week. Also, I learned to switch off my brain. Any time I failed to do so and applied thinking - or, god forbid, initiative - I got in trouble. For all this training I consider myself experienced enough to be ready for serving my time in the French Foreign Legion.

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
'Relax,' said the night man,
'We are programmed to receive.
You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave!'

Not the least important new skill obtained: I learned to make the time go past. The French Foreign Legion will have to fight the guardians of the Tower of London for me, as I am now fit for both. The traditional French style 5-star hotel means that in those moments of boredom with nothing to do and no supervisor around in need of convincing that we're oh-so-very-busy, we were still required to stand still as if having swallowed a long hard stick. No leaning. No crossing hands. No crossing legs. No lost look in the eyes or else sanctions in the shape of Napoleonic explosions shall proceed. Sir, I'm here only if and when you need me, sir. Otherwise I do not exist, sir attitude. A side remark: who would tip a waitress who doesn't exist? Not too many people.

Just a little appetizer

2011-04-24T01:35:00.003+03:00

Three months of my life, spent in the Alps as a French maid, has been a fast and intensive ride. These last moments of the ski season I spend creeping along the walls at night to find internet connection; this post has been written, sitting under cover of a fir tree in some hotel's garden... all the things I must do to keep you entertained! Right after it's finished, I will sneak past my sleeping flatmate to drop off my tiny shiny black friend and then sneak back out to continue jumping over the fences (just for practice) and create some more substance for stories to come in the future.

Probably soon after I'm back from Morocco (or, with lots of luck, ealier), you'll get a full report of my winter in Val d'Isère. Until then, enjoy your spring!

---

The night is nice here in the mountains; in the middle of this tiny metropol, there's still loads of nature: a marmot just walked past and didn't even notice me. I can consider myself safe from the drunk snowboarders hoarding by.

The skies of Scotland

2011-02-16T17:40:00.000+02:00

Edinburgh, it was: Hogmanay with friends, fireworks, flying chinese lanterns, whisky, chips and not to forget the ceilidh with flying people and gallons of sweat! And men in kilts. Burns Night with bagpipes, haggis (I still stick to the veggie version, thanks), neeps and tatties, odes to lassies and laddies, to the (computer) mousie and to Rabbie himself. And more men in kilts. Bedlam theatre, various plays and rehearsals. Pubs and bins. Creepy and cool Ravenloftish architecture. Deep fried Mars bars - the magic treat with a reverse yuk-yum-effect. Mr. Whisky in every shape and size, such as whipped into cream, heated with honey or simply the good auld wee dram. And even more men in kilts and more bagpipes.

While I passed a good part of the month staring at a computer screen, thinking and typing until my brain and fingers went sore and my back grew a hunch, I somehow still managed to mount a hill or two every now and then. When we cycled up that first horrible mountain in Norway, Alice suddenly yelled out "This is like Scotland!". Now in Scotland it was my turn to scream "This is like Norway!" or at least like the first smooth mossy hills of Norway with rare patches of snow on it. The wind though managed to outperform the Sognefjellsvegen gusts that nearly blew me and my stallion off the road in July. A true Scottish gale will make an anchor a dire necessity for little girls, everyone else must man up and stay in the center of the hill.

And finally - the unforgettable crawling spaniard, featured first in La Ciotat about a year ago, who this time promptly decided to mimic the celebrities who leave their handprints on pavements and briefly planted his teeth into the ice of the Pentland hills. The teeth won 1:0.

Cheerio!

Coordinates: somewhere near Dharali

2011-01-31T15:14:00.000+02:00

First, 12h to the North and 2500m towards the sky in public transport...

...and then 5h and 1200 more metres straight up on foot.

Flopping around in a pinkish haze

2011-01-30T18:29:00.000+02:00

The other Bigs of the Himalayas

2011-01-29T16:01:00.023+02:00

All distances are incredibly big and measured not it metric but in time.

Rivers are big.
Pine cones are enormous.
Cultural differences with Europeans are huge.

Thorns of thorny bushes are BIG

Since childhood I know that raspberry brush stings and to avoid scratching it's better not to make too sudden a movement when picking berries. In France I made a new enemy when on several unfortunate occasions I bumped into and made "friends" with raspberry's big bad brother the blackberry. By now I know better than to run into the bushes too hastily without checking out the territory first. In the Indian Himalayas though I had a chance to bump into their even bigger and badder uncle - and that one's ot to be messed with. I pray that I never have to make a personal encounter with their godfather, in whichever remote corner of the world he might be lurking.

There I was, looking for a way downhill and picking paths - wherever I could find one - leading in the general direction of gravitation at any possible angle short of a freefall. For a considerable distance I followed a dry stream bed, scrambling down across loose rocks. The plan was good but it didn't take me all the way down for soon this path too was blocked by thickly entwined overgrowth hanging across from both sides. I didn't fancy crawling through the most vicious combination of stinging nettles and thorny bushes on earth.

The only alternative route meant serious bushwhacking. I felt like a tiny rabbit, popping my rucksack through gaps between branches and then wriggling through myself; or sliding on my back on loose rocks under bushes and generally moving much too carefully and slowly to get out of there before dark. I got whiplased by monstrous inch-thick stalks of stinging nettle armed with overgrown spikes that hurt like hell and grabbed by the biggest thorns I have ever seen attached to a branch. My efforts were futile. Finally on the verge of desperation, stuck in the middle of some tangled mesh of vegetation, hands up as if held at gunpoint and too scared to move, I fished my jacket carefully out of my rucksack, put it on in slow motion and then, covered head to bum with thick gore-tex, simply forced my way through to the clear ground.

Another experience gained.

How I ended up in this jungle in the first place, is the usual story. It started with a brisk walk up the first steep grassy hill at sight, while local fauna kept itself busy, grabbing my legs as means of cheap transportation to new seeding grounds. Since it was my first time being alone off-road in the mountains, it didn't really occur to me that if I need to use my hands for support on the ascent then descent by the same route would be nearly impossible.

It took me three hours to climb up before reaching the heavenly spheres of no other sounds but my own footsteps and the wind in the treetops. Such total silence took me by pleasant surprise. Though I had missed the calm of Northern Europe, I couldn't quite remember any more how it feels like. Back again in Europe, I find the actual noise levels of Indian towns hard to remember, but I haven't forgotten how deeply the contrast struck me when I first stepped out of civilization that day.

The magnifiscent views that rolled out in front of me were instant creators of peace of mind. All of them for me, me and only me! Who would need TV until there are sunny mountains to climb and look at? I never wanted to go back into the town, but sadly I always needed to. What bitter regret I felt, thinking of my lack of trekking equipment - the fact that nailed me to the spot and prevented me from doing anything more ambitious than daytrips. Next time, I will sacrifice the pleasures of travelling lightly and bring a heavy rucksack full of equipment to allow me to stay outdoors for as long as I feel like.

Despite their best efforts, a few thorny bushes didn't stand a chance against those awesome views.

Silence covered the sky

2011-01-29T12:15:00.009+02:00

I would pass my time, sitting on a chair on my hotel balcony, soaking in the details of the summits, guessing what it would feel like to be there, imagining how small I would be;

watching the sunlight's angle change, the same clouds build up every day before sunset and fade away before darkness falls; watching the color of the incredibly clear sky change a hundred times over;

watching the dark cold shadow creep slowly up the mountain side, menacing... covering already half the mountain, it transforms the friendly summit shining in warm sunlight into a hungry bloodthirsty beast. Night has a different meaning out there.

Traditsioonide lipu lehvides: 2010

2011-01-26T10:35:00.001+02:00

Aasta 2010 oli vägev. Muuhulgas jõudsin ma sel aastal ka raamatuid lugeda. Uskumatu? Selle nimekirja põhjal, mis on siin põhiliselt mu enda jaoks, võin kommenteerida, soovitada, kritiseerida - ja mõningaid harvu eksemplare, mis veel minu valduses, ka edasi kinkida.

Esimesel poolaastal Prantsusmaal magistritööle lisaks:
1. A. & B. Strugatski: "Hukkunud alpinisti" hotell
2. I. Asimov: Igaviku lõpp
3. S. King: Lisey lugu

Jaanipäeva kanti, Eestis:
4. B. Rajnov: Surra tohib vaid äärmisel juhul

Juulis ja augustis Norras ja Soomes rattasõidu kõrvale:
5. Rachel Gibson: Sex, lies and online dating
6. Neil Strauss: Emergency
7. Noam Chomsky: Secrets, lies and democracy
8. Khaled Hosseini: Kite runner

Vahepeal olin jälle korraks Eestis:
9. Pierre Boulle: Ahvide planeet

Septembris-oktoobris, tagasi Prantsusmaal:
10. Leo Tolstoi: War and peace
11. Amitav Ghosh: The hungry tide
12. JohnJoe McFadden: Quantum Evolution
13. Belle de Jour: Belle's Best Bits

Okt-nov-dets Indias:
14. Neil Strauss: The Game
15. Robin Sharma: The monk who sold his Ferrari
16. Anatoli Boukreev & G. Weston DeWalt: The Climb: Tragic ambitions on Everest
17. Lucy Edge: Yoga school dropout
18. Joe Simpson: Touching the void
19. Joe Simpson: Storms of silence
20. Henri Charrière: Papillon
21. Neil Gaiman: Neverwhere
22. Joseph Heller: Catch-22

Ning jõulude paiku Eestis ja lõpuks Šotimaal oli nii põnev, et lugeda ei jõudnud.

Kaks aastat edasi, kilomeetreid lugemata

2011-01-25T15:40:00.002+02:00

Olen kahe aastaga päris pika maa maha käinud (aga ka jooksnud, vändanud, sõitnud, lennanud jne). Pilt on sootuks teine nii seest- kui väljastpool vaadates ning võrdlemise võimalikkuseks puudub piisav hulk ühisnäitajaid. Vaid linnuke oksal jääb samaks.

Peeking in through random doorways

2011-01-20T19:18:00.001+02:00

With the world all upside down, inside out and the boundaries between private and public property a bit hazy for an untrained eye, you could be walking on a village street that winds through everyone's backyard or step through an innocent looking archway to end up unexpectedly in somebody's bedroom. Similarly, a door that was menacing at first sight might suddenly crack open and welcome strangers into a friendly temple.

It's not easy to make sense of it. Catlike exploration by peeking around corners and stepping in through random doorways might help some. It's an interesting world, how else would you discover it?

The sky is always bluer on the other side

2010-12-23T16:45:00.006+02:00

"Nature is not a place to visit - it is our home", says a signpost next to the road up from the lower Dharamsala to McLeod Ganj. Taking the tip, we went to explore our home more profoundly.

We set off before dusk for the 3-4 hour walk up to Triund looming above McLeod Ganj. We barely managed to crawl halfway up through the tiny village before the sun rose from behind the ragged horizon. Cheeks flushed, sweating and breathing heavily, we sat down for the first breakfast, munching on our usual round Tibetan breads bought from a certain old man at a certain street corner.

Estimating another 3 and half hours at the same pace, we soon took another break on the cross-roads, or rather the cross-paths, making friends with a pack of dogs who decided to join our gang for the way up. Numerous resting stops followed, the longest and the nicest one was half way up, with guitar music and chai, under a considerably bluer sky than before. Still, it couldn't bare the comparison with Triund - the actual mountain top.

As for provisions, worrying or carrying extra is unnecessary: there are several tea stalls on the way up to the summit, one every half-hour or so. One of them sells tissue packs, named "Estonia". Commenting on that memorable event, I learned from the guy in the booth that the day before some other estonians had been laughing at it too. There's an estonian in every port, they used to say back in the old days. There's an estonian on every mountain top, I should add to make it more contemporary.

It was a strenuous walk on a well established path winding through the patches of ancient forest as well as out in the open, but always staying within the limits of moderate exercise. With the pretty views, beautiful weather and in good company, the time passed surprisingly fast. The clear air and closeness of those snowy summits (which I had been staring at down in the village for over a week) were more than a fare prize for the hours of trekking.

With the Southern sun fiercly blazing, the daytime weather was still quite warm and dry in mid-October, although a week before there had been a snow-storm up on Triund, transforming into a rainstorm 1500m lower in Dharamsala.

When talking about the Himalayas I find it hard to speak without overusing clichés. Whether the grass is always greener on the other side will depend on the season of a given spot in the mountains, the climate zones change very fast with the hight and whatnot. However, there is no doubt as to the sky being bluer than in my wildest dreams.

Miserable failure in the staring contest

2010-12-22T19:01:00.001+02:00

How many Indians does it take to change a light bulb?

The correct answer is: as many as can be found loitering nearby, bored. They're a friendly crowd and like to give each other a helping hand. About the same goes for producing a pancake in a one-table restaurant - father cooks, the youngest son washes a plate, his brother polishes a cup, their nephew greases a spoon and the oldest son waiters. You'd better believe me when I say that there are always plenty of lanky men around doing nothing - as for women, they are hidden away on hard physical labour while making an effort to stay pretty, wearing make-up, colorful saris and tons of family jewels.

How many Indians does it take to explain the location of a bus to a Western girl?

The equation is about the same, multiplied by the factor of boredom and divided by the size of the town, giving a result somewhere between thirty and fifty. Not less, because obviously nobody wants to be the one to miss the spectable; and not more, because fifty men surrounding the traveller would be a dense enough bunch to block the view on the object of interest. Most of them help by staring, wide-mouthed (literally). Thinking back, it's quite funny, but at the time I went through a whole scale of negative emotions sometimes leading to unusual social experiments, including staring back or pointing and laughing back when (un)appropriate.

Needless to say, I still miserably failed the (inter)national staring contest. I can assure you that even the worst attention-seeking freaks would eventually freak out! From then onwards, I've symphatised with celebrities. So when I kind of accidentally slapped the thousandth randomer who tried to force his camera up my nose in the hopes of getting a photo of that wierd creature, I decided to pack my bag and hide in the mountains. Eventually, I failed miserably even in that, but first I got to have some awesome adventures and a great time in the Himalayas.

Staring aside, I felt quite safe, strolling on narrow back alleys of narrow back alleys of crowded streets of unknown villages or even New Delhi. I felt particularly comfortable after I had figured out that I'm an alien and therefore, that different social rules apply to me. I could neither be considered a man nor a woman - for, in India, I resemble neither of them too much. So, anomaly that I was, I ventured around joyously, unravelling the mysteries of that mysteriously mystic culture until I understood a lot more about them that they did about me.

Ear cleaning, ma'am?

2010-12-21T22:39:00.000+02:00

There is chaos all around, but in an organized kind of way - once you start getting the system. Walking on the streets of Haridwar feels like being in a movie about India. The air is hazy with the mix of dust, mist and smoke, boiled to around 30 degrees by the hot sun and the blue sky is nowhere to be seen - it is all yellowish white.

Getting somewhere means wiggling through the narrow strip between shops and traffic, dodging oncoming pedestrians. On one side a slow colourful maelstrom of vehicles of all kinds, powered by men, animals or petrol, honking their way through the rickshaw jam with pimped-up musical horns mixed with jangling Hindi pop music; on the other side: coal, socks, bangles, cucumbers, toothbrushes, offerings, buckets - you name it, we've got it! Ear wax removal? Shoe shining? Chai? You name it, we'll do it! There is no colour missing on any section of the market street and every imaginable service has someone to offer it. I personally didn't plan on letting an Indian boy anywhere near enough to poke around in my ears but I did see him in action from a safe distance. Dirty ears, ma'am! is a catchy phrase, I must admit.

All life happens on the streets. A shop, workshop or a restaurant usually means a hole in the wall, stacked with merchandise. Bananas jostle around on a cart as well as apples, papayas, potatoes along with various unidentifiable fruits and veggies. On the riverside you can get plastic bottles to scoop out some purifying Ganga water and take it home with you. I have no idea what they do with it - drink, wash or do whatever it takes to finally catch that longed-for cholera. Purifying means different things for us and them.

Can it possibly get any more colourful? Yes, it can! Especially at Diwali time - the Hindu New Year's celebrations. If adding more colours would make no more difference, there's always tinsel! And after you've done what you can with tinsel - fireworks! Our team of four western giants had trouble finding a safe enough way back to the hotel. In fact, it was impossible to find since the fireworks exploded constantly all around us at ground level so that the overall impression was that of a warzone. Thus we resigned and picked the street we already knew (and knew to fear) - the riverside - and made our way through it under a thick smoke blanket.

There's nothing quite like running from car to car, taking cover and screaming delightedly after throwing aside the fear for one's life because there's no way of coming out of it alive anyway. Might as well enjoy the ride! Our enjoyment lasted until a happy family chucked a bunch of fireworks and matches in our hands and made the more courageous among us go face-to-face with the explosives... which in turn lasted only a few minutes, cut short by a racing scooter that hit our lovely Basque and took a bite out of his shin. Hence we started a frantic midnight rickshaw-race, making reconnaissance with the indoors of two hospitals. The intelligence concluded that direct hit fireworks' victims were too abundant to accommodate someone with a petty scratch like that.

Each time I buy a bottle of water, I twitch with guilt

2010-12-20T08:11:00.011+02:00

I cannot look away any more, letting them pack all my goods in unnecessary plastic bags. A strip of a thin pink or blue plastic bag hanging out of the corner of the mouth of a homeless holy street cow is quite a disgusting sight. I have seen it far too many times. It really is easy to insist that the cashier take the bag back even if I have to do an extra hand movement and lift my bananas out of it. Somehow, at home, it eventually seemed easier not to bother any more and accept the ten bags on an average market day: one to wrap a few oranges, another for a bunch on bananas, then one for bread and yet another for cucumber. It looks so stupid now.

Even if there are no plastic-eating cows in Europe and the rubbish is neatly hidden away from my sight, it doesn't mean it's really gone. Landfills are as effective as brushing the dirt under the carpet in the living room. Recycling still uses up natural resources and in turn creates its own pollution. India, being an incomparably poor country, simply does not have the money nor educational or infrastructural systems to deal with it yet.

Visiting India is a perfect crash-course on environmental issues for a Westerner like me. I know that at home I inevitably produce ten times more garbage than I would ever do in India, where I mostly consume only to cover my basic needs. Even then, the locals undoubtedly produce even less rubbish than me.

It is always a problem how to dispose of the daily plastic remains of my drinking water. The scraps of newspaper used for wrapping food is less of a problem to throw on a pile of crap on the street. Also, it took me only nearly two months to learn to drop fruit peel directly on the ground as opposed to carrying it around in search of a hungry goat.

Bins are rare and I know that probably even the ones I find will be emptied into nature. Or in better cases, burned right there on the street, adding to the thick blanket of smog that covers the lowlands from Delhi to the base of the Himalayas. I got all too familiar with the smell of burning plastic. It was very clear how every action of a single individual adds up to the allconsuming pollution. Why the Himalayan glaciers melt and how on earth that heat-absorbing soot gets on top of them is not a mystery any more. I try not to think about the carbon emissions of all the flights I take. Education has a cost - this is how I excuse it for myself.

The usual - transdimensional logistical scheming

2010-12-18T07:56:00.022+02:00

Going somewhere always starts with a story of getting there. Often it is an adventure in itself. If Frodo had taken the straight flight to Mordor and ridden a cable-car up to the Mount Doom, the story would have been over in two pages. Comfort and excitement are not friends.

My personal quest of getting to India started a long way back with all kinds of last-minute logistical problems such as not having any money; then having money but no visa; then having barely enough time to get a visa (and considering all the considerable neighbouring countries with an Indian Embassy); then telling all my friends that I'll leave Montpellier tomorrow but failing to leave until the day after with the first flight to Brussels (because barely enough time means impossible in French, compared to probable in Dutch); then battling a bad flu all week and a half while waiting for my visa... which I got in the afternoon before the morning that my flight took off from Frankfurt to where I had to hitchhike first, having only 3 hours of daylight left. Inevitably, as a bonus track, the visa application center included the mandatory 15-minute scene of mobilizing their whole crew to go about jittering, looking for my lost passport even though everyone else seemed to get theirs back swiftly enough. Mr.Murphy has always had a special spot for me in his heart.

So there I was in summer clothes, shivering in the freezing wind on the German border at sunset, still about 300km away from the airport. To deceive my body into not dieing of exposure and to keep the spirits up I let out a continuous stream of improvised heart-warming songs in the lines of Pleeeeease, take me to wooonderful waaaarm and sunny Indiaaaaaaa, ooooo, Indiaaaaaaa! I felt like an opera superstar, shouting the lines at the top of my magnificent voice. I doubt that anybody could hear me across the roaring of the cars on the autobahn. Lucky them.

As always, shortly after my thumb went numb with cold and anxiety started sneaking in, I started finding awesome rides. First a nice gentleman handed me a map of Germany. From that moment on I could stop relying on the extremely sketchy map existing only in my head. Next I had a good laugh with two young fellows from Köln who pampered me as best they could and made a long detour for my benefit. Without even knowing how incredibly hungry I was, they forced me to accept a bagful of food, including sandwiches made by grandma the same morning. And lastly, they drove me to a petrol station and talked me into the car of a chatty heart surgeon who had worked as a volunteer doctor in McLeod Ganj - just where I was heading. I took it as a sign and vowed to follow it.

Et alors, after all this everything suddenly seemed ridiculously easy from the moment I stepped out of the Delhi airport, carrying precisely 7.3kg of luggage. A familiar mischevious grin erupted on my face and I was ready toEt alors, after all this everything suddenly seemed ridiculously easy from the moment I stepped out of the Delhi airport, carrying precisely 7.3kg of luggage. A familiar mischevious grin erupted on my face and I was ready to start my 2-months' survival experiment in this new, unknown corner of the world. I called it my very first real holiday.

But still I hadn't decided the direction to take out of Delhi - Varanasi? Rishikesh? Amritsar? - as late as when sitting in the New Delhi train station ticket office, flapping a half-filled foreigner's form in my hand where only the destination gap was unfilled. All my very first day in India I had a curious tendency to befriend old Western women. There I got hints from a nice Czech Parisian and surprise-surprise, found myself on an upper berth of the overnight train to Pathankot the same evening with Dharamshala-McLeod Ganj due the next day.

Completely normal everyday life (in India)

2010-11-04T09:03:00.000+02:00

Every night, those two stray dogs that have claimed my floor in the monastery as their territory, fight furiously to keep the floor clear of the invasion of monkeys. Sometimes the growling and fierce barking mixes with screams when some courageous ape dares to touch the floor. After about a week of disturbed sleep I start hallucinating about how the monks are really shapeshifters who take on a canine form to guard me through the night.

Morning starts before sunrise when the gongs call for meditation. I ignore them and wake up well after sunrise to the creaking of cicada mixing with the traffic that sounds like it was denser than it really is. I grab my water bottle, toothbrush and -paste, the essential strip of toilet paper, lock my clanging metal door with a padlock and head for a cold shower and the hole in the ground.

To get anywhere, I have to walk up and down in a town that seems to be solely made out of stairs and hillsides, located almost two kilometers higher of my normal habitat. The first five days I have no appetite and breathe heavily while struggling uphill on the streets. After only a few days I suddenly find that the way to my room is fairly flat. Then the panging hunger arrives, leaving me bouncing between the endless variety of restaurants and culminating with a bucket on my bedside the night before I plan to climb the nearby 3km high pretty hill.

My way towards chai and a meal goes through the theoretically left-hand, but in practice the-biggest-bossiest-and-loudest-car-hand traffic. I arrive at the usual meeting point past construction workers dressed in colourful saris carrying bricks on their heads; swarms of red-cloaked monks and nuns on their daily walks; shoe doctor and rice porridge salesman; cows and goats having breakfast in rubbish piles; dog mafia that keeps a keen eye on their territory by fighting outsiders and befriending humans; and monkeys doing, well, monkey business.

