Finally trekking from Valbona to Theth
Breakfast is substantial, cheese, home-churned butter, yogurt, bread, and tea. The sunrays still only touch the rocky mountain tops, while the rest of the valley, us included, stay steeped in a fresh morning shade. When everybody’s stomach is full and we are ready to leave, the landlord calls everybody around himself for a briefing session. He takes out a pen from his jacket pocket and on a scrap of paper he sketches a map, ridiculously out of proportion, with various landmarks he says we’ll have to watch out for. That holds as long as we remember what each scribble stands for, and always with the assumption there will be absolutely no trail markings along the way, which is - hopefully - unlikely. This map is as useless as ever, but we have to listen carefully, as this forms part of the host’s duties and will give him the tranquillity of our security.
Getting to Valbona is part of the fun
I am hungry, but I postpone my dinner by just as long as it takes to make arrangement for the next day. I was proud my shortcut around the airport and the impromptu journey to Shkoder worked all right, but now I mustn’t waste the headway. As only one ferry leaves at 9 every day to Fierze, a delay of one hour would mean throwing a whole day away. The hostel manager says a group is leaving at 6, and I could try asking the