I have a rendezvous with some other sleepy lone travelers who have happened to stick together since the first night in McLeod Ganj. Before moving on, we buy sweet milk tea from a hole in the wall and bread wrapped in newspaper from a wrinkly old man sitting on the street. It's 6am, the sun has just risen, and the plan for today is to walk almost an hour through the forest to attend the 50th anniversary of the Tibetan Children's Village school and hear the Dalai Lama speak.

On the way uphill two dogs join our pack. They want to hear the speech too but need protection from the schoolyard gang and they will not be easily deterred. Once the speeches begin we all bundle up like a litter of puppies to snooze in the stinging hot sunshine on the school stairs. All the school ceremonies in the world are the same - deadly boring. When the Dalai Lama finally starts speaking, it's clear that the boredom doesn't derive simply from the incomprehensible Tibetan language: although I still don't understand a word I find his speech captivating. I conclude that it doesn't matter what you say at all until you know how to ooze charisma.

When evening falls, at 6pm sharp, we meet again in the community cafe called Cafe Panda to eat the absolutely heavenly chocolate-peanut butter momos, drink more chai, cuddle the cutest ever week-old puppy called Panda, help some old refugees learn English, watch the reflection of the sunset on distant snowy peaks, then see a more or less documental movie about Tibetan struggles for independence or enjoy an open mic session. Other options include Italian restaurants and excellent pizza, open air bars that serve the best banana lassi in town or a French bakery with a view on prayer flags and green hills. All that comes accompanied by frequent electricity blackouts. Sitting in a dark cafe in the monastery waiting for dinner is something to live for.

There's so much life going on in McLeod Ganj that I have no real reason to leave. Additional benefits of the higher latitudes and altitudes include clear air. When I first arrived in Delhi, I could look straight into the orange sun with the naked eye and closely observe the movements of grey air creeping into my lungs. The glimpses of roadside lush greenness seen while hanging halfway out of train door was mostly in my imagination as the green didn't quite show through the thick layer of dust. Up here, we have views! I can see not only the sun but also the lopsided moon and the stars forming familiar constellations at weird angles. Also, I still have that mountain to climb before I can move on.

Should picking grapes be considered extreme sport?

2010-10-05T13:12:00.023+03:00

We are all insane here!

... and then we all jump into the back of a small truck and have a ride onto the fields, bundled up on the wooden floor like gypsies, legs hanging out of the open side door. Safety? What's that? Hanging out the door is the only way to get a dubious whiff of clean air where the thick mix I'm constantly forced to breathe in contains all the known smokable fauna at once. Several times I am asked why I don't smoke. What can I say? We come from such different universes - where I come from, I would never even imagine the possibility of this question.

There's this one war veteran that holds infinite heated conversations with his imaginary friends and another one, equally crazy but more so from the old age, who keeps laughing at him, and sometimes they talk, laugh and call each other insane - it's hilarious even though I don't understand a word;

there are these smug old countrymen who keep calling me a petite gazelle until they realize that it's a genuine 4x4 off-road vehicle they're making dirty jokes to, and adopt more respectful manners;

there are these girls mixing milk, rum and coffee in a plastic bottle early every morning to have a wake-up cocktail on the fields; there's this boy cutting brown smokable matter into 20-Euro cubes in the bedroom where I'm stealing my usual 8-minute siesta after lunch;

there are those two dudes playing drums - and doing it very well - with a huge cooking pot, singing their one-word-song called Merde while someone lights a gigantic joint, someone juggles, someone plays guitar and sings, someone repeats stupid teenagers' jokes, someone plays chess, someone chats and laughs together with yet another invisible friend and someone chuckles at the surreality of all of it, refuses all drinks offered, reads quantum physics, goes to sleep and wakes up much too early believing she must have quantum leaped into one of those alternative realities.

The eighth day. Another steep hill, another rainy afternoon. As our grumpy team picks and carries its way up, we see something mysterious: another team of vendangeurs drives in, hops off the truck and runs downhill, singing. On the neighbouring field, they are obviously singing and dancing much more than working. We look at them, stunned: they can't be real workers! They are too happy! Then these mystical creatures rush onto our field, pouring their thick dark red wine into our mouths straight from the barrel, shouting that we are too cute to be left here like this.

When their boss arrives, I am convinced it's a theatrical set-up: he looks like a real-life leprechaun, exactly the kind that I met a few times when I was hitching in Brittany last year. He comes from Brittany, too. I conclude that my leap into fairy world really happened.

But it was not all fun and games: the emotions peaked both very high and very low, changing their polarisation fast.

There was always sweat

It's the dawn of the fourth day and I'm about to head onto the fields. The work is very hard but we are fed no worse than kings. The muscles of my back are tense and sore but at this precise moment, at least not painful, which is already a huge improvement. Also, I can feel them growing. Literally.

I drop off straight after dinner with the sun at 8 o'clock and sleep like a good baby straight through until breakfast between 6 and 7 in the morning. During the day - work and eat, with the emphasis on working, of course. I work until I fall off my feet and then some more. This too, I mean literally.

From the very beginning I decide to approach the experience like it was a sports camp: I stretch, eat, sleep and stay away from the wine they start serving at 9am with the second breakfast. As a result, the mighty vastus lateralis that grew on me this summer got a matching pair of erector spinæ.

The work is physically very hard, especially so for the porters who walk up and down steep hillsides and climb ladders with about 60-80kg of grapes on their backs. I gaze at these superheroes in awe until on the seventh day I wake up feeling particularly brave and become one of the few porteuses ever known. Surprisingly enough, this job tires me much less than crouching over to cut the grapes, and I continue stomping those 30° slopes for 4 days.

Le bonbon is unveiled only after we have proved our worth as workers: in the very last evening we are directed onto a slope so steep that all exhaustion that I might have felt is blown right away by the adrenaline that kicks in. I am not the one to carry a heavy load down a 70° slope that triggers endless jokes about missing ropes, harnesses and parachutes. There, even cutters keep falling over and sliding down and I have to apply all my wall climbing experience to balance. Needless to say that all the remaining porters instantly restore their unshakable status as superheroes.

It's day 13 and I just had my last shower. However, it doesn't mean that I have any clean clothes to wear: I swear that my socks are not only standing on their own but also walk by their own means!

There was often blood

Be that drunk cutters slicing their fingers and sneaking their sauces into the wine or be that tired cutters stumbling over everything at the end of the working days. There was definitely blood on that one fateful occasion out of hundreds when I decided to trust the ladder and skipped the usual triple double check before climbing it with a very heavy load on my back.

But of course, wine out-flowed all blood by long measure. Most days I took my half a glass of wine after dinner but as for others - our ~30-headed team had 600 litres of wine prescribed for the duration of "10 days or whenever the work is done" and many went into the village to buy extra. No wonder about the blood then.

There were sometimes tears

The end? Day 11, afternoon, about half a day before the initially predicted end of vendanges: I quit and walked away at zero minutes' notice, having promptly decided that our boss is too nuts to be tolerated any longer. It's about time someone shows some attitude. But really, I was choking in tears and leaving was more in line with my principles than lighting a(nother) joint as seems to be the prevalent strategy around here. Nor am I proficient enough in the 'swearing like a sailor' vocabulary in French to sound as convincing as the others do; my actions will serve as body language.

Day 12. Nope, that was not the end. I let the other inmates of this lunatic asylum convince me to stay. To be honest, another day's salary is very appealing and the curiosity to see the end of this comedy show too big to leave yet. From now on I keep my distance from the heart of the forever ongoing nuclear attacks and stay well hidden behind grape bushes while picking my way uphill. Thus I occasionally get to laugh at various incredulous scenes that would turn me mad were I their subject.

The incident of a flying ladder, followed shortly by a separate incident of flying humans which was in turn followed by an incident of flying buckets... and soon followed by the incident of flying grapes as a direct result of an effort to prevent another bloody incident of a flying ladder. Result: tears, lots and lots of tears. The next tears - lots and lots of tears - poured out of the eyes of a grown man whose self esteem had received a good beating on behalf of an evil rake; and the next after these flowed when another girl was badly insulted and the next after those when... Double X chromosome comes with a licence to cry whenever need be (and no other combination is denied this privilege either).

I would totally do it again, by the way. If not for anything else then for the most amazing sunrises over the distant Mont Blanc. That sun - it never rose quietly. When it came out, it came accompanied by a symphonic orchestra starting with a loud bang and as a porter I had the full privilege to stand upright and enjoy it. At all other times, it was the main theme of Kusturica's "Black Cat, White Cat" that didn't stop playing in my head.

Where did all the heroes go?

2010-08-22T10:27:00.008+03:00

Scorching our mighty artistic tans even more artistic, the hot weather was pretty much all that Finland had to offer us. The change from Norway was abrupt and radical, starting the moment we crossed the border and only becoming more pronounced as we moved on towards the darker nights.

Having become accustomed to the talkative, outdoorsy nation, it was hard to believe the words of a French cyclist who we met in Olderfjord. He had done our planned route in the opposite direction and had just finished pedalling his way up through Finland. Obviously, we tried to squeeze some information out of him, including the answer to the question that interested us the most: How was it?

While praising the beauty of the endless forests, he couldn't help but mention that everyone he met in this country, was drunk. And I mean drunk! Like really, really, really drunk! We'll see and judge that when we get there, we thought, knowing already that people are like bugs - whether you attract flies or butterflies depends on more factors than simply where you are.

Soon, we learned that he knew exactly what he was talking about.

Whether trying to catch the eye of passers-by in an attempt to be polite and say Hi or simply smile and nod, or trying to be chatty with waitresses and cashiers, we quickly learned to keep our eyes firmly on the road. With a few friendly exceptions, almost anyone who came to acknowledge us was dead drunk and generally more interested in our breasts than our itinerary, thus ruining our bread-and-chocolate breaks (because, unfortunately, Finnish and Estonian are sufficiently close for me to understand their drunken raving). Then again, I can't blame people for shutting themselves off or boozing themselves up if the best entertainment around is several hundreds of kilometres of forest to gaze at. You gotta find a way to open up some new dimensions in the world!

In contrast, the people we stayed with near Rovaniemi, in Oulu and Helsinki, were all exceptionally friendly and interesting personalities, shining new light onto their country. Without them, we would have been lost in dullness!

After finding our way out of Oulu we hit the straightest possible road to the South expecting it to continue as it was before. To me, almost every single hour in Finland felt like I had just sneaked out for a short afternoon ride in the outskirts of Tallinn and would be home shortly. The difference was that home never actually arrived. Do I need to stress that it became quite frustrating after a week? Even on the boat to Helsinki the realisation that it was finished didn't hit me until I finally saw the famous "sardine tin" silhouette of Tallinn glistening in the sun. It was a very special moment.

We hadn't actually used any maps since the Lofoten or maybe even Trondheim, because in the North the choice of roads is pretty slim. There's usually only one and you follow it straight or else run the risk of falling off a cliff or being swallowed up by a swamp. Then, all of a sudden we were in the middle of civilisation and needed to find our way out of or into fairly big towns like Oulu, Jyväskylä, Lahti and Helsinki. The first two had a special knack of driving us mad with their many intermingling bike lanes and motorways going off in every direction. Cycling slowly in circles for 30km to get out of Oulu while edging forward only 16km ate away many precious nerve cells and called for an early afternoon de-stress break in a motorway services cafe. The next few days followed a similar pattern.

We decided to make the last desperate dash towards the finish, push as hard as we could and do the remaining 600km after Oulu in just four days. It seemed reasonable, considering the density of awe-inspiring sites and the "gradient" of the road. But on the second day Finland surprised us with considerable hills for about 100 kilometres and cut the 200km-aim short at 165km. My stallion is a heavy horse to force uphill.

By then we had finally reached the more attractive parts of the country. Getting off the main road to see more lakes, fewer lorries and find more physical challenges was a new idea prompted by an initial glimpse of something actually worth looking at. On the spur of the moment, we added one day and some distance to our trip, rediscovered the pleasure of physical challenge over the constant need for hard-core self motivation due to a severe lack of mental stimulation, and saw some lovely landscapes. The only other biker that we met in Finland told us that we were passing through the most beautiful region of the country. But honestly - it was still average among even the most boring kind of Norwegian beauties.

That evening, seeing a wooden spire rising up above the village at the end of the road, we saw the opportunity to finally cross out "sleep in a church(yard)" on our list of slightly unusual camping places. The next night though, under the cover of darkness that hid us as well as the identity of the place we went to, we managed to pitch our tent directly under the office windows of a school in the centre of Lahti. When four men, including the heavyweights - the headmaster and his deputy in suit and tie - came to throw us out in the morning, they weren't expecting to meet two apologetically smiling girls already packing and explaining how they hadn't been able to find a safe place to sleep so late at night. The astonished bouncers were stripped of their weapons in an instant, only the manners remained. They asked if we slept well and wished us a good trip to Helsinki.

Did we ever consider quitting?

There were countless moments when the indescribable beauty of the scenery took our breath away more than the effort of climbing uphill to see it; or when the thrill of racing downhill at 73km/h only spiced it up, adding to the experience rather than being the experience itself; or when a short stretch of flat road felt like it was heaven sent. There were countless moments of pure happiness.

Most of it was in Norway, as you can guess. Finland was a whole different story - a mental challenge more than a physical one. It needed to be done and now it is.

There were many moments when climbing uphill was so hard that we had to continue motivating ourselves to pedal on instead of stopping and walking if only for few metres. There were many moments when we both felt down simultaneously and many when either one of us was more tired physically, mentally or both while the other one pedalled with ease, singing away and feeling her most energetic. There were many moments when we sat in cafes or in supermarkets, safe from torrential rain, fatigue or boredom, trying to pretend that we would magically move forward and it would all go away if we just sat there... and then, eventually, we always needed to move on. There were moments when stopping for the day was all we could think about. But quitting for real - never crossed my mind nor Alice's. We're a stubborn pair.

We did it :)

Only one thing seems very wrong: we should be feeling like heroes but we don't. Now that's disappointing!

---

Day 44: 143.52km on the roads 78, 924, 849 and 20; nothing to see there;

Day 45: 38.05km to Oulu; couchsurfing;

Day 46: 153.22km on the roads 847 and E75; the E75 is an unimaginably long, straight, flat main road with heavy traffic;

Day 47: 165.44km on the E75 to Äänekoski; ... including the hundred km-s of Finnish hills, spiced up with heavy lorry traffic;

Day 48: 119.76km on the roads 642 and 637 to Jyväskylä. Then on the E63, 610 and 612 to Luhanka - a smaller calmer and a bit hillier path through the lakelands;

Day 49: 121.39km on the roads 612, 314 and 24 to Lahti;

Day 50: 96.52km on the road 140 to Helsinki; couchsurfing.

Day 51: 21.34km to Helsinki port. THE END:)

Distance cycled from the last stop after Rovaniemi (in 8 days): 859.24km
Total distance cycled in 51 days: 4410.98km

Thus, our average daily distance over 51 days (composed of 7 full rest days + 44 cycling days) was 86.5km; full rest days excluded, the daily average was 100km (min. 21.34km and max. 165.44km).

Food, glorious food!

2010-08-12T12:09:00.015+03:00

Six weeks have passed since we saw the orange moon rising over the seas as we advanced towards the land of the fairy tales... rising, dark blue, from the horizon. Six weeks it took us to cross the Arctic Circle twice, shake hands with Santa Claus and see our first dark night and our first star again! This, this is true magic.

... in the meantime, we continued cycling from unbelievably far North to even more unbelievably far North, passing by more and more stunning natural sights. There were low glaciers, crawling down the sharp black cliffs into the fjord, feeding our hungry eyes while the sun was warming our cheeks. The greenery softened the impression of the overall scenery down to majestic friendliness and I wrote in my notebook: I'm here and nothing else matters.

The contrasts never cease to surprise us. It is amazing how fast conditions can go from freezing cold to burning hot; from desperate to ecstatic; from soaking wet to sunny and dry; from stunning views to hours in zero visibility; from completely drained to bursting with energy; from sheep on the road to reindeer everywhere; from scooping peanut butter out of a jar with a spork to eating salmon with silver forks in a lace-clad dining room.

All of a sudden, after having climbed up the last two hills after Alta, we were on flatlands. For the first time in weeks we couldn't see any high peaks. It was Finnmark, the poorest area of Norway - where the Samis herd reindeer. We crossed the roughly 300m high barren swampy plateau and reached Olderfjord before night fell. Somehow, a lucky succession of coincidences managed to change our plans from throwing our bikes into a bush for a day to leaving them with a random farmer to being accommodated and fed for two nights and a day in between.

When planning the road in the first place, we never wanted to visit Nordkapp, having only heard about the pointlessness (other than "having been there") of the place. Once on the road, it seemed strange to go so close and leave the last bit undone. Therefore, our aim was to leave the bikes and do a quick hitchhiking day trip. As it rained heavily the day we meant to hitch, we decided to live in tempo with nature once again and warmed our tired bottoms on the couch in the nice dry indoors instead. We paid the visit to mainland Europe's most northerly point the next day in perfect sunlight.

It was very pretty.

Every day is an adventure as we can never be absolutely sure whether we are able to meet the day's goal or not. There are too many variables: the length and gradient of the climbs ahead; the strength and the direction of the wind; something going wrong with the bikes; something going wrong with ourselves; or factor x decides to intervene.

From Alice's diary: Norway blessed our last morning with glorious sunshine. Leisurely breakfast under warming rays - but something was wrong: Triini wasn't hungry!

The first day in Finland welcomed us with hot sunny weather and a bit hillier terrain than we had expected. It wouldn't have been hard if it weren't for the fact that I had a started the day feeling a tiny bit puke-ish, unable to eat any of that food, glorious food of Finland I had been dreaming about. With the hills rolling more sharply up and down than I liked, I went more and more feverish until we had to stop in the first civilization we saw - Kaamanen - where I curled up in my sleeping bag on the blueberry-laden shrubbery of the forest and slept for an hour. Good sleep works miracles and we were able to cycle another 5km on the flat until a petrol station where we camped in the neighbouring forest. This is a good example of a day cut short by unexpected circumstances. Oh, and I had a flat tyre the moment we arrived to this petrol station. And it started raining.

I was cured only two more nights of sleeping and two more days of easy pedalling later. Alice was cheering with delight when hearing the words "But I'm still hungrrrrrrrry!" coming from me after dinner. She would never have believed that she'd be so glad to hear them.

Yesterday was the day of breaking some more personal records. In addition to chatting to Santa and peeking into Lordi's restaurant we spent a mighty 8 hours in the saddle. A more usual cycling day consists of about 6 to 7 hours of pedalling and a lot of slacking off. Sometimes, we call it our training camp, especially when our days turn out to be well structured: we wake up at 8 and start cycling between 9 and 10 o'clock. We stop, eat and rest when we need to. Yesterday, for example, had three "training sessions": 80km before lunch, 35km before dinner and 46km before going to bed. The sauna and bed felt very well deserved.

---

Day 32: 93.53km; ferries: Breivikerdet - Svensby and Lyngen - Olderdalen; joined the E6 again;

Day 33: 105.01km on the E6;

Day 34: 102.73km to Alta;

Day 35: 112.3km to Olderfjord; couchsurfing;

Day 36: day off

Day 37: hitching to Nordkapp and back; cycling 29.78km towards the South;

Day 38: 114.27km to Karasjok;

Day 39: Finland! 90.39km to Kaamanen;

Day 40: 100.31km on the one and only road ("Santa's Rd") towards the South, through Ivalo;

Day 41: 147.78km to Sodankylä and beyond;

Day 42: 161km through Rovaniemi and then on the road 78; couchsurfing;

Day 43: day off.

Distance cycled since Tromsø (9.5 days of cycling and 1.5 days off in between): 1057.1km
Total distance cycled in 43 days: 3551.74km

---

Our favorite song, the one that we sing the most often:

Food, Glorious Food

[BOYS]
Is it worth the waiting for?
If we live 'til eighty four
All we ever get is gru...el!
Ev'ry day we say our prayer --
Will they change the bill of fare?
Still we get the same old gru...el!
There's not a crust, not a crumb can we find,
Can we beg, can we borrow, or cadge,
But there's nothing to stop us from getting a thrill
When we all close our eyes and imag...ine

Food, glorious food!
Hot sausage and mustard!
While we're in the mood --
Cold jelly and custard!
Peas, pudding and saveloys!
What next is the question?
Rich gentlemen have it, boys --
In-di-gestion!

Food, glorious food!
We're anxious to try it.
Three banquets a day --
Our favourite diet!

Just picture a great big steak --
Fried, roasted or stewed.
Oh, food,
Wonderful food,
Marvellous food,
Glorious food.

Food, glorious food!
What is there more handsome?
Gulped, swallowed or chewed --
Still worth a king's ransom!
What is it we dream about?
What brings on a sigh?
Piled peaches and cream, about
Six feet high!

Food, glorious food!
Eat right through the menu.
Just loosen your belt
Two inches and then you
Work up a new appetite.
In this interlude --
The food,
Once again, food
Fabulous food,
Glorious food.

Food, glorious food!
Don't care what it looks like --
Burnt!
Underdone!
Crude!
Don't care what the cook's like.
Just thinking of growing fat --
Our senses go reeling
One moment of knowing that
Full-up feeling!

Food, glorious food!
What wouldn't we give for
That extra bit more --
That's all that we live for
Why should we be fated to
Do nothing but brood
On food,
Magical food,
Wonderful food,
Marvellous food,
Fabulous food,

[OLIVER]
Beautiful food,

[BOYS]
Glorious food
Marvellous food,
Glorious food

It - It is in the people

2010-07-31T13:26:00.013+03:00

So far, most of our days off happened to be in clear sunny weather. It wasn't any different on our rest day in Bodø, when the Atlantic ocean and the Norwegian mountains had agreed on a cease-fire and let the air fronts breathe peacefully. Immediately, we took advantage of the occasion: with the help of two Norwegian girls and a Swedish medicine student, we conquered the Keiservarden hill overlooking Bodø and offering a sneak peek out to the distant Lofoten islands emerging only as a light touch of blue pastel on the horizon.

The more our journey advances, the less predictable it becomes. We did not preplan to visit the Lofoten as it seemed to add too much distance. But, as we have become used to jumping on and off ferries, skipping the islands seemed to be almost a criminal decision. Looking forward in time - to skip Tromsø and Nordkapp feels like it would definitely be a crime, so we felt that we must also tick those coordinates off our "to visit" list. Also, it is only normal that communicating with various other travellers on the road helps develop a better sense of the area and the experiences worth getting.

That said, the concentration of travellers was one thing that the Lofoten is low on. Its rich landscape offering all kinds of activites from bike tours to hiking, mountain climbing and even surfing next to snowy peaks, attracts visitors like flypaper. There, you can meet hundreds and hundreds of tourists and still feel a lone traveller in the world. After this the brief encounters with the rare likeminded become all the more valuable.

What's the difference, you ask? And how can I tell who's who? The difference is in feeling the unity. By saying this, I consciously take the risk of sounding like a hippy tripping on acid, but the truth is out there and it becomes so obvious once you learn to see it: we're all in this world together. In more precise terms, the difference is in being an interactor vs being an observer-consumer, not so much in what kind of activities you're participating in. We are used to saying Hi to other passing cyclists or approaching and talking to (or being addressed by) anyone interesting (or interested). Other travellers are too. No tourist ever is.

By keeping our minds open we met Kris the Pole, cycling for the who-knows-how-manyeth-time to Nordkapp, who shared with us another of the secret recipes of cyclists who need to eat a lot and survive in Norway on their non-Norwegian budgets. Pasta with jam remains in our emergency list for the day when we're so fed up with Wasa bread that we can't possibly face eating even a single slice more. Up to this day, we're still holding on and trying to vary what we put on it. Spoonfuls of salty butter is one of our secrets of not getting skeletal too fast.

When we're not busy meeting people and talking to the wind, we communicate with the local wildlife. The sheep, we have met before. However, it was fun to chase them and dodge the poo flying out at running speed from the back of the herd. The lilacs I haven't seen for a while since I am used to them being one of the first signs of summer in Estonia, blooming some months earlier. They were one of the first real signs of the North to me. It doesn't feel like we're in the North and going further every day - it actually gets warmer with the sun constantly around and the Gulf stream caressing the coast.

A few days ago, we finally found the mosquitoes. Or rather, they found us. We have been fighting midges in some areas further south before, but the mozzies have been rare so far. That evening, we discovered the new natural power we must start dealing with from now on. If it is not the wind or the rain or the hairpin climbs, it will be the monstrous bloodsuckers waiting for us on the roads that cross the swamps of Lapland. Luckily, we can perfect our skills for another week before arriving in their dukedom. A good technique is to stroll casually away from the tent, luring the bugs into following you, stand still for a second and then make a desperate dash towards the tent. It is generally a good idea to practice the fast opening and closing of the tent zippers beforehand or else the mozzies will have time to recover from the confusion and slip in.

Or we could take the advice of the Heia boy in the Sami tourist information, who told us to cover ourselves from the infrared eyes of the bugs by wearing heat reflecting clothing (white is better than black) or just make them puke by smearing a special stinky ("authentic crap smell") liquid on the skin.

And then, we arrived in Tromsø - the town they call the Paris of the North because of its liveliness, big interest in fashion, culture, art and cuisine. Everywhere you look, you see variety - be it the people, the buildings or the nature. This cute colourful town is filled with sparkly student life that can also be noticed during the summer holidays, when the sun never sets but only shifts its light so that even the surrounding mountains never fail to change their appearance every hour or so.

Are we in the North now? I don't know. It doesn't feel like it. Being surrounded by two bubbly Italian raggaze and a bright-eyed Brazilian boy in the house of a shiny Norwegian girl makes being here under the everlasting sun just as merry as anywhere in the South.

Mostly, when we are not too hungry (which is before dinner) or being eaten by swarms of hungry mosquitoes (which is during dinner), we feel that there's no other life we would want to be living at the moment. The simplest things matter: eating, sleeping and smiling back at the people waving to us.

---

Day 25: 82.88km on the Lofoten, following the E10 towards the mainland; ferry: Bodø - Moskenes; camping on a roadside, sheltered from the wind by bushes;

Day 26: 95.07km on the E10 until Fiskebøl (or Fish Bowl as we affectionately named it); camping in the port, on a field;

Day 27: 126.41km on the E10; camping on a field, sheltered from the wind by a bush;

Day 28: 114.99 on the E10, road 825 and E6 until Setermoen, camping on a field - no wind but hundreds of mosquitoes;

Day 29: 90.40km on the E6 until Nordskjobotn, camping in a schoolyard;

Day 30: 75.80km until Tromsø, couchsurfing;

Day 31: day off;

Distance cycled from the last long stop, Bodø (in 6 days): 585.55km
Total distance cycled in 30 days: 2494.64km

Well, I guess it's a nice view here...

2010-07-24T14:51:00.008+03:00

The first big change of plans we made, was to swap the E6 with the Coastal Road and enjoy the world's most beautiful bike ride.

Seven days ago, we parted ways with the world's nicest hunting family, to continue our quest. Despite the sadness of leaving, it felt good to be back in the saddle. The first day bestowed us with hot sunshine and a bad road choice, adding an extra 20km with more than a little climbing, but rewarding it with a beautiful view over distant snowy mountain tops.

Six days ago, we were woken up by the tent doors flapping in the wind - the consequence of some rebellious pegs having made a short dash for freedom. As soon as we exited, the tent followed suit. However, both tent and pegs were captured as a result of a careful search. After fighting our way through the morning wind and drizzle to a petrol station for lunch, we chatted over a cup of coffee with two toughened-by-long-life German cyclists. The more we advance towards the North, the more cyclists we meet, as the road choices get narrower by the day. Mostly they are coming down from the North, but sometimes going up from the South. In the latter case we sometimes end up catching up and passing each other several times a day, getting extra motivation from the feeling of racing and a surge of pride and content when the other group turns out to be slower. But really, there is not much point in trying to race the short distance cyclers. Even though biking the length of Norway is popular, most people are on 2-week missions.

That evening, we had several hours of blissful weather, so we continued climbing up and racing down for much longer than we had planned, to enjoy the movement through the beautiful landscape.

Five days ago, we were once more woken by the tent doors flapping in the wind and rain. We had managed to park our canvas palace on the best wind-exposed spot in the area, so we packed up fast and made our way to the ferry with no more than a banana in the belly. As the rain got heavier and heavier, we didn't stop before the next town, where we met two boys from the South of France. They made an interesting spectacle, because they had even more improvised luggage solutions than I did. I didn't feel too crazy any more.

When we landed with the last ferry in the evening, planning to cycle another 13km or so in the rain, until the next place that had a name and possibly some toilets, we saw the two Germans, mentioned before, who had passed us unnoticed, and rented a camping hut with four beds... Do I even have to mention how hard it was to stop showering in hot water and how good it felt to sleep under a roof?

Four days ago, we woke up early and packed with German efficiency. The first 50km were done in no time and as the road went on relatively flat all day long, we put up the tent - again in the rain and again in a kindergarten - earlier than usually. It felt as if we've been somehow deceived by the universe. We should have entered the promised fairy tale land already days ago, but the gates seem to be closed for us and the windows covered by thick white mist curtains.

Three days ago, we pedalled uphill right into a hideously dense cloud with visibility for about two metres off the road. It must be a beautiful view! or I am sure it looks amazing! are the prevalent comments about the landscapes we pass. For a short while, the white curtains rip open and we grasp a glimpse of the bright green road banks, a fjord and ragged snowy mountain tops. The snow is creeping closer and closer to the sea level. No wonder it feels so cold!

As if the cold and rain weren't enough, I had a flat tyre just about 6km before the last ferry of the day. Having almost two hours before having to hop on the boat and cross the Polar Circle, I wasn't too discouraged and pushed for a kilometre before hearing a sound made by one of the most useful inventions of mankind - an advancing car. We stopped it the moment we saw it turning around the hill and asked for help. Alice cycled on, while I was conveniently stashed in the German motorhome and drove to the port. Once again, we got much more than we bargained for: they changed my inner tube so fast and professionally that I could do nothing but watch in awe; they cooked a three course meal, including red wine and strawberries with quark, and invited us to dine with them in the warm waiting room; they advised us to sleep on the heated floor of that waiting room until the first boat in the morning; I even got a hint of a job offer! More than anything else, I am learning German in this country.

Two days ago, we crossed the Polar Circle and continued battling with the elements - earth, wind and water all united against us to keep us back, until I decided to summon my own blazing fireball from within myself, since the natural phenomenon was nowhere to be seen. It works for a short while. Is the fairy tale land also affected by the economic crisis or does it have something personal against us? We managed to force ourselves through the heavy bullet-like horizontal rain until we saw a tempting shed, with an open door, behind a kiosk. We spread out our dripping stuff all around the mice-poo-infested room and went briefly back out to see the sudden appearance of the most amazing sunset and clear sky, revealing the oddest shapes of the mountains around us. Wow, the fairy tale land does exist!

One day ago, in the morning: legs - meet wet trousers! Feet - meet wet socks! Guilty girls - meet the very angry man coming to work! Oops. Leaving ASAP. That day, it was the birthday of Alice. That day, the wonderland opened up for us and showed its beautiful side. All those stunning mountain views! The struggle - it was all worth it! We had the almost-British second breakfast (baked beans and Wasa bread) and the almost-French lunch (real bread and Camembert cheese), we even had a reason to take out the camera to capture some views. Before the evening, we arrived in Bodø, to make ourselves comfortable in the big warm homey house of the friend of a friend of a friend and prepare for a well-earned day off.

Next stage, unplanned: the Lofoten.

---

Day 17: 108km; ferry: Flakk-Rørvik; camping on a beach in a village.

Day 18: 124.84km; camped on a field near houses, asked permission first.

Day 19: 89.43km; ferries: Lund-Hofles and Holm-Vennesund; slept in a camping hut.

Day 20: 120km; ferries: Horn-Anddalsvågen and Fjovika-Tjøtta; camped in a kindergarten garden.

Day 21: 118km (Triin) or 124.31km (Alice); ferry: Levang-Nesna; slept in the waiting room of the Kinsarvik port.

Day 22: 95.3km; ferries: Kinsarvik-Jektvik, Ågskardet-Forøy and Vassdalsvik-Ørnes; squatted in a shed.

Day 23: 82.62km; slept in warm beds in a house.

Day 24: day off.

Distance cycled since Trondheim (in 7 days): 744.5km.
Total distance cycled in 23 days: 1909.14km

The Snow Road and the rain road

2010-07-15T20:59:00.001+03:00

Just sitting on our butts day in, day out

The Snow Road

I finished the lazy day of idling away my time in the sun by dipping into a cold fjord, then plonked myself back on the saddle and off we went again. The next morning greeted us with a very heavy climb, with no alternative options available. We wouldn't have taken them anyway - this was The Challenge we had been dreading since the first stages of planning this bike trip.

The first 10km climb from 0m to ~900m altitude was the absolute hardest either one of us has ever done on a bike. It took us two hours to reach the mountain lodge in Turtagrø and as if the climb itself wasn't hard enough, hundreds of flies were constantly buzzing around our heads, while we were giving everything we had to drag ourselves uphill, half a turn of a pedal at a time. The sun was shining and the wind was not strong enough to blow the nasty beasts away. No way could we have gone faster or sweated less. Soon after reaching Turtagrø, we couldn't help but smile broadly, seeing a racing biker crawling up, cursing the flies more than the gradient. We weren't the only nuts on the road.

We recovered from the morning push for about two hours, by vegetating on the soft couches of the cafe, watching all those exhausted hikers walking in for coffee. I was drooling over the mountain views on the postcards and dreaming about conquering some glaciers or even just starting by reading through their most amazing library of the mountaineering books, written by well-known climbing heroes such as sir Edmund Hillary. I made a resolution to come back here once more. Last year - car; this year - bike; next year - hiking boots?

The moment came when we needed to go on. 10km is no distance, even if it takes 2 hours at near maximal effort, and we had another couch waiting for us almost on the other side of the Jotunheimen massif. It took us countless more hours to pedal up to the highest point of the Sognefjellsvegen - 1434m. There was a moment where I found pushing the bike for a few metres easier on the back and more comfortable on the feet, although an at least twice slower way to move on: a small difference in body position made a huge difference for a moment. My excuse was that the cold arctic wind blowing across the glaciers was shoving me off the road, which was true some of the time.

Finally, we reached the top, after having taken another moment to rest and snack on almonds and raisins in the warmth of the second mountain lodge up on 1415m. The earlier stripping break had deceived us into being warm for only a short while. For once, we asked someone else to take our picture on the obligatory photo point. The "someone" happened to be eager French messieurs, who - like many other drivers who honked at us appreciatively while we climbed - were so euphoric to see les filles les plus courageuses du monde!, that they showered us with chocolate, bread and kisses. Gotta love the French! Who else would know better how to feed some exhausted hungry bikers, than the French with their chocolate bread! Yum! From then on, it was a fast downhill ride on the road wriggling between impressive, majestic, gently green, misty mountains. I shouted with glee and I love my brakes! escaped from my lips far too many times.

We arrived at the farm deep down in a sunny valley on a side road just in time for cow slaughtering. The young German couple, their cute baby and many cows welcomed us with warm smiles, hot tea and more chocolate. What more could you wish from life?

The rain road

The next stage - to Trondheim, as fast as possible - felt like a job we just had to get done. The urgency was further pronounced by the extremely variable Norwegian weather turning vile again in Otta. The busy E6 was no pleasure to cycle on. We stopped in Dombås and sat in a cafe for about 3 hours, safe from the cold, bleak, windy, rainy, sad weather, hoping for the sun to come out again. It seemed as if the weather could get worse only if the rain started falling horizontally, so we finally had to give up hope and push forward.

Keeping our heads down and eyes on the tarmac, we didn't even notice that we had climbed up to the snow level again, onto about 1000m high plateau. The only clue to the altitude was the biting cold. Like drowned rats, we asked permission to sit in a hotel for an hour in the evening, and thaw out. Meanwhile, the rain that had calmed a little, caught up on us. It rained so hard that the water was bouncing back up to where it came from, and we still needed to keep going, if only to drop some altitude and find a warmer place to stay than out there side by side with the sledgedogs.

We felt that if anyone, at any point, should take pity on us and invite us in, then this would be the proper moment. Admittedly, the views would have been superb, if only the scenery had not been cloaked in a white, opaque shroud. The way across these mountains was historically a popular pilgrim path and the area used to be infamous for its harsh, inhospitable conditions. Before the car was invented, a large proportion of travellers never made it to Trondheim. It didn't improve too much even when the King's Road (where the E6 lies now) was built. The commuters in their cars didn't forget to encourage us...

Having slid another 25km downhill with no prospect of drying out, we decided that we would knock on the door of the first building we saw and ask for shelter, even though it was past 11pm. However, before seeing any house, we arrived at a lay-by which had a big, clean, heated toilet that became our hotel room for the night. I slept very well.

The next day we cycled with shorter breaks to arrive in Trondheim by the evening - a day ahead of schedule - and have two days off. It was especially important for me, because I had caught cold and needed to sleep it out before it gets too bad. Our couchsurfing host picked me up after we had done 136.61km, and drove me to her big ancient family farm that I would rather call a mansion. Alice cycled another 15km without the luggage (I had to skip this for health considerations). In this utterly beautiful, comfortable palace we have delighted in this dynamic and fascinating hunters family. Norwegians are great hunters. I was proudly presented a frozen furry fox roadkill, not to mention the more usual trophies. Today we've been stuffing our bellies with moose meat spaghetti bolognese, strawberries & cream, lots of tea... and we are looking forward to the city tour and a campfire night with Baileys and toasted marshmallows tomorrow.

---

Day 10: 49.89km - easy evening ride to Skjolden, camping in the centre of the town;

Day 11: 55.08km - the hardest and slowest day, climbing from 0m to 1434m on the snow road 55, couchsurfing in a tiny farm down in a valley;

Day 12: 101.05km through Lom to Otta, camping in a schoolyard;

Day 13: 105.2km, following E6 across a very inhospitable plateau, camping in a toilet;

Day 14: 136.61km (Triin) or 151.62km (Alice), on E6 to Byneset near Trondheim, couchsurfing in a big farm;

Day 15 & day 16: off the saddle;

Total distance cycled in 14 days: 1164.64km

Norway from the inside

2010-07-10T15:48:00.006+03:00

Our first rest day was followed by a half a day off, doing “household” tasks like baking oatmeal cookies and sending superfluous luggage, such as an extra saddle, home. Then, we took our first ferry across to Tau and made the first small detour to cycle to the famous Preikestolen rock. Specifically – to cycle until the parking lot, leave the bikes under the watchful eye of the hotel receptionists and hike up and down the mountains. Half way up was a swimming spot. If the weather had been much better, we could have taken a quick dip and called it a triathlon day.

Once up, we saw pretty much nothing in the blanket of thick, swirling mist, except for some very fat German tourists crawling up the cliffs. They made me feel sorry but at the same time happy to be comparatively fast, light and healthy. The cold, heavy rain proved that the “hurricane” slogan splashed across the sleeve of my 'waterproof' jacket is perhaps a rather exaggerated claim.

The sixth day welcomed us with 7 pitch black tunnels in the first 11 kilometers, one of which we passed shrieking with fear, Alice gripping her headlamp between her teeth in an attempt to scream less. However, we toughened up by the evening in the following 7 tunnels, and when we hit the first of the 19 tunnels the next morning, we welcomed it happily. We even started putting together the package of tunnel-friendly songs to get the most fun out of the acoustic properties of the underground. Sadly, one of the few songs that I can sing – Gollum's Song – has not made it onto the shortlist: rejected by Alice for being far too chilling and creepy.

In addition to passively observing the mountains from the inside and outside, we got to chat to and make friends with some cheery tunnel workers. First, we were stopped on the road to wait for some loose rocks to be removed from the side of the mountain. After having seen some of what the Norwegians casually refer to as “stones” - in fact huge chunks of cliff the size of my bike - flying down from the heavens, I take the warning signs more seriously (and try not to think about them). Another day, we had just merrily cycled through the 17 tunnels, enjoying the protection from the wind and rain that they offer, when we had to climb up a supposedly stunningly beautiful mountain pass. It snaked relentlessly uphill, letting the eyes of the drivers rest on the numerous waterfalls while their hands are busy numbly steering the wheel from the left to the right and back again. On that particular day, it was all wrapped in thick clouds and we pedaled hard into the white void for 40 minutes. Once we reached the top, we saw all the traffic being redirected across the summit, because the tunnel ahead was being repaired. Luckily, the tunnel carvers didn't have the heart to make us do the horribly steep detour. Instead, they made us wait a little bit, leaving us the opportunity to learn some titbits about their work, then stuffed our bikes into their little vans and drove us 6km through the tunnels. Then, wind in our ears, thin stripes of light blue sky above, green hills, dark blue foaming water and white rags of small clouds hanging below, we dashed downhill into the amazingly beautiful valley that surrounded Odda.

When asking Norwegians about the oncoming road profile – is it climbing or not – the information should be treated with extreme caution. If they say that it's flat, it usually means low hills. When they say it climbs, then this translates as steep hairpin curves, where cars crawl carefully up and down, trying to pass each other when they meet, without pushing anyone across the edge. When they say that it will climb a little bit, it could mean literally anything. We were prepared for a “little” hairpin climb before Voss, and were surprised how easily it was be done. I was proud of myself for not having to use the lowest gear anywhere but on the bends. The next “real climb” was after a ski station in the mountains the next morning, but the “it climbs a little bit” just before and after it meant 10km of sneaky uphills late in the evening and early the next morning. We call the long gradual rise “sneaky”, because at some point one's own eyes cannot be trusted – when the eyes confirm the definite downhill, only too often it actually means going straight up. Sneaky hills are the most evil climbs.

I won't tell you the personal speed record we broke, when racing dowhill on the long straight road to Vik after crossing the bright green mountain pass at snow level. You must come, try and find it out yourself.

---

Day 5: 42km of cycling and 3 hours of hiking, Tau-Preikestolen-Tau & a bit more.

Day 6: 102.64km, starting from Tau, going on the road 13 with a half-intentional detour through Sand. Crossing the fjord from Hjelmeland to Nesvik.

Day 7: 105km, following the road 13 through Odda.

Day 8: 95.46km, crossing the fjord from Utne to Kvanndal, cycling across the mountains on road 13 through Voss.

Day 9: 92.62km, still cycling across the mountains, crossing the Sognejord from Vangsnes to Hella, stopping after Sogndal.

Total distance cycled in 9 days: 701.8km

The opening stages of the Scandinavian odyssey

2010-07-04T20:56:00.015+03:00

Getting there

While Triin was busy poolpartying in a plastic pool in the back yard of a squat in Maastricht, Alice and her "pregnant camel", being evacuated from the train station (because someone had put a knife into someone else), kept bumping into naked men on the Paris Gay Pride. While Triin was walking around Europe in search for the perfect saddle, which she finally found in Dortmund along with a very pleasant couchsurfing experience, Alice was busy dying of boredom in Flensburg, thinking bitter thoughts about the coming night and the prospect of us sleeping on the streets. But no - Fritz and Harald came to the rescue, picked her up off the street and thus both of us ended up spending a night on a soft couch, preluded by a 3 a.m. guitar concert. What a wonderful world...

An introductory 114km cycle through a hilly Denmark on an endless straight road ended in the beautiful Vejle, cooking pasta with peanut butter on the stairs of our host, and continued under a hot shower, followed by hot chocolate, purring cats and a warm bed. The 38 euros spent on the train ticket until Hjorring the next day were 38 euros very well spent - we had seen quite enough of the straight road. Another 15km of introductory cycling took us to the port of Hirtshals and after almost missing the boat due to waiting in the wrong place and taking stupid photos, we rolled over the sea, shivering in the wind to watch the most magical moonrise ever seen, and stepped onto Norwegian ground at 00:00 on the 1st of July. We never planned to be that precise.

The beginning

Norway surprised us with a perfect camping spot just 5km away from the port. We had dinner at 2 a.m., while watching the colourful sunrise. For the second dinner of the first day, we invited ourselves to the backyard of a kindergarten in Lyngdal. The second day started really early, with the wake-up call at 6:30, because we wanted to get out of there before any confused children stumbled across our tent. Only half an hour later we wrestled with my back tyre to replace yet another crappy inner tube. After another 30 minutes we were sitting in the Pitstop between two tunnels, trying to figure out how to avoid the banned tunnel, not make a 30km detour and not wait 6 hours for the only bus of the day. Less than an hour later, a nice German couple were stuffing our luggage in the toilet of their motorhome... It was oh so satisfiying looking at the insides of Norway in the seven consecutive tunnels through the car windows, instead of sweating with fear, trying to bike through them and listening to small cars making the sound of an advancing airplane on the runway, and balancing on the verge of a heart attack when a lorry is coming from behind.

The second day brought some extremely beautiful scenery, keeping our jaws neatly open and constantly near the ground, while pedalling uphill sometimes for an hour at a time. The freckly dude from Northern Ireland, who we met just in the morning of the first day, gave us the best advice ever: I never saw a mountain I could't push my bike up. We eventually had to admit defeat and push, but when biking just a moment earlier, we earned the encouraging cheers from all the oncoming cars. Then, dashing downhill at 62km/h the wind efficiently dried up the sweat. It is so much more pleasant snuggling into the sleeping bag with dry - if not entirely clean - skin.

We love the Norwegians too. They seem to be so happy and content. I have a theory, that it is because they have free toilets, free internet and free coffee almost everywhere! Sometimes, even free accommodation. For example, when we arrived to Egersund, the moment we put our feet on the ground, this man was running towards us, forcing his home and car keys into our hands, so that we could sleep at his place. We refused though and had a hard time escaping him, as the poor guy sprinted after us, out of breath, in his desperate attempt to get rid of his keys. We slept next to some stalls instead and used their toilets. We would have asked, but there was noone around but horses.

The third day was easy and fast. However, the heavens opened on us in the morning, rendering me all shivery and cold. But that I fixed with hot cappuccino and a big lunch on a roofed table on Time square. The locals were amused and many of them seemed to think we were selling something. No. Not even ourselves. We got a bit lost and more than a bit frustrated in the industrial outskirts of Stavanger, trying to follow the numerous, but conflicting bike road signs, but finally found our way to our couch in the middle of the ecological gardens, lots of nature and lively (and tasty) chickens. I had to scrub my legs 3 times to get them almost clean. I liked washing off half the tan, but the lines are impressive nevertheless.

Day 4 is a rest day; our bottoms are going nowhere near any saddles.

Total distance cycled in Norway so far: 267km.

Packed up and ready to go

2010-06-27T13:53:00.000+03:00

The girls on the wheels are currently advancing on separate tracks towards the North, one starting from the hot South and the other from the mild North East. Figuring out the logistics for getting to Norway with fully loaded bikes and limited budgets was not an easy task. However, a bit of brain cracking combined with loads of patience, as usual, worked their magic and the cycling towards "up there, where the sun never sets" should start, as scheduled, on the 1st of July. Good luck to us (we need it)!

All-nighters in the airports

2010-06-20T13:04:00.005+03:00

Back in Estonia - sleepy and confused by the sun that takes hours to set

As I had prepared well for a long lonely stay in the airport, it was only logical that I met by chance the Latvian girl Lasma already before the first check-in. We didn't have much chance to hang out after a first wee while during our year in Montpellier and here comes life, offering us the next great opportunity on a silver plate. We took the same sequence of planes home. This week-end sounds good from the start!

I decided against leaving my bags in the locker and going to discover the charms of Charleroi. Instead, I positioned myself between 4 huge rucksacks on a chair in front of the café, to sit back, relax and enjoy. And enjoy I did. 17 hours of overnight waiting as a concious choice can be very interesting.

As the planned entertainment, I was trying to get over and done with the 900g War & Peace that I have been reading for more than a year. I've been noting down the paragraphs I like and today I found this one: Pierre's madness simply meant that he didn't wait, as in days gone by, for people to show personal qualities, what he might call virtues, before loving them. With his heart overflowing with love he loved people for no reason at all, and then had no trouble discovering many a sound reason that made them worth loving.

Whilst the sky lights change from dark rainy gray to sunshine blue to sunset yellow to streetlight orange to clear blue sunrise and back to dark rainy gray, ...

... Chinese schoolgirls giggle over anime on my left and Japanese schoolboys snore away on my right;

... conversations in all kinds of languages swirl around me. I hear Estonian but choose not to react;

... a dude with a familiar accent (Polish?) walks to me and asks the results of the most recent football match - can't help you, sorry;

... children climb up and down their parents;

... a wrinkly gray-haired man strokes the knee of a girl seemingly 30 years younger than him. I find it strange and stare. The older woman sipping her beer next to them seems to think the same, or maybe she just follows the fireline starting from my eyes. She is even funnier to watch;

... the fat man guided by his belly wobbles past several times;

... a big guy with red hoody stops to read the title of my book and shrugs to say i'm impressed! to the universe in general, while I stand nearby, having another coffee and stretching my legs.

... at some point during the morning, surfers arrive. The one who's dragging his surfing board that is packed up in bubble wrap and carton, back and forth in the corridor, gets thirsty looks from us two girls who see it as the perfect bed.

Many people get a beer as their in-between flights drink. The most interesting specimens get more than a beer to fill up those long waiting hours. I take a note of a french-speaking monsieur - quite round-footed already - heartily shaking hands with two Brits. I forget about them all until 3 hours later the monsieur is escorted somewhere to the far right by rather amused policemen who give directions as they go: "Allez-y, on va prendre un petit café!". The Brits continue. I prefer coffee, especially when I'm alone, have to stay awake 13 more hours and can't go to toilet for another 7 hours without dragging all the 60 kilos of luggage with me.

I'm being people-watched too. Some of them seem to enjoy it as a good pastime just like me, some of them are more interested, some even get the fifth, seventh or eleventh look back. Some of them people-stare. A typical darker-toned sir walks past the 3rd or the 4th time, preying my eyes for the second look. To my relief, a teenage boy is always straggling behind him (younger brother? son?). I practice the real meaning of the phrase she wouldn't give him a second look, making every effort to put on my best bored-to-death impression.

One of the Japanese schoolboys takes a long time to plug his laptop into the socket behind my chair. I start wondering if he is reading the text on my screen and whether or not he would be offended by it, considering that the two of them seem to be speaking American English, could be anything between 19 and 35 years old and are probably not even remotely connected to Japan. The Chinese girls next to me turn out to be Korean CouchSurfers, but the drunken Brits are still not Estonians, even though they shout the name of this country far too many times.

4 more hours to go and I still don't feel like sleeping, neither am I bored. It is like a huge international party with all those young people nodding off in the corners, saying Hi! to each other and laughing together when someone farts really loud in their sleep.

One year ago I slept under those same benches, guarded by Latvian friends that I had made earlier in the airport bus. Seems a bit like a dèja vu and I'd be happy to do it again!

Montpellier-Maastricht: hitch-biking

2010-06-08T11:08:00.006+03:00

Day 8: Bored to death

On the eight day of journey, the road started offering some serious climbing again. I was pedalling up and down the hills in numbing heat and without the compensating vista or fast downhills of the mountains. To be completely honest, after the first 10km I found a village with a nice restaurant, where I sat for too many hours, recharging my own batteries, while also slurping their electricity and internet to feed my little electronic helpers. The gourmet section of my trip started with a demisalad the size of a football, decorated with salmon and potatos. Do I need to say it out loud that I suddenly found myself in love with the region(al specialities)?

Reluctantly, in the late afternoon, I peeled myself off their couch and cycled on, trying to pick the roads, that offer potentially interesting views on hilltops and cooling shades in the valleys. My expectations about hilltops were met, while the molten tar on the roads kept my speed down. The shadows did not exist.

Aha, that's where they grow food for the hungry bikers! was the only phrase crossing my mind whenever I opened my eyes to look for the marvels of the landscape. The countless cows to whom I spoke in cat language - because it is the only animal language I know - gave me compassionate looks and chomped on. I couldn't help but stop for another lunch break in a lovely tiny village called Saint-Père. Before climbing on to the next hilltop, I sat long time on cool church steps and delighted in beautiful choir music coming from the inside. Then I cycled through Avallon, hoping to meet druids and elves and misty mysteries, but I was deceived once again.

I raised my thumbs a few times this evening, after the bigger hotter half of the sun had set. It was late and I wasn't too convinced that it would work. Of course, it didn't. I pedalled on in cool evening air, aiming to find the only river noted on the map in 30km radius. I couldn't imagine going to sleep without washing off the sticky film that covered me from head to toe. When I stopped a good hour before the nightfall, refusing to continue on, it wasn't because I had found a nice place to stay (I hadn't). I stopped, because there was no more hope of reaching another body of water in near future. The "river" was "deep" enough to cover my ankles and generally very disappointing. I went to sleep on a random field, determined to leave this place as early in the morning as possible.

Kilometer-counter said "73".

Day 9: Patience, young Padawan, patience...

Everybody knows that sometimes, very often indeed, one must do things one really doesn't want to do. Because this is life and life is hard. A sudden sense of freedom arrives when you realize that, actually, you don't! You don't need to to things that you really-really-really do not want to do. Doing what you want is not always an easy way out. Going with the flow takes much less effort than struggling against it or swimming to the shore, but the results can be oh-so-satisfying!

This morning, I packed my bags fast and early (I call 9:20 "early"), left without breakfast, positioned myself in a shadow next to the road, half way uphill, told myself "Patience, now...", and raised my thumb with fresh confidence. I didn't have to wait long for the first car to stop. Then I helpfully offered to take my bike into small bits, and off we went. A similar procedure was applied about 6 times over the day. Seeing those dreadful endless fields fly past faster than ever filled me with content over the decision I had made about accelerating my movement.

It was a very enjoyable day indeed. First, we had a lunch stop in a fancy road-side restaurant with a friendly French monsieur. I can now say, that I have eaten some famous french specialities I never dared to try before. The snails cooked in garlic butter is definitely my new favorite entrée. In the evening, we stopped for coffee and cakes in an elaborate Belgian restaurant with a nice Dutch lady.

As a perfect ending for the day, my bike flew from Liège to Maastricht so lightly, that I had to keep checking whether my luggage is still attatched! Finally, I was welcomed by a friendly face on the steps of a squat after a successful day trip of 580km of hitch-hiking and 27km of biking.

Total distance cycled: 622km;
Total time cycled: 41h50min;
Total elevation gain: 5600m.

Montpellier-Maastricht: the rolling hills

2010-06-05T20:00:00.004+03:00

Day 7: A beautiful place on earth

At the moment, 70km a day is a comfortable pace and anything over that I call "sport", because I must start making a concious effort to pedal on. Today, I did 95km on the roads, rolling up and down the hills a bit less gently than yesterday. I have escaped the traffic but the agricultural scenery is offering no more entertainment than the occasional pig-faced cow here and a roadkill there... In the burning sun with ever-present thirst, I dream about finding a place to swim. I cross the Loire and several small muddy rivers, but come across no beaches. I am not willing to go searching for them either.

Finally I arrive at the most magnificent place - exactly what I've been dreaming of for so many kilometres! An (artificial?) lake called Étang de Baye that somehow reminds me of Estonia. I decide not to go any further and instead enjoy my time here, although there's still 1.5 hours of perfectly bikable daylight time left and usually I don't stop before it gets dark.

I swim topless (why? well... why not? it's a good excuse to cross one more superfluous item off the equipment list), to the amazement of two elderly tourist couples, and wash off about 2/3 of my new dark tan. The sun slowly disappears behind the horizon, and I sit listening to the voices of nature. I fall asleep on the wooden picnic table, keeping one eye open to watch the stars, and wake up at sunrise for a short while, because all the birds in the world have apparently burst into song at once. What a nice night :)

In the morning, I take my time to get ready. I am perfectly willing to stay here another day, but it is not the right time and trip for enjoying myself too much. Instead, I make plans, wondering how to bend some rules in order to make the rest of the road as pleasant as this place here.

Montpellier-Maastricht: the flatlands

2010-06-05T13:40:00.005+03:00

Day 6: The gently rolling hills...

...and the North wind that has something personal against me.

No mountains = pleasant at first, but the novelty soon wears off. Yes, (the skin of) my arse hurts and my shoulders are sore, but I no longer have to give myself any motivational talks to keep pedalling. Rather it seems like a job that simply has to be done. I just keep going from dawn till dusk, stopping once in a while to buy maps, a drink or a snack and sometimes even cook (...what was that, I hear you say?!!). Yes, cook. "Just add water and wait for 5 minutes" type cooking. I stocked up on dry soups and camping food on my rest day, and my appetite is back, because now the physical effort is not strong enough to take it away.

Before starting this trip I estimated that the part until Clermont-Ferrand would be physically tough and after that - mentally. I was right.

Flatlands mean heavy traffic and as much as I like the company of other people, I am not such a great fan of sharing my road with crowds constantly rushing past in all kinds of bigger-badder-faster vehicles than the one I have. It should be better tomorrow when I get off of the infinitely flat and straight National, heading to Moulins.

Then, sometimes I get lost. The third award for the "brightest" moment of Day 4 went to me losing my freshly bought map of Auvergne. I refuse to buy another one. Getting out of the city and the industrial zone this morning took me two hours, during which I managed to edge about 8km towards the North and cycle around 30km in total. There was a moment when I found myself standing above the Michelin testing ground, looking down and briefly toying with the idea of using their tracks to escape the monotonous, noisy highway.

Total of the day: 109km.

I slept next to this small lake, dirty and sweaty as I was. Swimming was forbidden... perhaps due to its unusually steep incline?

Montpellier-Maastricht: ... and still climbing on the Massif Central

2010-06-03T08:19:00.005+03:00

Day 4: Secret language of a hungry brain

As I woke up in the morning, I glanced at my always scarce water reserves, and decided that there's almost a big enough drop of water left to rinse off most of the toothpaste after brushing my teeth. It was the perfect excuse to skip cooking again and finish the leftovers of pumpernickel with the fresh goats' cheese I got from a roadside fromagerie in the mountains.

One thing that I must learn to do right on this trip is eating: I seem to be constantly snacking, especially on long uphills, and this part is all okay. I sometimes get hungry and plan on making a meal in the evening, but when I finally stop to camp, I am always too tired to bother with it. However, once a day I literally talk myself into making the effort. For example, last evening I had hot chocolate and instant mashed potatos. It cannot exactly be considered a nutritious meal, unlike the freeze-dried omelette and vanilla pudding stowed away somewhere in my luggage, but ...

... to transform the high-tech, no-effort expedition mix into an omelette, I have to do all of the following:

1. get it out from the bag that is uncomfortable to open;
2. open the package and pour the contents in the pot;
3. add 185ml of water;
4. fry it.

Can it get any more complicated? So far I am mostly eating only food with instructions that do not stretch beyond "rip here to open" or "just add water". Oranges, apples, oats and brick of dates fit into the easy list.

Day 4 welcomed me with formidable amounts of climbing, always compensated by worthy descents once I had reached the summits. Before the first one, there was even a thoughtful sign telling me what to expect. I took a long enough break to put more clothes on, cover my ears and neck and get scared, before hitting the pedals. I had decided (to reassure my father) to squeeze the brakes once I pass the 50km/h limit, but because of the wind I didn't reach much beyond it.

The only scary aspect was the trucks - both on ascents and descents - rushing past. I didn't really have an alternative road to take.Very soon I learned that if a truck passes close enough, the air bubble that it pushes in front propels me slightly away from it, and the vortex behind it pulls me forward, stabilizing me again. No more scare factors.

That was the first part of the day, when I was still able to think about physics.

Then came the second part of the day - clouds gathering into an homogeneous grey mass, civilization getting denser by the minute, the known ground gradually creeping closer to the edge of the map and my poor buttocks hurting more and more with every passing minute.

I have been keeping my eyes peeled and have noticed that I have definitely left behind the zone of Southern hedonism. I see no coquetterie, but only the pure pragmatism of the high lands of the cold, the wind and the rain. Not only do the buildings look like they are meant to be viewed more from the inside, but as hard as I try, I find no boulangeries, where I might charge my empty brain cells with bread. And the ones I found, after a day and a half of reading the shop signs, are simply not of good quality. There is probably one good and one excellent bakery per every two city, town or village streets in Languedoc-Roussillon.

Instead, there are many signs offering pork or beef sausages here, but I don't know how to digest this stuff. At least, not on the go.

As every bit of energy I insert goes into my muscles, or to supporting brain functions for immediate survival (such as paying attention to my surroundings), not much is left for thought processes. The results are as follows:

--> The first "brightest" moment award goes to: fishing my cell phone out of a toilet in Brioude. At least I was stupid enough to lock my bike in front of the bar and leave the key in the lock, instead of putting it in the back pocket of my tights. The drunk brickies and swollen-faced barmaid were the last people on earth I would have wanted to ask for lock-cutting help.

--> The second "brightest" moment award goes to: turning to the left where I was supposed to be turning to the right, ending up doing an extra 9km in a river valley between the cliffs covered with thick green vegetation and wrapped in swirling mist, before listening to my inner voice that was telling me to stop and check the map once again. I suppose I could call it a rather enjoyable sight-seeing tour in nature, before hitting the industrial areas around Clermont-Ferrand.

It was raining and I had no desire to stay out this night, so I was pushing the pedals hard to get to Clermont-Ferrand, where a Bed&Beer apartment was waiting for me. I managed to cycle 103km before I had a flat tyre. Then, in the middle of nowhere, 30km before my destination, I raised my thumb. To be honest, I was only too content with the direction events had taken. What better moment to practise the art of hitchbiking, especially with conditions becoming increasingly bleak: dark grey sky, fine drizzle and a hungry stomach to accompany them. Also, no phone and noone to complain to.

Who wouldn't want to help a mistress in distress, putting on her best puppy dog eyes?

The second small car passing, with a helpful lady behind the wheel, stopped and picked me up with all my luggage and the white stallion. Then, as I was waiting beside the road a second time, the rain got thicker and sky darkened faster than I had ever expected. Am I really to stay here this night? With anxiousness taking a hold inside me, I had to stop playing helpless, turn the bike upside down, take the wheel off and try to replace the innertube. But oh, no! The thin tyres are unimaginably harder to take off without the proper lever - as I realized I am not able to do it, I found that now is the time when I can allow myself to cry...

... but then a car stopped and I put on my best smile instead. He picked up my bike, stuffed it into the trunk in three bits, threw in the luggage, made space for me in the warm dry shiny new car and drove me to the doorstep of Alex and Gilou! :)

A beer was put in my hand and a fork into the other to learn how to eat again. And after a warm shower I got to sleep on my favourite couch, all night long, without rushing anywhere in the morning... Day 5 is without a doubt a well deserved day off.

Montpellier-Maastricht: still pushing across the Massif Central

2010-06-02T13:19:00.006+03:00

Day 3: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

The Good: getting out of Cevennes, leaving the storm clouds behind, and reaching the beautiful Auvergne plateau, where grass is greener (it really is!), the wind is stronger (but blowing from the side!), and my cell phone can once again receive messages. In the evening, just before camping, the road blesses me with chocolate cookies as a prize for all its tortures I struggled through successfully.

I had several hours of quality internet time after descending the Col de Thort after midday. I had been strongly missing people around me. I reconnected with the outside world, while recharging the batteries of the non-essential electricals I'm carrying (such as my laptop and my gps), and drank two big coffees with loads of sugar and milk. Sitting in the warm coffeehouse at 1000m altitude, when it was so terribly cold outside, gave me back some of that willpower that I had lost in the morning, cycling barely 20km in more than 2.5 hours.

Final score of the day: 80km.

The Bad: Looking back - nothing, really; it is all packed in pinkish clouds and labelled as "adventures" in the back corner of my mind. Yes, the morning ascent was so hard I wanted to quit (Stop! Arrête! Enough!) Or at least cry! I was fighting with myself, stopping every 3-10 minutes. The kilometers were crawling past slower than ever. I had to keep going by reminding myself that nothing will get me out of here, except for cycling on (unless I really want to quit and raise my thumb). I promised myself that if things get really bad, I can take a train, but first I have to cycle until the next train station. A village that is 10km away, might mean more than 2 hours of blood, sweat and tears.

But why all the torture? Well, my dearies, it is not an adventure, if there is no space for doubt that I am able to do it.

The Ugly: The day started with heavy climbing from alt.650m to alt.1120m in strong winds constantly blowing thinned out rainclouds into my face. I started wondering whether the North Pole is just impatient and the overly excited winds are rushing to greet me? Is it trying to push me back (stay where you are!)? Or is it simply testing my wits (is this girl worthy enough and not gone too soft in the South?)?

Montpellier-Maastricht: across the Massif Central

2010-05-31T15:35:00.008+03:00

Day 1: Learning to ride a heavy bike

I started very late (17:30) and pedalled 57km.

The best moment of the day was, when I hit the brakes without thinking longer than a fraction of a second because I saw an uncapped water bottle next to the road. Someone must have dropped it from a shopping bag, I guess. I have taken up the French habitude of keeping an eye open for stuff lying in the streets - it is there for anyone who wants it. They don't just throw things away: they throw them out. It's like second-hand shopping and not only for hobos. You can imagine how happy I was to see this 750ml bottle of cool water waiting for me just when I had started to worry about running out of water.

This evening I learned to drive my fully loaded super heavy and super slow bike. Most of the time right into the wind but at least not uphill. I started looking for a camping spot when it had already gone dark, so I slept (not very well) on grapefields.

Day 2: The horrible climbing day

How can one ever fully appreciate racing down the Northern face of a mountain - in wind and rain - without first climbing up the Southern face for hours and hours and hours in scorching sun? I seem to forget the pain of climbing up on the lowest gear every time I violate the speed limit on bike. I'm ready to do it again!

I'm way behind my schedule and the mountains are to be blamed (and obviously not bad planning). The road started climbing in the morning, with the gradient ranging from motivating to masochistic, and continued doing so the rest of the day. I managed to pedal for 78km this day. I had to take a nap at 18:30 in the evening, when I literally collapsed on a marble picnic table in a road-side parking. I curled up in my cozy sleeping bag and dozed off for an hour. The roaring of the passing cars sounded like a lullaby. I should have slept after lunch - when I first felt the need. The last 1.5-hour bit after the nap was a pleasure. I camped on a lakeside, forced myself to cook some simple porridge with almonds, and then forced myself to eat it. I slept very well through the night. I'm happy to have that huge soft "-13C...-25C" sleeping bag. It's perfect!

I decided that when I grow up (which is never), I will start travelling light, carrying only a credit card and a bottle of water. Or I'll travel by a motorbike. Oh, how enviously I looked at all the bikers!

The recipe of the day: pain d'epices with lait concentré sucré.

The water source of the day: knocking on the doors and asking people to fill my bottles. I did it 3 times.

On y va

2010-05-29T17:15:00.000+03:00

Course papers written and handed in, ceilidh danced, bike built with heavy use of cable ties, computer cables, ductape and random metal objects...

First, Alice came to visit in the morning to help me clean my bikey before cycling off to nearby chick pea festival (yes, the french have festivals for everything). Then, Elsbeth sat behind my computer all morning long, searching and booking me plane tickets to Estonia. In a few moments she will be proofreading this text. And what was I doing? I was running around circles, screaming "A-A-A-A-A-A---!", unable to wrap my mind around getting everything done. I think I should hire Elsbeth as my personal assistant. [editor's note: no problem, I'm actually looking for a job...]

The church bells just rang out five times and I'm almost ready to go. Well... I planned to leave in the afternoon, so i'm technically still not too late.

Slow birth of an imaginary project

2010-05-23T13:19:00.000+03:00

I always had this vision behind my eyes of how typical adventurous thinkers in old romantic novels and movies or on paintings would appear. Because I am not a smoker, I did not light a cigarette to ever-so-slowly breathe out wisps of smoke. Instead, having finally found what I had been looking for, I poured myself a well deserved glass of red wine and started studying the map of France. Cats miaowed, cars drove past, neighbours laughed and a gentle breeze of Mediterannean night air, coming through the wide open window, caressed my cheeks...

But so far, I didn't notice any of it. To stay true to the character and enjoy playing it, I had to keep on that certain tense yet relaxed look, staring at the distant corner of the ceiling and fiddling my lip, trying to find a catchy title for my research project: something simple enough that most people will be able to understand more than the words "of" and "and"; something simple enough that I will understand myself.

Figuring out the title does not mean that I am ready with the content. It only means that my brain has finished its working hours and I am pushing on to milk it for the last drops of sense juice before it shuts down and must be recharged. Then I plug in the cable that connects me to the land of dreams, refill my head with ideas while I sleep and wait for tomorrow, to start all over again.

That is the life of an eternal student.

Drawing out the details

2010-05-21T09:03:00.008+03:00

Swifty and Triini just spent a long evening, mapping out Norway, centimeter by centimeter and day by day. After that, chalking out Finland in several hundreds-of-kilometers-long stretches of unknowness made us laugh madly. We can do that in three days (right?)! Flat as it is... It'd be a shame to miss La Tomatina!

If I ever get the cassette repaired, the back rack and the second pannier bought and installed, the front rack built, my degree finished, and my absolutely gorgeous hometown memorized to the last beautiful detail, I will enjoy myself very much by doing a quick training ride to Maastricht. It should be accomplishable in 10 days. I wouldn't want to miss the last important steps of finishing Uni!

Yes, the scope of it is still beyond us. But we wouldn't want to miss the sunsetless nights near the Arctic sea!

Clicky - no clicky

2010-05-16T12:12:00.008+03:00

Going out to the mountains for cycle training before the 'Swifty and Triini in Scandinavia' expedition serves many purposes besides it being one of these things that makes life worth living. One would think that the first few hundred (or thousand) kilometers of a 4222km biking trip would count as training anyway. So what's the point in sweating beforehand?

First of all - we want to get stronger as we advance towards the Arctic sea, not weaker. Biking every day with only few days off for almost two months will require our bodies to learn to recover in the speed of light. Training, eating and resting well while still at home with all the resources at hand (good food from the fridge and enough time to stay still while doing the daytime job) will significantly shorten recovery time.

Secondly, it is generally a good idea to learn to repair the bikes before hitting the roads of Norway. Help will not always be readily available around the corner, and mostly not within our budget. I wouldn't want to be stuck in a valley between two mountains near the Arctic sea, 100km away from the nearest village, having no idea why my bike is not moving. That's what happened to me yesterday. Except that in South of France you come across a village every few hours of walking and at this time of year cars or motorcycles are passing by quite often. I was only 40-50km away from home, even though it would mean heavy climbing in strong wind in either direction and we were out of cell phone range at that moment.

Swifty had swiftly glided off ahead and I kept on cycling up the horrendously long curvy road after St-Guilhem-Le-Désert, using mainly my willpower. Suddenly, the pedals of my white stallion stopped turning the back wheel around. With no idea of the cause of the problem or how to fix it, I finally started running, saying to myself that this is what Ironwoman would do. I needed to catch my fellow cyclista who was carrying the repair kit, or at least get some moral support before hitch-biking home. Magically, after a kilometer or so, the system clicked back in and I could continue cycling. However, just before home it clicked back out and stayed this way most of the time. Later that evening we learned that I must change my cassette or else... Without this training trip we would have had no clue about the nasty possibility that even when the pedals are turning and making the cogwheels go round, it doesn't necessarily mean that the bike will move forward.

Also, we learned that Triin must hang her (next pair of) sunglasses around her neck with a piece of string. Otherwise she will drop them and brake them, or keep hitting them on car ceilings while they're on her head (the story of last year's pair), or just loose them by letting the wind blow them into the abyss (what probably happened yesterday). A lost pair of shades means too many lost points on my coolness rating, watering eyes on downhills and sore eyes in the sun.

And, last but not least, we are learning how to work together as expedition partners-to-be. It might well be the most important aspect of a succesful trip. As they say: it is not so much about where you are but who you are with.

Logistical Hell

2010-05-09T14:35:00.006+03:00

First, how to plan my June in the most efficient way if I want and/or need to: cycle to Clermont-Ferrand (332km), leave the bike (in the hopes I find a place for it), hitch to Chambéry to hike around Mont Blanc, hitch back to Montpellier to prepare, practice and give three presentations on still unknown dates during an 8-day period, then hitch quickly back to Clermont-Ferrand, bike further up North to Orléans (297km) or Paris (416km) or maybe somewhere even better (Germany?), leave the bike again, find an airport, fly to Estonia to celebrate Midsummer's night and visit everyone, fly back, find the bike, then find a way to transport me and my bike as cheaply as possible to the North coast of Denmark and take the ferry to Norway.

Then cycle to Finland.

Oh, and after all that, fly to India.

I am laughing like a mad hatter already.

The wind is changing

2010-05-09T09:39:00.001+03:00

While I was trying to work my way through the muscle cells, to stop them growing too wildly on plastic over the weekend, the greybearded security guard walking along the corridors and peeping around the corners started a cheery conversation, after seeing me seemingly in all the labs at once. Heavy practice of small talk that we don't know much about up there in the cold dark North East has taught me how to chat up anyone I might bump into instead of keeping silent (with exceptions occuring), saying nothing and feeling weird. One word lead to another and the major idea ruling my mind these days lead me to getting a full page worth of advice consisting of unheard-of hints about expedition nutrition, including a secret vitamin C rich plant to pick on the left bank of a Greek lake and veto on eating courgette, aubergine, blette and several other my favorite french speciality (...and that's why the French are always tired!) veggies. Well... at least I got it out of him that dates are still good to munch on during heavy biking though not recommended in everyday life.

To those of you of Estonian breed wondering about the sudden change of language I owe a simple explanation: I know most or all of my friends understand English, while a big part of them do not understand more than few words of Estonian; and putting together written phrases in French is still beyond me. Do not be afraid though, comments are still welcome in any language you want to express yourself in. However, if you wish your voice to be heard I recommend using one that I understand.

Here's my English proofreader Swifty with a nice hot cup of afternoon tea; if you ever find me writing with a slight Scottish accent, the proof must have been read by her nat(ur/ion)al enemy, my fabulous flatmate Elsbeth from the Campbell clan.

Uus kaamera, uued kummid ja esialgu ainult poole vähem juukseid

2010-05-07T01:03:00.004+03:00

Valmistun üheks vägevamaks ürituseks, mis hõlmab hullumeelselt palju mäest üles ja alla uhamist. Decathloni rattaparandusmees, kes mind ja mu ratast juba ostupäevast alates hästi mäletab, kinnitas, et standardvarustuse mudakummiga pole mul pidureid vajagi - kumm pidurdab mäest alla minnes ise. Uute siledate matkakummidega on nii nauditav minek, et unustasin end täna esimest korda peale novembrit rannateedele sõitma, päikeseloojangusse ja pimedusse... Vaja end väntamisvormi viia. Juustes lasin Hrönnil ja Elsbethil kätt harjutada, jättes need hetkel veel viisakasse vormi, varsti koristan nad põhjalikumalt eest ära, et peaks tüütute iluprotseduuridega vähem tegelema. Kaamera põhifeatuurdeks on väikesed mõõtmed ja 175-grammine kaal; nagu näha, teeb ka päris kenasid pilte.

Meie aja kangelane!

2010-05-06T13:19:00.008+03:00

Jesus lahkus Montpellier linnast 12 päeva tagasi ja on kaardilt vaadates läbinud >570km; esimeseks abivahendiks Mossoni turult paarikümne euroga ostetud vaevu ühes tükis püsiv jalgratas (seesama, millelt me Alice’iga sügisel pedaali varastasime), millel ta eelmisel päeval enne minekut pidurid enamvähem funktsioneerivaks reguleeris ja pedaalid tugevamalt külge kruvis, et need teel ei lahkuks. Lisaks ehitas ta kiiresti käepärastest vahenditest pakiraami, kinnitades sellele korterinaabrilt pihta pandud rohelise plastikkasti, kuhu puuris enne nööriaugud sisse ja vähemalt esimesel 310 kilomeetril Toulouse’ni rippusid selle küljes mõlemal pool ratast õõtsuvad kilekotid täis teeäärsest kaubamajast ostetud toidumoona. Ei saa ka mainimata jätta, et idee see rännak ette võtta tuli tal nädal enne teel asumist unetul ööl ja veel viimasel keskööl kui koos teed joodud sai, oli tal pool varustust puudu ning jalgratas ainult peaaegu töökorras. Kui ratas ühel hetkel liikumist rohkem takistama hakkab kui aitab, kavatseb ta selle lähima prügikasti najale lükata ja jala teed Santiago de Compostelasse (veel >800km) jätkata. Täna hommikul nägime lehes pilti allkirjaga "Rõõmus jalgrattur: eile õnnestus tal col du Somporti otsa tõusta... ilma igasuguse varustuseta!" (pilt tehtud Prantsuse-Hispaania piiril Püreneedes üleeilse ootamatu lumetormi ajal, tipu kõrgus 1632m, piiripunkti oma ei tea).

Ja mina veel muretsesin kas ma oma valge täkuga suudan Skandinaavia läbi vändata kui teda palju vägevamaks ei muunda. Kummid vahetasin suure punnitamisega eile öösel hulga siledamate vastu, nüüd näeb ratas välja nagu äsja anoreksiakuuri läbinu – hiigelsuure kondiga ja harjumatult ebaproportsionaalsete peenikeste jalgadega. Varsti hangin ka pakiraami. Maailma vallutada tulebki jupp jupi haaval.

Mmm... mustad õlised näpud jooksevad meil perekonnas

2010-04-30T23:30:00.010+03:00

Ma pole iialgi ühtegi manuaali viitsinud lugeda, seegi kord ei langenud lõksu ja mõtlesin selle asemel diivanil lesides välja, mida võiks trossiga ketaspidurite juures pingutada, et nad jälle tööle hakkaksid. Sinna läks mu õhtu. Ausalt, miks ma varem oma ratast ise algosakesteks võtnud pole - see on ju imelihtne. Ei jõua kaugeltki võrreldavale tasemele inimese aju või muu taolisega, mille mõttelise lahkamisega ma igapäevasemalt tegelen. Rattal on ainult loetud arv juppe ja ma saan suuremat osa neist vaadata ja kruttida ilma, et midagi väga halvasti minna võiks. Seda hirmugi pole, et kui näiteks vale ilma ketiõli panna, siis kumm läheb katki või lenks kõveraks... iiiizi!

Hammasrataste vahelt kogu kivisodi ja savi välja urgitsemine duši all pani keti jooksma ja rattad peaaegu hääletult ringi käima. Isegi käiguvahetaja hakkas viisakamalt käituma. Tagapiduriga pean lõpuks - kunagi tulevikus, enne pikemaid rattaseiklusi - ikkagi proffide juurde minema, aga vähemalt saan ma nüüd päris hästi piduri mehaanikast aru, et kusagil suvalise mäe otsas kodus kaugelt tööriistade olemasolul seda parandada suudaks. Või noh, homme hommikul võibolla oleks kasulik viitsida internetist õpetusi otsida ja varuosade nimetused selgeks õppida, ükskõik millises keeles. Hetkel nimetan ma kõike "selleks jupiks".

Oeh, ratta paigutamine täpselt ketaspiduri klotside keskele ja nende paikakruttimine on õudne piin, aga eelmise ratta v-pidurite õudusele jääb see ikkagi kõvasti alla, neid pidi iga kord sõidu eel ja ajal nihutama. Ükspäev kui aeg piisavalt kaugel või viitsimist rohkem, tuleb ka mudakummid siledamate vastu, kett ja hammakad välja vahetada ning juba mainitud piduriprobleem lahendada. See telg, mille ümber ratas tiirleb, tasub ehk ka üle vaatamist (tolle pika peenikese pulga tegin liivast puhtaks ja õlitasin ära, a seal on veel mingeid vidinaid vist). Homme testin tulemuslikkust.

Lõpuks kui kõik jupid kokku tagasi laotud, ketid-kolvid õlitatud (mitte et ma teaks, misasi kolv on, aga riimub hästi), istusin diivanile maha ja vaatasin ratast uue hella pilguga, tundes temaga tõelist hingelähedust. Mõni hetk varem toimunud prantsuse-keldi rahvamuusikabändi kantrilaadse loo saatel end keskameerika pisifarmi ette kujutades, näpud ja põsed veel õlised, tagaratas kaenlas, kolmekesi mööda korterit ringi tantsimine sobis hästi pilti tüdrukud omapäi - õlu, kantri ja masinaõli.

Kuna mul fotokat pole, et kõike seda visuaalselt salvestada, siis pildi panin absoluutseks kontrastiks: kapten Triin oma katusel päikeseloojangu viimastesse kiirtesse vaatamas (ühel teisel päeval kui vihma ei sadanud).

Üksi metsas mäe otsas

2010-04-25T22:37:00.011+03:00

Kui Triin laupäeva keskpäeval mäe otsa jõudis, olid sõbrad juba rändamisest väsinud ja tahtsid ööseks koju minna...

Montpellier'st umbes 100 kiltsa kaugusel põhja pool on Cevenennes'i rahvuspark, selline korralik ja mägedega, mis näeb mõne koha peal hetkel välja veidi nagu Norra oma populaarsete mäesuusanõlvade ja turistihurtsikutega ning mõne koha peal nagu Eesti oma kevade erinevate etappide ja lume ja kuuselõhnaga.

...sellegipoolest ootas ees veel terve pikk päev ja kõik koos käisime giidi järel uudistamas mäe sees keerutavaid koobastikke, suu vaimustusest ammuli, sest päris ehtsad ägedad koopad - sellised nagu Morias või Tom Sawyeri raamatus kuhu Indiaani Joe maha kooles - olid minu pea sees üks neist järjekordsetest pisiasjadest, millest lapsena unistatud sai ja mis edaspidi olid paigutatud samasse virna teiste huvitavate reaalsete asjadega nagu päkapikud ja ümbermaailmareisid (juhtub teistega ja tõenäoliselt ainult juturaamatutes).

Peale seda kui olin turismimajast matkakaardi ostnud, autost oma suure sooja magamiskoti võtnud ja kõik riided selga pannud, sest 1565m kõrgusel lagedal oli külm (ning äärmiselt kaunis) ja lääne poolt ähvardas lähenev äikesetorm, mille äär on ka pildil päikeseloojangu taustal näha (parim hetk matka alustamiseks, jajah) ning kui Hrönn ja Elsbeth olid mu seljakoti auto katusel tehtud võileibu täis toppinud, lasin end Mont Aigoual'i otsa sõidutada, laenasin Hrönnilt fotoka, jätsin meelde Elsbethi viimased manitsused mitte lollusi teha, jätsin teistega hüvasti ja hakkasin mööda lund ida poole astuma.

Kas ma juba mainisin, et tundsin end nagu maailma kuningas? Mõttes üritasin parandada, et ei, kuninganna ikka, aga tunne oli ikka rohkem kuninga moodi. Vägev - mul on seljas kõik vajalik, et üksi looduses hakkama saada ja vähemalt mõned päevad üle elada, isegi juhul kui äikesetorm peaks minuni jõudma. Kaelas kompass, kotis peaaegu tühja akuga GPS ootamas hädaolukorda, taskus pooltühja akuga telefon samal eesmärgil ja näpus kaart. Rääkimata -13C mugavustemperatuuriga magamiskotist, bivouac'ist, mis mind vajadusel minutiga varjab, kolmest liitrist veest, rohkem kui piisavatest toiduvarudest ja kodudes olevatest sõpradest, kes teavad mu plaanitud marsruuti.

Kuigi igasugu päevastel võistlustel on seda lõbusam, mida märjemaks ja mudasemaks jalad saavad, sest pärast saab duši all käia ning kuivad sokid-kingad jalga panna, ei meeldi mulle sama asi pikematel üritustel kus tulevik pole nii kindlalt silme ees. Ka eile mõtlesin, et ühed korralikud kerged suvised Goretex sisemusega matkasaapad kuluksid nüüd maastikutossude asemel kenasti ära ning matkakeppide lumeotsikud oleksin pidanud ka kaasa haarama - esimene kilomeeter möödus suures osas mööda sulavaid lumekuhilaid sammudes. Õnneks suutsin jalad peaaegu täitsa kuivaks jätta.

Ümbrust nautides õnnestus mul mööduda ühest vajalikust teekäänakust seda täiesti märkamata. Mitte et ma oleks tahtnud seda teed pidi minna, aga selle märkamine tähendanuks paremat arusaama sellest kuhu ma jõudnud olen, seda enam, et regioonis oli talv just lõppenud ja matkaradade tähistusi polnud veel jõutud korda seada. Nii läksin ühel väga segadust tekitaval hetkel otse metsa ja hakkasin allamäge forsseerima selle asemel, et kenasti mööda teed ringiga jalutada. Oma osa andsid ka mõned võssa suunduvad teetähised (äärmine hämming). Tänu sellele seigale sain kenakese õppetunni orienteerumises, palju kauneid vaateid, kena metsaalust pinda ja huvitavat tehnilist laskumistrenni, sest kui ühel äreval hetkel kõiki eksimisvastaseid õpetussõnu meelde tuletades otsustasin lõpuks altimeetri näidu saamiseks GPSi sisse lülitada (samal ajal mõttetöö soodustamiseks igaks juhuks võileibu süües, nämm) ja seejärel kaardilt samakõrgusjooned üle lugeda, sain teada, et asun 1230m kõrgusel, tee asub (loodetavasti) veel 30 meetrit allpool ja 900m ringiga mineku asemel olen ma läbinud linnulennult 300 meetrit, laskudes selle jooksul 110m. Tõusunurga võite ise arvutada;)

Siin ma magasin, umbes 1100m kõrgusel. Ehtne Eesti metsanõlvak ainult selle vahega, et kui mäest alla hakkad minema, siis "all" ei taha kunagi kätte jõuda. Peale esimest väikest tinglikku eksimisseika (tinglik seepärast, et ma tegelikult ei olnud eksinud ja teadsin suurepäraselt kuidas tagasi saab - ringi pöörata ja otse üles ronida) otsustasin kõndida seni kuni turvaline tundub, lootuses jõuda mägionnikeseni 3-4km kaugusel. Päike oli juba peaaegu loojunud. Kuna tee oli lai ja tasane nagu harjumuspärased kodused metsateed, läksin ka pimedas edasi, ignoreerides põõsastes säravaid hundi-, karu- ja röövlisilmi ning sättisin "onni" läheduses nõlval mitte-väga-hullult-kaldus puujuurika kõrval magamiskotid-matid-õhtusöögi paika kuna "onn" osutus millekski hotellilaadseks ja ma ei hakanud parem lähemalt uurima, seda enam et telkimine on rahvuspargis keelatud (kuigi ma tehniliselt ei telkinud vaid magasin niisama lageda taeva all) ja ma ei tahtnud neile oma nägu liiga vara näidata. Hommikul kaarti vaadates selgus, et olin end pimedas sättinud enamvähem 10 meetrit kaitseala piiridest väljapoole. Niisama põõsasmagajaid pidavat üldiselt siiski tolereeritama, eriti kui välimus viitab matkajale mitte joodikule.

Und mul väga ei tulnud, sest küll paistis kuu silma, siis särasid tähed liiga kaunilt või oli tegemist matilt alla libisemisega või oli liiga palav (magamiskotti kasutasin tekina, termopluusi oleksin pidanud seljast viskama ja üleni pesuväel magama; sääsehooaeg pole veel alanud kui neid nii kõrgel üldse ongi) või hakkas päike üle mägede roosakalt tõusma ja oli vaja seda vahtida ning siis asusid linnud sajakesi kooris laulma. Probleemid noh:) Aga küll harjub kui teinekord pikemalt aega harjutada ja enne põõnama keeramist end ka väsitada õnnestub, sest veidi üle kahetunnine matk suht tasasel pinnasel ei tekitanud erilist und, seda enam et juba peale kella kümmet üritasin magama jääda. Kottpimedas üksi midagi paremat ka teha pole kui külitada ja loodusega tutvuda.

Hommikul kell üheksa ajasin põõsast välja, ütlesin hotelli ees kohvi joovatele matkajatele (kellest ühe sammud minu puujuurika lähedal mind lõpuks äratasid) unise näoga Bonjooooour ja küsisin vetsu. Huvitav, kas nad kõik teadsid juba et mina seal magasin ja mis nad mõtlesid? Märkasin pilke täis küsimusi, aga ei viitsinud ise suhtlusalgatushuvi üles näidata. Huvitav veel seepoolest, et kuigi sportlikud loodushobid on siin üldrahvalikult populaarsed, ei kohta väga tihti a) üksi matkajaid b) noori c) tütarlapsi d) inimesi kes magavad lageda taeva all. Nüüd ühtäkki varahommikul põõsast välja roniv noor üksik tütarlaps! Sama efekti saab näiteks linnast arvestataval kaugusel mägedes rattaga sõites (kuigi väga popp tegevus, siis 90% vastutulijatest on hallipäised mehed, mõnel harval juhul ka naine oma abikaasa selja taga) või muudel taolistel üritustel.

Teine päev möödus päikesepaisteliselt metsateedel tasapisi kliimavöötmeid ja aastaaegu pidi järjest allapoole liikudes kuna Mont Aigoual kust ma alustasin, oli ümbruskonna kõrgeim punkt. Eile õhtul alustasin niisiis Eesti varakevades lumes raagus puude vahel, öö veetsin rohelisel murul kuusemetsa all, hommikul liikusin mööda hiirekõrvus kaskedest ja lõunaks jõudsin läbi põlvini kollase kuiva lehepuru ja okkaliste (sokkidesse takerduvate) söödavate kastanite alla 500m kõrgusele 24-kraadisesse varasuvesse. Meil siin all mere ääres on juba südasuvi käes. Eesti mõistes muidugi, sest päris suvi tähendab veel 20 kraadi võrra kõrgemat temperatuuri, aga selleks ajaks olen ma loodetavasti siit põgenenud.

Teekonna pikkuseks võis olla umbes 20 kilomeetrit, täpsemalt ei viitsinud seekord mõõta. St-André-de-Valborgne külla, mille lõpp-punktiks määrasin, läksin kohvi jooma ja edasisi plaane tegema. Kuna kellaaeg oli umbes kaks päeval, mõtlesin lõuna poole veel üht matkarada uudistama minna, et veidi ka mäest üles saaks kõndida. Too rada jäi poolenisti minu kaardist välja, seetõttu ma päris täpselt ei teadnud, millist silti mööda minema hakata ning teetähised ei ole neil siin alati ilmselged: kompass ja isiklikud ajud on hädavajalikud. Ühel hetkel oli Puuraiduri-Jaak tee oma tööd täis pillutanud ja rajad nii segi ajanud, et sattusin segadusse ja pidin võitlema oma vana vaenlase Vaarikapõõsa Suure Kurja Vennaga, kelle küüsist pääsemiseks olin lõpuks sunnitud seljakotirihmade vahelt välja pugema. Ühe tummise vereproovi sai ta, raip, sõrmeotsast mult ikka kätte.

Kurja okaspõõsa poolt demotiveerituna istusin lagedamale mäeküljele maha, otsisin kotist välja toiduvarud ja kaardid, asusin esimesi usinalt hävitama ja teisi kõrvutama ning järele mõtlema. Lõpuks jõudsin järeldusele, et kuna ma ei saa oma asukohas 100% kindel olla ja kellaaeg on juba peale kolme, koduni on jupp maad hääletamist ja homme peab kindlasti laborisse jõudma, siis on paras aeg alla tagasi ronida, mööda teed St-Andrésse jalutada ja tee ääres käsi püsti tõsta selle asemel et tundmatus põõsas edasi rabistada.

Tagasi hääletades sain kõhutäie naerda kui enamvähem minuga sama vanune autojuht peale pikka vestlusvaba muusikakuulamist käe mulle kintsule nihutas ja teatas, et "Oo, te olete nii võimatult kaunis!" Lükkasin käe ära, hakkasin kõva häälega naerma ja vabandasin, et see on lihtsalt liiga naljakas. Ilma edasiste seletusteta. Paras talle, äkki tunnebki piinlikkust. Lahkusin autost kokkulepitud hetkel edasiste komplikatsioonideta ja äärmiselt humoorilises meeleolus. Aga no annab otsida paremat hetke teatamaks mulle, et ma olen naissoost kui peale seda kui ma olen parajasti poolteist päeva kusagil mäe otsas suurt seljakotti kandes vantsinud, metsa all maganud, päikesest põlenud, räpane, higine ja tundnud end maailma kuningana oma suure seiklejakarjääri alguses, püüdes samastuda oma iidolseiklejatega, kes juhuslikult on kõik mehed.

Õhtul diivanil vedeledes seda teksti kirjutades sain postkaardi! Kõigi isiklikult kirjutatud nimedega. Sünnipäevaks! Võimalik, et see jõudis juba varem kohale, aga ma unustan tavaliselt nädalate kaupa postkasti vaadata, seegi kord ei teinud seda mitte mina vaid mu usinam korterinaaber. Ei mäleta et ükski sünnipäevakaart mind enne kunagi rõõmust kiljuma oleks pannud. Aitäähähähähäääähhhh!:)

Mõni osa sellest elust, mis tööst väljapoole jääb

2010-04-21T15:43:00.007+03:00

Kuna ma sel nädalavahetusel palju muud ei teinud kui magasin end töönädalast välja, siis ilusate ilmade illustratsiooniks pildike eelmise nädalavahetuse mägijalgpallist Lac du Salagou punastel kallastel.

Lisaks väljamagamisele tegime Hrönniga pühapäeval ühe kerge sörkjooksu, ilma et kumbki meist oleks taibanud võtta kaasa sööki või jooki; õnneks linnuvaatlusala sissepääsu juures oli kraan, kust sai peale kaheksandat ja kolmeteistkümnendat kilomeetrit kõhutäie kaanida. Hea lihtne lippamine oli, pingutusi tempo hoidmiseks pidi hakkama tegema viimasel kuuel kilomeetril ja viimasel kolmel arvasid jalad, et kodu on nii lähedal, et võiks juba kiiremini väsima hakata. Lõpuks põrandale maha istudes peale 22,28km pikkust ringi lõõskavas päikeses (varjus umbes 21°C, varju alt väljas kaks korda rohkem ja SPF 40 päiksekreem on juba rohkem moepärast peal, kasu tast suuremat pole) sai mööduv maailm näha kahte külmast värisevat uimast tütarlast, kel näol õnnis naeratus ja silmad kummaliselt vara loojas. Pidasime siiski lennukitriipudeta päikeseloojangu lõpuni vastu, mida oli katuseharjal Elsbethi ruudulise villateki alt kaunis jälgida. Igaõhtused rituaalid;)

Mu mängukavva sattus lisaks muule veel eelmisest nädalast alates kolmapäeva keskpäevane korvpall, mis kohati meenutab rugbyt kui päike pähe hakkab ja noored ülemeelikuks kätte lähevad. Teinekord on päris efektiivne enne palliga vastaste leeri tormamist lõrisedes hambaid näidata või hirmuäratavalt karjudes pallihoidja ümber ringi tuuseldada. Prantslased õpetasid.

Õppida või mitte õppida

2010-04-15T00:29:00.004+03:00

Küsimus on, kas õppida või mitte õppida. Lihtne oleks käega lüüa ja lihtsalt õppida ilma seejuures juurdlemata, et kuidas või mida täpselt või kui palju või mida ning mis vormis üldse küsima hakatakse. Keeruliseks teeb otsustamise teadmine, et tavaliselt annab agar õppimine tulemuseks, et eksamilt jalutan piinlikkusest punastades liiga vara minema, selga puurimas kaastudengite kahtlustavad pilgud, et kas see kuradi hipi ongi nii loll, et midagi kirjutada ei oska või äkki tõttab hoopis meie eest stipendiumi ära krabama? Jälle! Kui ma enam tõesti midagi kirjutada ei oska, sest liiga lihtne tundus ja kõik vajalikuna paistev sai juba üles tähendatud (või mõnel juhul: ma sain juba aru, et ma nagunii ei tea seda), mis ma seal siis ikka enam passin ja nihelen, eks.

Siis lisandub veel see probleem, et samal ajal kui ma õpin seda, kuidas neuronid ajus töötavad, mäluühendusi loovad ning kuidas seda kõike enda kasuks suurima efektiivsusega tööle panna, üritan ma välja mõelda süsteemi, kuidas sedasama parajasti õpitavat infot nüüd kohe kõige paremini ära kasutada ja õppeprotsessi integreerida, et minimaalse energiakuluga eksamil maksimaalne tulemus saada. Seda nimetatakse vist .. mingi keeruline sõna oli, mis tähendab iseenesele viitamist. Õppida eksamiks seda, kuidas aju õpib, üritades samal ajal õpitut rakendada parima õppimisefektiivsuse saavutamiseks, et õppimise kohta õpitut eksamil võimalikult grandioosselt esitleda.

No näiteks hästi söömine, magamine ja aeroobne trenn käivad raudkindlate komponentidena ajutöö efektiivsuse tõstmise juurde, aga millises proportsioonis? Hea meelega tegeleks ainult nende kolmega, aga päris nii ka ei saa, et mälupingutus minimaalseks jääb. Pikema perioodi peale mõttetööd laiali venitades võib lõpuks eksamieelne pingutus liigagi minimaalsena, ehk laisklemisena, tunduda. Aga millal ma tean, et ma tean juba piisavalt palju? Eksamitulemuste kättesaamise ajal, jah, aga siis on juba veidi hilja. Tavaliselt on nagunii tunne, et ma ei tea peaaegu midagi, sest kui wikipedias elektrofüsioloogia aluste lahtijagamiseks elektrifüüsika põhimõisteid uurida, siis üks link viib teiseni, teine kolmanda, neljanda, viienda ja n+i'ndani, mis kõik tunduvad võrdväärselt huvitava ja vajalikuna... aga ajalimiiti tuleb arvesse võtta. Ja kui on tunne, et ma tean juba kõike, mis mõtet siis üldse antud kursust ette võtta oli?

Üleüldse, kas targemaks saamine on kedagi kunagi õnnelikuks teinud, ah? Ja kas saab liiga tark olla? Ei usu ja ei usu.

:)

Joostes uude aastasse

2010-04-13T09:29:00.004+03:00

Ma olen alati unistanud sellest, et mul oleks sünnipäev suvel ja ma saaks seda rannas või metsas või kusiganes looduses tähistada ilma suuremate klimaatiliste komplikatsioonideta. Seekord tuli lahendus imelihtsalt ja ütles reede hommikul päikeselaigu kaudu, et iiiizi - koli aga lõuna poole ja suvi tuleb ise kätte! Parim nädal ever:)

Suurepäraste eksamitulemuste saabumine just sel nädalal - check.
Põnevad elektrofüsioloogia kursused kui puhkus laboritööst - check.
Palju päikest ja soojad ilmad - check.

Pidu öistel linnatänavatel, teesärgiväel ja soojalt - check.
Minu uus lemmikpallimäng, mägijalgpall, punasel kivil (ja ärge tulge mulle enam kunagi ütlema, et "siledamat pinda oleks vaja" jalgpalli jaoks kui kaks jalga vähegi korraga maha õnnestub panna) - check.
Ujumine koos teiste põhjamaa tüdrukutega napilt ujutava temperatuuriga vees taustal kaldal sebivate lõunamaa poiste ja tüdrukute kiljed - check.
Lõkkeõhtu järve ääres mägede vahel, magamine õues ilma telgita - check.
Matkamine mäe otsa ja üleöö tumedama rassi omastanud käed - kah check.

Ja uue aasta võtsin vastu joostes - peale kahenädalast pausi esimest korda. Corumi trepid tulid kergejalgsemalt kui iial varem ja lõpus ei tõmmanud isegi hinge nii kinni kui tavaliselt. Eks vanus kah juba selline... nüüd kui ma juba kuueaastane olen, peabki tugevus iseenesest tulema. Aprillis võistlema enam ei jõua, aga enamvähem kuu aja pärast on üks huvitav trail Auvergnes vulkaanide vahel (33km, D+1790m) - kui selle ära suudan teha, olen enda silmis juba tegija. Võibolla. Eilne pargis väiksemast mäest üles minek tundus juba tappev, nii et ees ootab karm-karm kuu, mille jooksul saab lähedalt vaadata väga paljusid trepiastmeid ja kivirünkaid, mis loodetavasti loovad hea vahelduva tausta arvutiekraanile.

Suure padjasõja Montpellier lahing: surm punakuubedele!

2010-04-05T14:31:00.007+03:00

1 maakera, 110 linna, tuhandeid surnud patju: see on rahvusvaheline padjasõjapäev.

Laupäeval olime kolmekesi piktid suures siniste armees, võitlesime Šotimaa kuninga, riigi ja vabaduse eest; kahel rindel kokku ligi 200 padjaga varustatud verejanulist. Surm punakuubedele!!!!! BLEEEEUUUUUU!!!! [hääldus: blöö; tähendus: sinine]

Hoo, mida üks korralik sõjakarje võib teha peale kolmveerandtunnist materdamist kui sõdalased juba surmani väsinud ja tüdima hakkavad - pista vaid korraks röökima ja hetkega läheb jälle lahinguks. Ainult et suurest elevusest ei maksa linnahärrade hirmutamise vahele hingamist ära unustada, muidu kukub pea juba iseenesest otsast.

Trail les Terrasses du Lodevois

2010-03-29T22:24:00.015+03:00

Suund: pildi ülemisest vasakult nurgast alla paremale nurka; vahetus toimus peale kiirteed külas ehk minu esimesed peaaegu-viis kilomeetrit on näidatud.

Eelmise pühapäeva trail, millel osalemine tuli piisavalt spontaanselt, et end enne stardipauku kirja panemisega mitte vaevama hakata. Stardipaik asus Lodève'is ehk umbes kolmveerandtunnise autosõidu kaugusel, mis tähendab, et plaanitud õigel hetkel uksest väljumine ja autosse istumine käis Lõuna-Prantsusmaa "vägavägavägakiireon" aja järgi - astusin registreerimislaua juurde ~7:59 ja ütlesin, et tahan võistkonna kirja panna. Väljakuulutatud registreerimise lõpp oli 8:00 ja start 8:30. Ideaalne ajastus; start siiski lükkus veerand tundi edasi, sest esimese platoo otsas olla udu ja korraldajad pidid neoonroosasid suunatähiseid tihedamalt juurde maalima.

Minu läbijoostud rajapool, mille profiili suutis joonistada üks Ubuntu osaliselt töötavatest programmidest (seni parem kui kõik teised mitte üldse töötavad programmid; itimehed on usinalt tööl, et Garminit Karmicuga ühildada).

Sel korral söövitasin kauneid metsa- ja mägivaateid oma silmapõhjadele nii kuis vähegi sain kuna jooksmisest suurem osa aega nagunii midagi välja ei tulnud ja esimesed kaks tundi kulusid alt orust üles platoole ukerdades (12km), vahepeal elu huvitavamaks muutmiseks ka kontrollitud kiirusel allamäge pudenedes või matkakeppe käest ülesmäge visates, et end ettenähtud nöörist kahe käe abil mööda mudaligedat ojakallast üles sikutada. Selline jooks. Suuremal osal järsematest tõusudest, mil GPS kiiruseks keskmiselt 2km/h (ja pulss samal ajal ~175 kanti) näitas, kõlasid mu peas mantrana kõige targemad õpetussõnad, mida ma iial olen kuulnud (kaks aastat tagasi Xdreami koolitusel): Paigal seismine ei vii sind edasi. Tegelikult küll stopping doesn't advance you ja arreter ne t'advance pas nagu ma noil päevil pigem mõtlema kipun.

Ametlik rajaprofiil: vahetusala oli seal keskel augus, pärast sai mööda kivist jõesängi ja mudaseid radu või üle (või teinekord ka alt) kivimürakate ronides ülepoole ukerdada, enne söögilauda poolel teel pimedatest juustu-veini-stalaktiidikoobastest läbi joosta ja sõbralikult pehmepinnalises koduses riisikametsas kuuskede vahel silgata. Neoonrohelise samblaga Huelgoati moodi rajaäärsed ja lehepurus sumbates kaljupragudest üles-alla ronimine kuulusid samuti menüüsse. Äärmiselt kaunis.

Nii ma neid mägesid vallutasin, sentimeeter sentimeetri haaval, mitte meeter meetri haaval nagu võistkonnakaaslaselt tulnud ergutus-sms lubas. Aga oi kui väärt on kõik see valu ja vaev helerohelisele platoole jõudmise ilu, tundide viisi ihuüksi mööda ~800m kõrguse platoo äärmiselt mitmekülgseid maastikke jooksmist ja allamäge minekuid - selliseid, kus joosta saab, sest enne kerge kaldega finishisirget, mille nii tugeva sprindiga võtta sain, et ees jooksnud härra sammu lisama pidi, jagus mitme-mitme kilomeetri jagu varbavalu ehk lahtise kiviklibuga kitsaid järske radasid. Pean matkakeppidega rohkem jooksmist harjutama, et neist mujal ka kasu oleks kui vaid seal kus ma nendeta kõhuli maha viskaksin ja enda hammaste abil ülesmäge vedada üritaksin. Kujutan ette et allamäge joostes annavad nad päris palju (turvalisust & ja sellega ka kiirust) juurde.

Tulemused: 5. segavõistkond 9st;
ehk 18. võistkond 35st; üldarvestuses (üksikjooksjad ja võistkonnad) 35. koht 125st.
Distants 49.91km ("väike" lisakilometraaž üksi jooksjatele võrreldes ametliku distantsiga 46.8km), summarne tõus 1900m (ma veel pean oma GPSile neid asju õpetama), aeg 6h44min45sek.

Päris kobe tulemus, isegi kui unustada, et Basile jooksis nii kiiresti, et mina sain vahetusalast neljandana minema. Ta pidas oma lubadust hästi kiiresti joosta, et kui ma teele lähen, siis mu ees rada liiga mudaseks trambitud ei oleks. Olin seal juba tund aega varem närviliselt sooja teinud, hüpelnud ja venitanud, omamata aimugi, millal võiks mu esimene võistkonnapool saabuda peale selle, et ta ennustas "kahe ja kolme tunni vahel" (läks 2h34min), ning kui rõõmust särades minema lippasin, saatsid mind ümbritsevate meeste ergutus- ja wowhüüded, pööramata tähelepanu sellele, et olin neile juba enne öelnud, et ma jooksen umbes kaks korda kauem kui mu kaaslane. Reaalsuses kulus 4 tundi ja 10 minutit, millest viis kilomeetrit enne lõppu lippas minust ülesmäge (no olgu, tõus oli vaevalt märgata, aga mina tegin kõnnisamme) kergejalgselt mööda suurt kasvu le monsieur avec Le Moustache, keda poodiumil kolmanda koha karikat vastu võtmas nägin. Ju mõni neist teistest möödunud härradest siis oli neljandal ja igal juhul olid kõik, kelle eest kitsastel radadel põõsasse astusin, et neil viisakalt (pardon-merci) mööda joosta lasta, selle ära teeninud, arvestades, et mul oli neist mõne ees võibolla rohkem kui tunniajane edumaa.

Aga ikkagi oli esimesse joogipunkti jõudes veepoistelt tore kuulda, et Sa oled siin kuues! ja teel olnud karastunud matkajale järgi jõudes talt kuulda Teine naine! Tubli! (hiljem lippas neid päris mitu tükki mööda).

Sellel nädalavahetusel aga õnnestus mul väikse ebaõnne käigus rattahoidja vastu oma säärekont nii veriseks kukkuda, et mõnda aega on nüüd jooksuga kööga. Isegi kõndimisega. Rattasõit see-eest läheb seda libedamalt (kuigi äärekivid võivad kuitahes kutsuvalt silma pilgutada, aga neist üles ega alla hetkel sõites ei lähe - raputab), nii et invaliidist on asi kaugel. Kuidagi peab ju laborisse ja tagasi saama. Olen recover mode'is ja saan ehk ka koolitöö peale paremini mõelda. Oligi viimane aeg drastiliste meetmete kasutusele võtmiseks, et end kuidagi arvutitoolile kinni liimida.

Teatejooks 50km

2010-03-22T17:01:00.005+02:00

On paras aeg hõiskamiseks, et teatejooks koos Basile'iga eile edukalt läbitud – 2 x ~25km; minu GPS näitas kogunenud tõusuks (denivelé positif - kuidas seda eesti keeles nimetatakse?) 1681 ja languseks 1816 meetrit. Kerge see ei olnud, aga tappev ka mitte (kaks nädalat tagasi oli ilmselgelt süü kõhutõvel), vaated olid imelised, enesetunne oli ja on veidi väsinud, aga muidu kangelaslikult hea. Pildil olen täpselt poolel teel ja täpselt poole tarbitud vedelikust naha kaudu väljutanud, nii umbes poolteist liitrit. Detailsem raport tuleb hiljem kui tulemused käes ja Google Earthis rada läbi lennates pulss enam hirmust lakke ei tõuse (ma ikka veel imestan, et kes küll minu eest eile sel rajal käis). Hiihii.

Streikimist õppige prantslastelt

2010-03-19T11:43:00.003+02:00

Tänahommikune ajaleht ütles nii: kuna eile õhtul rünnati trammijuhti, on täna erakorraline streik, mitte ükski tramm ei sõida ja mõned bussid ka mitte. Käige jala kui tahate tööle minna. Mina käin nagunii jala ja arvan, et streik on õiglane, sest kui oled huligaan ja trammijuhile kallale lähed, siis tea, et homme käivad jala nii sina kui ka su pere, sõbrad ja tuttavad. Süsteem toimib.

Seda lisaks ohtratele regulaarsetele streikidele, mis on natuke aega ette teada ja võimsate bürokraatiamasinate poolt autoriseeritud (oo, ja proovi sa vaid mitte autoriseerida!). Kui kiirabi töötajatele piisavalt palka ei maksa ja piisavalt puhkust ei anna, siis nad mõnikord streigivad - näiteks siis kui just sina auto alla jäid, kes sa rahakoti nööridest hoiad. Oma õiguste eest võitlema õpivad siin riigis kibekiiresti kõik kes vähegi hakkama tahavad saada.

Puhkepäevad

2010-03-14T21:22:00.002+02:00

Otsustasin laupäeva hommikul voodisse jääda ja jätta vahele seekordne La Ciotas käik, mäe otsa matkamine ja koopas magamine ning selle asemel end hoopis välja magada kuudepikkusest kooli poolt kaela laotud unevõlast ja rahulikult võtta. Kogunemispaika läksin ikkagi kohale ja jagasin seltskonnale laiali oma maja neli magamiskotti, kolm matti ja ühe suure seljakoti ning jätsin kurvalt jällenägemiseni me elutoa põrandal viimased kümme päeva elanud austraallasest pagaripoisiga, kes meile iga päev värsket leiba ja saia küpsetas.

Laupäeval käisin niisama logelemise ja UPSi tracking system'i refreshimise (et näha, kui kaugele mu neljapäeva õhtul USAst tellitud Garmin Forerunner 305 jõudnud on; seni passib reede keskööst saati Marseille lennujaama tollis) kõrvalt kõrvetavas päikeses ühega uusi jooksutosse (Salomon XT Wings) testimas, sain üle pika aja mahti koju helistamise maratoni teha (äärmiselt mõnus oli kuulda elutoa taustahelisid; tunne oli nagu saaks läbi telefoni sinna astuda, aga võta näpust...) ja Kingi raamatut lugeda. Isegi ühe veidi liiga pikaks veninud filmi (Domino, 2005) jõudsin teisega külg külje kõrval diivanil istudes ja mõne koha peal sünkroonis karjudes lõpuni vaadata ning kaks lõunauinakut maha pidada.

Pühapäeval sõitsime kolmandatega ratastega randa ja hullasime mitu tundi liival ringi uusi trikke õppides. Näpud olid pärast soolased ja põsed suurest päikesest õhetavad:) Vett katsusin poole sääreni, aga ujumas veel ei käinud, kuigi augustikuus Kärdlas oli mu mäletamist mööda täpselt sama veetemperatuur nii et teoreetiliselt kõlbab sisse sulpsamiseks juba küll.

Gatoooo!!!

2010-03-12T10:48:00.003+02:00

Võtsin selle Gea juurest.

Reeglid:
3 esimest, kes avaldavad siin blogis soovi, saavad minult aasta jooksul kingituse. Vastutasuks peavad nad ise samasuguse asja korraldama oma blogis.

Niisiis saavad kolm esimest hõikajat minult spetsiaalselt neile mõeldes tehtud kingituse.

Trail de la Sainte Baume: kiirtee teadagi kuhu

2010-03-09T20:20:00.005+02:00

I'm on the highway to hell...

...kostis kõlaritest kui Hrönniga pühapäeva hommikul oma rinnanumbreid võtma ja arstitõendeid esitama läksime.

Vaade Marseille poolt: "väike ring" viis üle parempoolse ja suur ring üle mõlema tipu.

Selline nägi läbilõikes välja minu pühapäev, täpsemalt kolm tundi ja kakskümmend minutit sellest, mille jooksul ma koos kergelt kaugel ees lippava Hrönniga peamiselt mäest üles rühkisin, alustades jooksmisega, minnes üle kõnnile ja laskudes sealt peaaegu roomamiseni, millest hoidsid mind vaid reede õhtul targu varutud matkakepid. Need kakskümmend kaks kilomeetrit jooksurada rändasid esimese kolmeteistkümne jooksul üles mööda maalilisi mäekülgi, mille ilu saab vaid tagantjärgi fotodelt vaadata, sest kohapeal oli targem silmad varvastel hoida; veel enam koogutas kael põlvede poole kui lõpuks allamäge ronima hakkasime - seda sõna praktiliselt kõige otsesemas mõttes, nii umbes kuuekümne viie kraadise nurga all kõigepeal valgeid kaljusid mööda ettevaatlikult laskudes ning seejärel juba ettejoostud rada pidi end rohkem vabalangemast takistades kui reaalseid samme tehes. Asfaldijooksu tossudega poleks seal küll midagi pihta hakata olnud.

Täispika raja (46km) kunnid olla koguni üle liustiku ukerdanud ja fotodelt võib näha, et mõnes kohas pidi reaalselt ka etteseatud nööri abil "kivinukkidest" üle ronima. Trail nimelised jooksud ei ole siin naljakohaks. Nägin peale vabalangus-laskumist raja kõrval ka üht suurte kivide abil esmaabilahastatava jalaga naist, kes ilusti ellujäämiskilesse mähitult sama võistlustrajektoori mööda edasi-tagasi jooksvat parameedikut ootama jäi. Õhtul lavalt siiski väideti, et ainus jalamurdja olla üks fotograaf - neil ikka aegajalt juhtub. Viimased seitse kilomeetrit saime lõpuks ometi reaalselt joosta, poolenisti hoogu andes ja samal ajal pidur-reielihaseid pooles vinnas hoides, sest allamäge stardipunktini tuli jõuda palju lühema distantsiga üles mineku teekonnast ehk suhteliselt järsku langust mööda. Tänaseks ongi pigem allamineku lihased valusad kui üles tuleku omad.

End tõusudel kahesaja kilose kaheksakümne aastase vanavanavanatädina tundes mõtlesin jälle kibedalt, et miks k**** ma küll siia ronima pidin selle asemel, et mõnusalt kodus teki all pühapäevast päeva pidada, katusel teed juua ja päikesel põske paitada lasta selle asemel, et säärelihaseid rebestades, keel juba 800m merepinnale lähemal vestilt maha kukkunud ja mööda kiviklibu järel lohisemas ning hing paelaga kaelas, elupõliste karastunud sportlastega rinda pistes, proovides end tuulel mitte ära puhuda lasta. Pulsikell ei hakanud (õnneks?) esimese tunni jooksul iseseisvalt tööle ja pärast olid käed-jalad juba liiga tööd täis, et end sellega vaevata, ja ega ma ausalt öeldes ei taha teada, mida tal mulle öelda olekski.

Maagiline hetk saabus kilomeetri kõrgusel õrnaimatavalt lumehelbeid puistava pilve sees kui jalad isegi tasasel pinnal jooksusammudest keeldusid, tuul külmalt puhus, Hrönn kusagile ettepoole uttu kadus ja jalge alt salvei lõhna hoovama hakkas. Juba varem olin jõudnud mõttekäikudega tavalistele radadele, et ma teen seda iseendale: et tunda finišisse jõudmise tunnet, et veenduda iseenda olemasolus ja et nautida kui imelihtne on iga päev viie kilomeetri kaugusel jala tööl käia. Lisaks teen ma seda selleks, et allamäge on väga lõbus joosta - kohati raskem ja alati ohtlikum kui ülesmäge, aga raudselt lõbus - ning selleks peab kõigepealt üles minema. Ja siis veel selle veinipudeli pärast, mis enne starti igale osalejale anti ja selle uhke teesärgi pärast ja veidrate fotode pärast;)

Meenus, kuidas lapsena kehalise kasvatuse õpetaja või kelle iganes suust kuuldav väide "keegi ei ole kaotaja, siin on ainult võitjad!" ei ole kunagi piisavalt veenev, et end mittevõitjana mitte kaotajana tunda. Esimest korda sõnastus mu peas arusaam, et siin ei ole tõepoolest kaotajaid: igaüks kes on suuteline sellisel üritusel osalema, ongi võitja. Iseenese üle. Ja igal juhul tugevam neist, kes sama asja läbiroomamisekski võimelised pole, kui juba kellegagi võrdlema peab. Kui jäädki viimaseks, mille sa siis kaotasid?

Finišijärgses söömalauas selgus, et oleme siin ühed üsna erandlikud tegelased, nimelt oli võistlejate keskmine vanus silma järgi hinnates umbes 40-45 ehk tegu on karmide meeste ja karmide naiste karmide mängudega, milleks tuleb aastakümneid trenni teha. Ma ei tundnudki end enam nii hädisena kui sain aru, et 419. koht 451st tähendas võistlemist tegelastega, kel minu ees mitme aastakümne kõrgustreeningute eelis... hädisena hakkasin ma end tundma peale rikkalikku taastusdinéed kui hommikul alanud kõhubakter-viirus-oksetõbi kõvemaid tuure üles võtma hakkas ja lõpuks nii maha niitis, et ma Marseille rongijaama põrandal põlvili kergelt küljelt küljele kõikusin, neli murelikku kätt õlgadel ja otsaesisel toetamas, ainsaks mõtteks vastu pidada ja kahetunnine rongisõit magades üle elada, et Marseille haigla asemel oma mugavas voodis kogemustega meditsiiniõe kõrvaltoas hingitseda. Samas võin endale julgustuseks öelda, et ju siis sai kogu see rada kerges palavikus läbi tehtud, nii ei tasuks väga imestada ülesmineku kohutava enesetunde üle vaid pigem end kiita, et üldse lõpuni jõudsin.

Üle nelja rongiistme magamiskotti mähkunult kuulsin veel (pool?)tõsist küsimust, et kas ma ka midagi mäkdoonaldsist tahan, mõni aeg hiljem seletust konduktorile, et nende dokumentide ja pileti omanik magab siin ja teie enda rongile on parem teda mitte äratada, kui kahe tunni pärast ärkasin naeratusega üles, nägu rohelisest tagasi roosakaks moondunud ega saanudki kohe aru, miks mulle lõbusalt väideti, et näed, Eestisse jõudsime vahepeal! Magasin inertsist veidi veel ja lõplikult üles ärgates oli juba minu kord kilgata kui aknast paistis kuidas Montpellier'st (kus alles teisipäeval kahekümne soojakraadi ligi oli ja kus ma reede öösel katusel värskes õhus tähistaeva all magamiskotti testisin) vahepeal kõvemat sorti äikesesegune lumetorm üle oli käinud:) Koduteel muigasin kuis jaksasin, vaadates plikadena kilkavaid üle tänava edasi-tagasi jooksvaid täismehi ja kell pool kaks öösel sain kõhutäie naerda kui kahe lumekuhjaga kannatamatult trepikojas ukse taga ootavad sõbrad mind sõnumite ja vastamata kõnedega üles ajasid, ust avama nõudsid ja alles minu poolt lendava suure klaasitäie vee näkku saamist sõda alustasid. Me niiii muretsesime sinu pärast, et kas sa oled elus... ei ühtegi sõnumist peale jooksu ja... Hihii. Nii armas. Elsbeth muidugi oli natuke pahane kui ta peale teevee käima panemist aru sai, et hommik ei olegi veel käes...

Enne järgmist trail-nimelist üritust tuleb Pic Saint Loup'd mööda üles-alla jooksmas käia, sest ~650 meetrit merepinnast on kõvasti parem kui mitte midagi. Trail Sainte Baume oli mu senine neljas või viies kõrgem punkt, kus oma jalaga käidud ja seda oli ka tunda: viimase 7-kilomeetrise laskumise keskel oli veel üks järsk paarisaja meetrine tõus, mis ei jõudnud raskuselt ligilähedalegi kilomeetri kõrgusel asuvale platoole. Kust see kogemus ja treenitus muidu tulevad kui mitte proovides:)

Fotodel mina ja Hrönn allamäge põõsas passivale kaameramehele läbi suurte piinade muiata püüdes; Basile 46km rajal; näidis ümberringi kõrguvatest vaadetest, mida polnud kohapeal mahti imetleda; ning akrobaatikaseeria pilt Marseille kõrgeimas punktis laupäeva õhtul.

Piltide allikad: üks, kaks, kolm; ja foorumilink.

Hola! Barcelona!

2010-03-01T20:23:00.005+02:00

Jupp jupi haaval maailma paremaks muutes

Alguses oli plaan. Minna Pariisi Violale külla. Siis tuli mõte (eelmisel laupäeval mäe otsa jalutades). Et Pariis on nii kaugel ja külm ja pime ja vihmane ja kole ja võibolla isegi lumine, uuuh, ja neljast vabast päevast kaks läheks sellisel juhul transpordile ning mismõttes me pole siinsamas kiviviske kaugusel Barcelonaski käinud. Mõeldud-mõeldud, neljapäeva hommikul asusime kahe kolmese grupiga teele, kombineerudes teel mitu korda ümber, sest varsti oli üks kolmekas muutunud neljakaks, millest keegi ei tahtnud ühestki teisest liikmest lahkuda, olles valmis kasvõi terve päeva kiirtee sissesõidu turvasaarekesel suurt autot oodates tantsima, laulma, šokolaadist toituma ja amatöörtsirkusena ringi tõmblema. Nagu ikka, tegi elu oma otsused ise ehk mööduv veinikaupmees mahutas oma kaubiku esiistmele vaid kaks meist - need kiiremate jalgadega ehk minu ja Alice’i. Oli küll kurb meel teistest lahkuda, aga see läks kiiresti meelest kui teel Narbonne’ist Perpignani kerge tunniajase kõrvalepõike korras koos äärmiselt lõbusa härraga mööda pisikesi mägedesse peitunud külateid viinamäele sõitsime ja kiire pakenduskoja ekskursiooni lõpetuseks tummist tumepunast värsket mono-cépage’i (loe: eksklusiivset ühe-sordi viinamarjaveini) maitsesime. Viinamäelt edasi viis me tee läbi eikellegimaa keset heledast kivist mägesid, kaugel eespool sillerdamas päikeselaigus Canigou lumine tipp.

Vahet ei ole, kas pisike annus korraga pikema perioodi jooksul või labidaga-näkku-stiilis kultuurisokk, rõõm on ikka kõigepealt andjapoolne: no öelge palun, mida on lõbusat ajaviiteks mööda kesköise Barcelona tänavat neljakäpukil üksteise kingapaelade tagaajamises, saateks hüsteerilised naerupursked ja lõpetuseks end Jeesuse viieliikmeliseks naisarmeeks nimetava pundi keskel naerust kõhtu kinni hoides ringi veerev ‘korralik pereisa’, ees õnnelikeim ilme, mida võib ühe inimese näos üldse ette kujutada?

A kes ütles (sellele, kes ütles sellele, kes ütles sellele, kes ütles mulle), et täiskasvanud olemise kohustuslik osa on tõsine olemine, ah? Isegi algusest peale demonstratiivselt mossitav ja virisev ‘korralik’ belgia tüdruk, keda keegi tegelikult enne seda reisi ei tundnud ja kes meid esimesel õhtul Barcelonasse jõudes kostitas fraasidega maeivõi kuidas te kõik saate nii vastikult positiivsed olla, ma vihkan seda rõvedat lõunamaad!!! ja lahjema skaala akrobaatikaharjutuste taustaks punastades thüdrukud, the holete khahekhümne vhiie haastased!!!! pomises (kuigi tehniliselt olen nii kõrges vanuses ainult mina, kes ma näitan alati näpuga mugavalt ühe teise, oluliselt vanema inimese suunas) ja hommikul kingapoe vaateakna juures kiljatusega need pruunid!!! Iiiii! kelleski ühtegi reaktsiooni ei suutnud produtseerida, sai pühapäeval tagasiteel naeratuse näole ja viskas nalja. Ega vist enam midagi muud üle ei jää kui oled vabatahtlikult end sundinud neli päeva järjest kaasa tolknema karja hulludega, kelle jaoks kõvasti ja valesti Bohemian Rhapsody't lauldes mööda tänavat alla galopeerimine ning kõlava naeruga konnahüpped tundub olevat normaalne liikumisviis, šokolaad absoluutselt aktsepteeritav igapäevane söögikordade asendaja, kes veebruari lõpus randa jõudes esimese asjana haisvad sokid jalast viskavad ja kiljudes merre tormavad ning siis kogu rannapromenaadi rahva rõõmuks liival balleti põhisamme harjutavad. Ühel hetkel kaob mõte küsimusel Oooh!? Are are serious?! ükskõik millise ettepaneku ees, sest vastuseks on nagunii alati Never! ja naer ja tegevuse jätkamine pakutud suunas.

Eksamitulemusi ootavatele tudengitele on eelnev vihjeks, millega mõned õppejõud/õpetajad vaheajal tegelevad selle asemel, et töid parandada...

...või õpivad hispaanlaste stiilis kõrtsist kõrtsi käima, mis tähendab lauale toodud tapast ehk palju erinevaid häid väikseid rasvaseid toite ja suuri siidripudeleid kahe pooleliitrise klaasiga kuue inimese kohta. Tundub esimesel hetkel võigas, aga pöördub äärmiselt lõbusaks kui saad aru, et seda siidrit peabki serveerima klaasi, mida hoiad ühes käes põlve kõrgusel, pudelist, mille sirutad teise käega nii kõrgele pea kohale kui vähegi julged ja pudel on suur, et jagajale ei jääks vaid vaid näpud, sest pool joogist lahkub paremal juhul ämbrisse, halvemal juhul põrandale ja suurepärasel juhul läheduses seisvate härrade pükstele (sest nii on põhjust kohe uut sõprust looma hakata). Ja ainult kaks klaasi on sellepärast, et kõike jagatakse. Jagatud rõõm on mitmekordne rõõm.

Milline tunne on tajuda, kuidas maailma piirid muutuvad iga hetkega avaramaks! Näiteks avastades end teise põhjamaa lapsega arutamas, et huvitav mis ilm meid Back up there in the North ees ootab, seades pühapäeva hommikul samme Barcelonast Montpellier suunas ja pidades silmas mitte laiuskraade kus üles kasvati vaid ikka Lõuna-Prantsusmaad. Tundub kuidagi külm ja vihmane ja torisev Hispaaniaga võrreldes.

Peale neljaks päevaks interneti olemasolu unustamist vastumeelselt meilide lugemiseks arvuti kaant avades leidsin, et vahepeal on kusagil olnud suurem torm ja muretsetakse, et kas ka siin. Ei, meie nautisime 20-kraadist Hispaania linnaõhku, (minust veel) heledamad tütarlapsed (st kõik nad) läksid ereroosaks, mina pääsesin kerge päevitusega ja ühe roosaka laiguga õlal. Montpellier's on temperatuur kahe nädalaga tõusnud kohati esinenud nullist kuni miinus viiest umbes kuueteistkümnele.

Hommikuti tööle lipates haaran vanalinnas enamasti lehejagajalt (tasuta) ajalehe, millest saan kolmveerandtunnise jalutuskäigu umbes poole peale jõudnult kiire ülevaate maailmas ja lähikonnas toimuvast. Täna räägiti tõepoolest rahvusliku katastroofiolukorra väljakuulutamisest, aga see käib siiski muu ilma kui Lõuna-Prantsusmaa kohta. Umbes nii nagu see kui Tallinnas Tuukri tänav parajasti oma nime välja teenib, ei tähenda, et Kaunases ei võiks rannas lebades tuššmaalinguid teha. Kuigi La Rochelle’ist allapoole on enamasti soe ja päikeseline, jääb Atland ikka Atlandiks ning kui kui tema juba otsustab lainetega randu pureda ja tuultega majadelt katuseid rebida, siis teeb ta seda pikemalt ette hoiatamata. Vahemeri on ilma mõistes rohkem ette ennustatav ja rahulik paik: kui hommikul silmapiirilt pilvi ei paista, on teada, et tuleb ilus ilm ja vastupidi, väga suuri üllatusi ei maksa oodata. Mõnel talvel ikka sajab korra lund ja teinekord kõvema vihma järel kogu elu seisab, sest kanalisatsiooni ei ole ette nähtud ja trammid põlvini vees ei sõida, aga see ongi kõigile hea põhjus hommikul kauem magamiseks ja rahulikult võtmiseks. Suured tormid jäävad üldiselt ikka Gibraltari taha kinni samamoodi nagu Atlandi üle kallaste ajamine ei anna Taani väinadest ida pool suurt tunda.

Death by chocolate

2010-02-22T00:50:00.004+02:00

Hääletada kambakesi seitsmekümne kilomeetri kaugusele 'lähedal asuvasse külasse', et ronida mäe otsa piknikku pidama, tagasi alla jalutada, koju hääletada ja paarisajast astmest üles joosta, et veel viimaseid päikeseloojangukiiri näha. Vot seda nimetan ma elamiseks.

Kas ma olen juba maininud, et ütlemata mõnus on omada kodu, mida saab nimetada Koduks, sest see on Nii Mõnus, et sõbrad käivad seal õhtust õhtusse hängimas, söömas, küpsetamas, tantsimas, laulmas, jutustamas ja isegi nõusid pesemas? Nii ei jäägi kunagi arvuti kasutamiseks aega.

Eel-eel-eelsketsid

2010-02-18T11:16:00.004+02:00

Algusega juulis, kestusega umbes kolm kuud.
Kes kaasa tahab?

Miks esmaspäeval kõik lihased (nii magusalt) valutavad?

2010-02-08T13:44:00.006+02:00

Mõlemad sõiduvahendid on minu - teine neist kuldne mutukas madala pulga, kaardus lenksude, null käigu ja dünamotuledega. Väga cool masin, millega igal hommikul laborisse jõudmiseks viis kilomeetrit ülesmäge tallan. Ja igal õhtul sama palju allamäge tagasi. Kui vihma sajab, kulutan pidurdamiseks tossutaldasid, mis see on siin väga levinud pidurdusmeetod, seega muretsemiseks pole põhjust.

Fraktalid külmkapis

2010-02-07T20:29:00.006+02:00

Ma küll ei tea mida sellega teha, aga ma võtsin ta turult kaasa välimuse pärast. Nüüd istub ja ilutseb mul külmkapis.

Kolmapäeval ostsin Aldist kilo šokolaadi, millest on tänaseks umbes 300g järel, isetehtud šokolaadijäätistest, šokotäidisega pannkookidest mitmel pannkoogiõhtul, selle niisama nosimisest ja igaõhtustesse-hommikustesse kolmekäigulistesse toidukordadesse lisamisest on hetkeks isu täis, nüüd võiks vahelduseks midagi neist turult saadud värvilistest taimelukatest jälle potti visata ja roheliseks või kuldseks püreeks lasta. Koos kaneeli, küüslaugu ja muskaatpähliga näiteks. Nagunii varitseb meeldiv õhtusöök sõprade seltsis pea iga päeva lõpus ja seal juba gurmaanlusega kokku ei hoita.

Hea, et kevad on jälle õhus ja trennirütm hakkab vaikselt paika loksuma, sest vein, juust ja šokolaad on vähemalt sama efektiivsed lõdvestajad kui massaaž. Eriti kui pärast saab veel katusele ronida, magamiskottidega kaetult silgukarpi mängida ja langevaid tähti vaadata. Igal õhtul kui vaja. Ja päikesetõusu- ning loojangutki kui meelest ei lähe. Täpselt nagu linnast väljas, ainult et kodust väljumata.

:)

Welcome to Estonia

2010-02-03T13:45:00.013+02:00

Esiteks on Welcome to Estonia blogikampaania suurepärane ja üllas idee, teiseks pole ma iidammu käsitööbloginud... Kleidike sai valmis visatud juunikuus esimeste Eestisse saabudes teha olevate asjade hulgas, olles peas juba tükk aega kuju omandanud. Märksõnadeks olid tüdrukukujuline ja ideaalset sinist värvi. Käsitöörubriik on sellega lõpetatud.

... ja kolmandaks on Eestimaa suvi nii metsikult kaunis, et miks mitte keset talvist (mis kindlasti on ka kaunis, aga mida ma ei näe) nostalgiahoogu väheke neid kuid meenutada.

Discodancing up the wall

2010-02-01T11:22:00.003+02:00

Võtsin fotograafi saali kaasa, muidu oleks pildid igaveseks tegemata jäänud, sest kõigil asjaosalistel on alati käed täis ja mõte mujal. Sellise masohhismiga ma siis nüüd liiga tihti tegelengi. Sõrmed on valusad ja musklid punnitavad piinlikult mehiselt, aga mis parata kui seiklusloom mu sees kõva häälega röökides toitu nõuab. Piltidel Grabelsi saali üks nurk ja pool lage.

Uues laias voodis paksu teki all

2010-01-28T08:53:00.006+02:00

Õujee, lõpuks ometi olen jälle ühikast väljas! Üleeile õhtul saabusin esimese laadungi kraamiga teispoole rongijaama minu ja Elsbethi uude koju. Purunäljasena. Keetsin kiiresti riiulilt leitud spagetid karbist leitud karriga ja ronisin siis tulikuuma vanni neid sööma. Peaks mainima, et ma pole aasta otsa vanni näinud ja ühikas ei ole talvel mitte iialgi piisavalt soe kui kere on tõbine. Pärast tegin auravat oranži kaneeli ja muskaadiga püreesuppi oma uues hästivarustatud kööginurgas ja pugesin ülemisele korrusele raske teki alla magama. Vahelduse mõttes ei köhinudki enam öösel ja hommikul oli kaks korda tervem tunne. Olgugi siin küttega lood kehvad, ühikast on see igal juhul seitsesada korda etem, pealegi tuleb varsti kevad ja küll siis saab rõõmustada magusa jaheduse üle.

Eile käisin postkasti tühjendamas ja tulin selle koormaga trepist üles nagu sületäie küttepuudega - ma pole kunagi oma elus vist näinud nii palju pahna korraga ühest postkastist väljumas. Vääris pilti. Selle kõige hulgas oli ka kolm asjalikku kirja peremehele.

Ja lõpuks ometi saan ma külalisi vastu võtta ja oma suurepärastele sõpradele süüa teha. I love my life.

Ja mul on siin lauatelefon, millelt saab üle Euroopa tasuta kõnesid teha (väidetavalt ka Euroopast väljapoole mõnel juhul), ärge siis ehmatage kui ma teile ühel päeval helistan. Neile, kelle numbri ma suudan hankida, sest enamik ju jäi juba oktoobris mu katkisesse vanasse fõuni lõksu .

Episoodid: elu taastekkest vahetult peale eksameid

2010-01-24T19:16:00.006+02:00

...spagaadis mööda külgsuunas kergelt kaardus seina üles ronimas, mõlemad jalad haakumas päkanurga või suure varbaga sentimeetri paksustele ümaratele lauge servaga mummudele, käed aitamas lükates või tõmmates nukkidest, mille alumisest küljest mahub parimal juhul kolme keskmise sõrme esimeste lülidega haarama või pealt peopesa väliskülje kondikohaga tõukama. Neljapäev, laupäev, pühapäev: 2+3.5+2.5 tundi vaheldumisi ronides ja julgestades. Investeerisin enda ja sõprade turvalisuse nimel lõpuks GriGrisse, nüüd on hulga julgem julgestada ja saab seda tehes veidi biitsepsit puhata erinevalt nööri kaheksast läbi sikutamisest, mis käib kohati peale rajalt laskumist poole koormusega trenni eest.

Neljapäeval esimest korda üle kahe kuu saali astudes meenus teine põhjus, miks mulle seal käia meeldib, kui end soolasambaks tardunult, suu ammuli, lagedel ja seintel hängivaid ämblikmehi vahtima unustasin, enne kui meenus, et mulle ronimine kui tegevus meeldib tegelikult isegi rohkem kui kaunite meeste vaatamine, ja jalad riietusruumi suunasin.

-

Tibatilluke Itaalia pizzarestoran kus hispaanlasest sõber Asier kokaks. Meid ülejäänuid on üheks pikaks lauaks kokku lükatud pisikeste laudade ümber üheksa: Triin (Eesti), Viola (Hiina), Elsbeth ja Jasmine (Šotimaa), Nicolas ja Pauline (Prantsusmaa), Andrei (Ameerika-Rootsi), Frosti (Island), Jesus (Hispaania). Kõik on juba hästi selgeks saanud selle loo, kuidas peale eelmist pizzatellimist siitsamast Asieri koju 20-aastane pizzade laialivedaja-poiss kuidagimoodi juhuslikult möödudes minusse kõrvuni armuda suutis ning sellest ajast saati Asierilt mu numbrit nuianud on ja lubanud mulje avaldamiseks mööda lagesid ronida kui vaid vihjata, millal järgmine kord ronima läheme. Mina loodan, et ta ei ole täna tööl, ülejäänud kaheksa loodavad, et on - sest siis saab nalja. No ja muidugi hetkel kui too restorani uksest sisse astub, läheb laua ümber suurem naer ja kommenteerimine lahti, sõber-pizzameister jookseb köögist kohale ja teeb mu nina all naerdes rusikatega jess-jess-jess-go-go-go liigutusi, hiljem kirjeldab kuidas köögis ülemus ja kõik töökaaslased vaest poisikest norisid ja naerust kõveras olles mulle tere ütlema veenda püüdsid. Kui too lõpuks pulksirgelt pika sammuga läbi saali majast välja sammub, on kuulda lisaks astumise häälele kuidas kümne meetri raadiuses kogu Elu sekundi pealt hinge kinni hoiab ja ukse sulgedes kergendunult naerma hakkab. Selline 'tagasi kuuendas klassis' tunne. Vähemalt ei või kurta, et elu kuidagi igav või üksluine on. Mõnel ikka juhtub pidevalt, eks.

Pool tundi hiljem demonstreerime Jesusega pöidlasõda ja hoogsat plaksumängu, mille peale köögis käib temperamentne hispaaniakeelne vestlus (hiljem ette kantud; Asier vs ülemus):
- Oled sa ikka kindel, et su sõbrad on 18 täis? (ehe murelikkus lauale toodud pudeli veini pärast)
- Ee..? Me pidasime eile tolle tüübi 32. sünnipäeva!
- Mais pas possible!!! (saateks kujuteldamatu šokinäoilme stiilis lõug maas, silmad punnis jne.)

Tarkus tuli kiira-käära

2010-01-20T12:50:00.009+02:00

Eile õhtupoolikul epilepsiaid õppides jäin sooja läpaka peal magama, olles peale juba päevi beeta-gammalainetanud ja end aegajalt vaevaliselt veidi 12-15 Hz suunas nüginud, kuigi enamasti tulutult, seega tõeline juhuslikult tulistavate neuronitega deltauni oli äärmiselt tervitatav nähtus. No eksa proovi gammasuminaga magada...

Vahetult enne ärkamist leidis mingi ühendus üles emotsioonipildi koos mõistega Yggdrasil, millele järgnes äärmiselt loogiline järeldus Ngandong! just enne silmade avamist. Olin hämmingus mu ajju talletunud suvalise informatsiooni kombinatsioonist ja ulatusest, tõmbasin läpaka kõhu alt välja ja guugeldasin kiiresti, enne kui meelest läheb, et teada saada teise sõna tähendust. Tuli välja, et Yggdrasil ja Ngandong just liiga palju kordi samas lauses või lehel ei esine, siinne on hetkel seitsmes taoline sissekanne terves internetis. Ega mõistedki väga seostatud pole - üks pärineb Norra kosmoloogiast, teine on Jaava saarelt leitud Homo sapiensi välja surnud alternatiiv Homo erectus soloensis. Huvitav mida see kõik tähendab? Äkki lahendasin magades Suure Küsimuse?

Muide, viimane eksam sai läbi. Esiteks hea emotsioon - veerand tundi jäi üle, viin kõige esimesena paberid õppejõule, mõeldes, et ju need teised tegelevad inglise keelest läbi närimisega või siis kõigi nende tarkuste kirja panemisega, mida mul ei ole; tunne nagu oleksin päris hästi hakkama saanud. Enne kui uksest välja saan, kutsub õppejõud mind tagasi ja küsib üllatunult, et miks ma teise lehe peale midagi ei kirjutanud. Vastan veel üllatunumalt, et ma vastasin kõik esimese peale ära (Mõttes: Daaaaaa! Mul ei olnud järelikult lisalehte vaja...!). Mõlemad teemad oleksite pidanud eraldi lehtedele kirjutama ju. (WTFFffff...?). Maigutasin suud ja ajasin silmad punni kuni ta ütles, et pole hullu, saavad hakkama. Lahkusin puruvihaselt, sest kas keegi vaevus mulle seletama selliseid iseenesest mõistetavaid asju nagu eksamiprotokolli detailid - ei. Eile öeldi konkreetselt, et vastake eraldi lehtedele ja nii ma ka tegin, saades aru, et lähevad eraldi õppejõududele hinnata ja et kui seekord käib asi nii, siis teeme nii. Teades, kui väga siin riigis igasugust protokollitäitmist nõutakse, võib sellest probleeme tulla, teisalt jälle on ka protokollijälgimise rangus äärmiselt kaootiline.

Majast lahkudes urisesin ja turtsusin mõttes ja kui siis trammipeatuses piletimasin väitis, et mu pangakaart, mille uut koodi ma pangas nõudmas käisin ja siis kaks nädalat lõunapooluselt tulevaid postihobuseid ootasin, mis selle mulle kohale tooksid, on endiselt blokeeritud, tuli aur juba nii vihinal välja, et too vuntsidega moslemi kerjuspoiss, kes mulle ajaloo jooksul juba vähemalt kümnendat korda "aidake kurt-tummi, andke allkiri ja 10 eurot" paberiga külje alla poetas ja füüsilise kontakti lõi (=räige privaatsuse rikkumine), sai peaaegu kõrvakiilu. Pastakas lendas tal küll kaarega minema.

Ma saan nüüd lõpuks ometi magada. Ja siis loodetavasti ronima. Ja jooksma ja ujuma ja rattaga sõitma. Poolteist kuud peale karmima õppimisperioodi algust ja hulga targemana kui varem:)

Maailm särab

2010-01-18T14:08:00.005+02:00

Seekordne õppimine on kõige rohkem olnud protsess püüdmaks välja mõelda, mida siinne süsteem ja õppejõud minult eksamil ootavad, lisaks põhialuste päheajamisele, selgeks tegemisele ja igaks juhuks enamvähem kõige kättesaadava äraõppimisele maksimaalse ajumahtuvuse piiril, mis siis, et seni pole midagi sellest küsitud. Ma olen siin ju selleks, et võimalikult targaks saada ja pealegi on suurem osa valdkonnast ikka üle mõistuse põnev. Esimeselt eksamilt kukun tõenäoliselt-võibolla läbi, kui just viimase 10 minuti jooksul paaniliselt vähiravimi leiutamise eest meeletuid lisapunkte ei saa, aga täna olin juba kogenum ja aega jäi 15 minutit ülegi. Kaks tükki on veel: homme ja ülehomme hommikul. Tegu on tõelise terade sõkaldest eraldamise meetodiga, kus suurem osa vajalikust informatsioonist on olemas eksamil kätteantavas artiklis, lihtsalt ole mees/naine/teadlane, leia see sealt ettenähtud 2 tunni jooksul üles, pane esitamiseks sobivasse vormi ja tee piltidest-graafikutest kõrgelennulisi järeldusi.

Eelmise kuue ülikooliaasta jooksul olin eksamitel 92% juhtudest tegelenud faktiteadmiste reprodutseerimisega, vastates ootustele ja näidates, kui palju teistest kõvemaks entsoklüpeediaks ma end olen suutnud treenida või siis mitte, vastavalt olukorrale. Kaks tundi ja kaheksa lehekülge käsikirjalist - vigadega - teooriat näiteks. Google suudab natuke rohkem infot 0.12 sekundiga reprodutseerida.

Laupäeva öösel kella kaheni ja pühapäeva hommikul jälle kella kaheni lugesin hoopis Isaac Asimovi Igaviku Lõppu, vabandades ennast enda ees välja, et tegu on peaaegu õppimisega, kuna käesolev on sedavõrd sügavale sondeeriv kvantfüüsikaline filosoofia, mis stimuleerib mu aju sama hästi kui seljaaju regeneratsioonivõimaluste uurimine, lõdvestades samal ajal suurepäraselt südame rütmihäirete molekulaarmehanismide lahtiharutamisest pinges ajukääre ja nügides mind jälle kastist välja mõtlema. Kastist välja mõtlemise võime on täpselt see, millele mina õppejõuna tudengite tööde juures enim tähelepanu pööraksin. Selleks aga on vaja eelkõige võimalikult palju erinevaid sisendeid, mis alateadvuses uuteks veidrateks lahendusteks keerduksid, et siis pastaka otsa kaudu tee inimkonnani leida. Krampis ajust pole pastakavedelikule suurt kasu, seepärast aitasin peale järgnenud poolt päeva teadusartikleid kaasa väikse tantsu, tralli ja Madriidi rahvus-ühepajatoiduga (milles sisalduvad verivorstid ja muud loomatükid vahetult peale loomkatsete detailset õppimist ikka väga vastu hakkasid). Kohe ongi palju parem tunne kui neljapäeval peale haige olemist:)

Mis siis, et see, kas sellest kõigest lõpuks ka eksamitulemuste parandamisel kasu on, selgub kunagi teinekord.

And so what?

2010-01-14T09:06:00.004+02:00

Mulle pole juba aastaid ükski eksam nii palju korda läinud kui need siin, kogu krempliga - asotsiaalsus, pidev õppimine, stress, mitu nädalat spordi mittetegemist ja möllavad viirustõved koos pea-, kurgu-, nina-, kõhuvalu ja insomniaga. Mul endiselt pole õrna aimugi, kas ma olen üle õppinud, üldse õigeid asju õppinud või kukun kolinal läbi. Ja milline see eksamikorraldus ligikaudseltki välja võiks näha. Täna hommikul on esimene, milleks plaanisin veel eile üle korrata, aga kõhuvalu läks juba nii hirmsaks, et kahlustasin tavalist kiirabilaksu, jätsin söömise maha ja läksin õppimise mõttes kasutu päeva lõpuks hoopis kell 18:30 magama, et ärgata üles hommikul 7:30. See teeb viimase kolme nädala keskmisest nii umbes 2,5x pikema uneaja. Ja sada korda kvaliteetsema kui ükski õppimine, sest peavalu on lõpuks ometi kadunud ja kõhuvalu on langenud talutavale tasemele, mis tähendab, et kui ma eksamiküsimustest vähegi aru saan ja ligikaudseltki õigeid asju õppinud olen, siis ei tohiks midagi hullu lahti olla. Kukun läbi - ja siis?

Programm: neurobioloogia & endokrinoloogia

2010-01-12T22:32:00.004+02:00

Kallak: teadus. Eksamid. Ööd ja päevad läbi õppimist. Alguses oli kohutavalt põnev ja silm säras, lugedes huvitavatest võimalustest maailma päästa inimkonna tõbedest ja vigastustest ravimise teel: sisekõrva neuroepiteeli karvarakkude regeratsioon tüvirakkude abil; reetina transplantatsioon või fotoretseptorite taastamine geeniteraapia teel; kõrgmäestikutreeningu (puuduv) mõju südame vasaku vatsakese võimekusele; serotoniini retseptorite efektiivsem blokeerimine depressiooni ravis; epilepsiate, narkosõltuvuse, anoreksia, valutundlikkuse ülekandemehanismide, mälu, kõne, neurodegeneratiivsete haiguste, lihasrakkude glükolüütilise ja oksüdatiivse ainevahetuse molekulaarsed alused; sellel nimekirjal ei ole lõppu.

Siis aga hakkasid tulema huvitavamad osad ehk protokollid, kuidas seda kõike tehakse. Meditsiin - see lihtne osa - ehk pealispind sai selgeks ja algas teadus. Endiselt on põnev, endiselt silm särab, või nüüd juba pigem läigib õudusest, sest kui arstid tegelevad (inimeste) ravimisega, siis samal ajal teadlased tegelevad (küll mitte kõik ja mitte igas töös, eks) nendesamade haiguste ja vigastuste esilekutsumisega (loomadel) kõrgema eesmärgi nimel ehk arstidele adekvaatse informatsiooni kogumiseks. Ka "must töö" vajab tegemist. Mul on tugev ideoloogiline konflikt. Tahaks nagu maailma päästa, aga samal ajal nii, et keegi seejuures haiget ei saaks. Võibolla peaksin kunagi hoopis meditsiinile ümber spetsialiseeruma. Õnneks elul on kombeks minna nii nagu ta läheb ja otsused minu eest ära teha, edasi on juba lihtsam.

Lähivaates

2010-01-06T10:41:00.004+02:00

deltaT=26

2010-01-02T10:22:00.004+02:00

Hommikul astusin kodu uksest välja -16C krõbiseva õhuga valgesse maailma ja õhtul astusin viimasest lennukist alla +10C pehmelt paitava tuulekesega palmide vahele, olles saanud maailma kõige nunnuma uusaastatervituse lennuki kõlaritest peale maandumiskõne lõppu: ...and thank you once again for flying with Ryanair... ja head uut aastat! eestlasest stjuuardilt, kel läks ikka mitu katset, enne kui minuga jutule sai, sest Tere'le ja kavalale naeratusele ma ju ometi ei osanud reageerida ning neurobioloogiasse süvenenud välismaa keeltele ümber lülitatud ajul kulus ka teisel korral jupp aega aru saamiseks, et tegu on eesti keelega ja katsega selles paar sõna juttu vahetada, mitte vabandust, tõstke jalad pingilt maha'ga, mida ma rohkem ootasin. Hehe.

Valge pulbri maagia

2010-01-01T14:30:00.000+02:00

Nüüd olen ma juba teel. Kodust koju, nagu tavaliselt. Ka seekord oli veidi kurb lahkuda, aga saabumine saab olema rõõmus. Nagu tavaliselt. Tulge siis ikka külla ka!

Hukkunud alpinist

2010-01-01T00:57:00.004+02:00

Keskööks olime koos peremehega ära timminud kannutäie kuuma portveini, läbi arutanud, kuidas ülejäänud külalistele efektsemalt teatada, et nad on elusalt sisse müüritud, ja lahendanud järgmised probleemid: kas inimkond on väljasuremisele määratud (jah, on määratud, kuid tol ajal ei ole meid kindlasti enam olemas); kas bernhardiin Lel on mõistusega olevus (jah, kahtlemata, kuid paraku on täiesti võimatu seda teadlastest puupeadele selgeks teha); kas universumit ähvardab niinimetatud soojussurm (ei, ei ähvarda, kuivõrd peremehe puukuuris on olemas nii esimest kui teist liiki igiliikureid); kumba sugu on Brun (siin ei olnud mina suuteline midagi tõestama, peremees aga ütles välja ja põhjendas ära kummalise idee, et Brunil pole üldse sugu).

Vististi just sel hetkel kargas meie jalgade ees tukkunud bernhardiin Lel äkki püsti ja haugatas poolihääli.

Peremees jäi talle otsa vaatama.

"Ei saanud aru!" ütles ta rangelt.

Lel haugatas kaks korda järjest ja läks halli.

"Ahah," ütles peremees end püsti ajades. "Keegi on saabunud."

2009. aasta: lugemus ja kogemus

2009-12-31T12:34:00.002+02:00

2009 aasta kulges täiesti erinevalt igast eelnevast neist kahekümne neljast aastast ehk suurem osa ajast ühel või teisel moel ühes või teises kohas ringi reisides, hulkudes, seigeldes, maailma ja inimesi avastades ja enda siseilma tundma õppides. Raamatuid mahtus kõigele sellele taustaks rohkem kui muidu, jaht uutele ideedele tundus tohutult tähtsam kui iial varem.

Kes iganes tahavad vaadata minu pea sisse - siin on nimekiri pidepunktidest:

1. Ursula K. LeGuin: Pimeduse pahem käsi
2. Paul Arden: Ükskõik, mida mõtlete, mõelge vastupidi
3. Sergei Lukjanenko: Öine vahtkond
4. Terry Pratchett: Öövahtkond
5. Aravind Adiga: White Tiger
6. Dan Brown: Forteresse Digital
7. Jung Chan: Wild Swans
8. Neil Gaiman: Ameerika jumalad
9. Andres Ehin: Ajaviite peerud lähvad lausa lõkendama
10. Ray Bradbury: 451 Fahrenheiti
11. Anne Rice: Intervjuu vampiiriga
12. Rayd Bradbury: Marsi kroonikad
13. Margaret Atwood: Pime palgamõrvar
14. Thomas Keneally: Schindleri nimekiri
15. Truman Capote: Hommikueine Tiffany juures
16. Vladzimir Karatkevitš: Kuningas Stahhi ajujaht
17. Jules Feiffer: Karmuella-Armuella ja Nunnu
18. A & B Strugatski: Miljard aastat enne maailmalõppu; Väljasõit rohelisse: jutustused
19. Stanislaw Lem: Tagasitulek tähtede juurest
20. Igor Krichtafovitch: Humor Theory, formula of laughter
21. Berit Renser & Terje Toomistu: Seitse maailma

See ei ole pelgalt nimekiri läbitud pealkirjadest vaid kronoloogia läbitud mõttelistest etappidest: iga nimi kannab enda taustal konkreetset kohta, situatsiooni, põhjust ja emotsiooni. Esimesed neist on juba nii paksu mälestuste settekihi alla vajunud, et tunduvad pärinevat justkui mõnest teisest dimensioonist. Mõnes mõttes ongi tegu teise reaalsusega, sest ma ise olen neist alates kõvasti muutunud nii väljast kui seest.

Iseenese blogi on imeline kroonika, mille järgi teinekord aasta kaupa tagasi lugedes enda muutumist jälgida. Kõik sai alguse juba 2008 aasta augustis kui käes oli suurem jamade aeg, mil tundsin peale pikemat kuuma mõttekartuli edasi-tagasi loopimist, et on viimane aeg endale jalaga kanni anda ja teha teoks oma keskkooliaegne Amélie-unistus. Otsus sai vastu võetud sel hetkel siin ning tagajärjed on täpselt sama idüllilised kui illustratsioon. Mulle on selle aasta jooksul lugematu arv kordi öeldud lugematu arvu (kümneid? sadu?) erinevate teel kohatud inimeste poolt, et ma pean olema tohutult julge tütarlaps, et niimoodi oma kenasti üles seatud elule käega lüüa, kõik sinnapaika jätta, selleks et tundmatus kohas vette hüpata ja vaadata mis juhtub. Kust ma selle julguse võtsin? Vot täpselt sellest ühest mööduvast hetkest, mil taipasin, et kunagi olin ma noor ja kunagi olid mul unistused ja et ma ei taha elu lõpuni õnnetu olla või päevast päeva üldiselt aktsepteeritud tagasihoidlike normide piires emotsioonitult ära vegeteerida. Nii ma siis hakkasin jälle nooreks. Nagu öeldud:

La chance c'est comme le Tour de France: on l'attend longtemps et ça passe vite!

Raamatunimekirja esimesed kaks luges minu eelmine inkarnatsioon jaanuaris veel Eestis olles: esimese tolles pisikeses hämaras Mustamäe korteris oakoti sisse vajunult taustal kostvate arvutimänguhelide saatel; teise sain Kajalt ja Maarjalt uhkel Olümpia hotelli katusesauna peol, mille sõpradele oma äramineku puhul korraldasin ning lugesin kiiresti Paide bussis läbi: sealt haakus mu pähe kinni nii mõnigi üliväärtuslik idee, mis mind terve aasta saatnud on. Kolmanda ja neljanda ostsin enne äralendu kaasa ja tõin nende abil Béthune'i hallitavasse ühikatuppa veidi põnevust; neljanda ajal olin kolmenädalases rängas angiinis ja hõljusin 38+ palavikus, saades esimest korda üle umbes kolme aasta teada, mis tunne on tõsiselt külmetushaige olla. Kuuenda hankisin sama linna kaubamajast keeleõppeks: algus oli väga raske, aga edasi läks juba lihtsamalt ja sõnastikuta. Viies ja seitsmes tähistavad juba minu vagabondielu tõelist algust: need hankisin Londonist Languedoc-Roussillioni reisi järel; muide, praegu ma elan sellessamas maakonnas. Edasi läks nii suureks reisimiseks, et lugemiseks enam aega ei jäänud: sama raamatupoe külastuskorra ajal hangitud Sõda ja Rahu (mis rändas minuga ümber Prantsusmaa kaasa ja on hetkeks üsna karmi kraadiga kapsa välimusega) on mul seniajani ühikatoas pea kõrval pisikesel nurgariiulil ehk "öökapil" ja ootab juba kaks kuud sama järje peal.

Suvel tulin tagasi Eestisse, sattusin kohe korraga kahte paralleelsesse maailma elama - üks, milles jätkan sügisest TTÜs külmal karmil mulle juba hästi tuntud põhjamaal ja teine, kus kolin Prantsusmaale, et jätkata seal pooleli jäänud elu seekord seestpoolt uurides, mitte niivõrd pealtvaatajana nagu kevadise pika ringreisi ajal. Sukeldusin kahe esimese skisofreeniliselt minu ajuruumi eest võitleva isiksuse eest kolmandasse, ehk raamatumaailma. Ameerika jumalad (8).

Jaagupiga Hiiumaal äikesetormi eest Madise maamajja peitudes kaevasime läbi sealsed iidsed raamatuarhiivid, millest sain sama õhtu jooksul neelatud üllatavalt veidra huumoriga üheksanda - poleks seda seeria nime järgi iial osand oodata - ja haarasin kaasa kümnenda. Peale seda tundsin kuidas pean lugema läbi kõik maailma raamatud nii kiiresti kui vähegi võimalik, enne kui on hilja. Lisaks vajasin järjest enam oma kolmanda maailma abi, sest esimene ja teine kisklesid peas juba talumatult lärmakalt. Üksteist, kaksteist. Kolmteistkümnendasse peitsin nina Norras siis kui parajasti midagi öelda polnud - mida juhtus tihti - ja autoakna televiisoriekraanist välja vaatamine enam ei köitnud - või Stockholmist laevaga välja kruiisides imekaunist saarestikku ja seda endasse mähkivat päikeseloojangut ja kuutõusu piiludes.

Neliteistkümnenda ajal muutusin esimese, teise ja kolmanda maailma kombinatsioonis juba depressiivseks, kuigi ümber oli ilus Setumaa loodus, toredad inimesed ja võimalus pea füüsise kaudu puhtaks rabeleda tundide kaupa matšeetega kasevõsa raiudes seni kuni relv paremast käest maha kukkus ja vasakki enam aidata ei suutnud. 15, 16, 17 tasandasid emotsiooni samas ruumipunktis ja roomasid mu pähe Fahrenheit 451 insertsi mõjul: Tiffany jutustused insipireerisid tugevalt mu rännuhinge ja tasandasid Schindleri tagajärgi.

Kaheksateist, endiselt värisevate kätega raamatute võlujõusse uskudes ja üha uusi teoseid Paide pööningult välja kaevates, saatis mind juba lennukis teise maailma. Esimene maailm oli selleks hetkeks nädal tagasi hävinud ja kolmas ei pidanud enam mitte asendama vaid täiustama. Üheksateist oli kohvris kaasas. Kahekümnenda laenasin oma singapurlasest sõbra raamaturiiulist oktoobri alguses; kahekümne esimese ostsin peale jõule ja läbisin eile. Vahepeal tuli elu ette, pakkudes tuhandeid kogemuse läbi õppimise võimalusi ning võttes ära vajaduse raamatutesse pugeda.

Kaks tuhat üheksa:)

Mõttenopped: kodumaa

2009-12-29T14:10:00.009+02:00

Unise peaga tasub kotist hambapastat otsides tähelepanelikum olla, muidu võib harja peale ilus triip kreemi sattuda. Maitses omapäraselt.

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Õues on kogu aeg pime ja lõuad on pidevalt haigutusasendis ja hommikuti on suuri raskusi üles ärkamisega. Lõunamaine kerge kell 7-8 äratus venib siin 11-12 peale. Võibolla on asi ka suhkru üledoosis, sest sellise ilmaga Tallinna kesklinnas õue jooksma küll ei kutsu ja ma ei oska kogu sissesöödud energiat kuidagi ära kulutada. Väiksema energiatihedusega vitamiinikamat toitu süüa ka ei õnnestu, sest poes ju (kvaliteetseid ja talutava hinnaga) puu- ja köögivilju (piisavas valikus) ei müüda. Hakkamasaamist tuleb ilmselt pikemalt harjutada.

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Aga see-eest müüakse poodides ilusaid riideid! Siin on värve! Uskuge või mitte, aga prantslased kannavad kõik ühesuguseid tumedates toonides riideid või siis alternatiivstiilina samadest universaaluniversumi moodi poodidest ostetud värvilisi nepaalis kokku õmmeldud hõlste, millega peab aga ettevaatlik olema, et mitte saada kerjushipide hordidega segi aetud. Hea meelega ostaksin omale paar rõõmsat erksavärvilist T-särki, dressikat või kleiti kaasa, aga kahjuks on need siin siiski kohutavalt kallid.

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Veel positiivset külge: inimesed mu ümber on minu mõistes normaalsuuruses, mis tähendab, et riidepoes on minu number alati olemas ja üldse mitte skaala ülemises äärmuses. Ning ma tunnen end siin Hellas Hundis istudes tavalisena, vaadates ringi sibavaid pikki ettekandjaid ja järjest ümbritsevaid lõunalaudu hõivavaid suurt kasvu põhjamaa mehi (vau, siin on minust suuremad mehed!). Ma ei olegi hiidnaine Kreonta! Ega ka mitte silmapaistvalt valge naha, heledate silmade ja heledate juustega säravalt massist eristuv.

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Minu isiklik operatsioonisüsteemide kasutamise ajalugu läks tsüklisse: xp - ubuntu - mac - xp - ja tagasi ubuntu juures, sest Netbook ei vea toda xp'd välja, mis seal algusest peale sees oli ja on lisaks tõenäoliselt kõigis võimalikes botnet'ides oma jope. Rääkimata troojalastest ja kõigest muust, mida oli sinna pihuga visatud kui kevadisel külviajal viljateri aurava sõnniku peale.

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Vähemotiveeriva ilma ja linnaolude koosmõju ülipositiivseks tagajärjeks on puhkus, mille mu kolm kuud kõva tööd teinud jalad on lõpuks ära teeninud. Ma muidu ju ei ole võimeline neile rahu andma, nüüd aga surub haigutus peale ja ütleb, et hetkel ongi kõige olulisem hoopis aju treenida, millega ma kohe jätkan kui publish nupp vajutatud ja kirjavead parandatud.

Mjäu, nautige teie ka!

2009-12-25T00:54:00.002+02:00

Eksootika

2009-12-23T15:53:00.004+02:00

Iga koht maailmas on kaunis kui noppida sealt üles see hea osa: pea ümber keerlevad suured laiad lumehelbed ja pehme lumi, milles jalgadega sobrada; vastutulijate ja teenindajate üllatunud pilgud kui nad näevad üht harjumatut hullumeelse õnnenaeratuseks kõverdunud suud ja kavalat silmavaadet ning sellega välja võlutud vastunaeratused; valge pilve tagant kumav kollase virsiku värvi õrn päike; ja kõigi nende kohtadega seotud paremad mälestused.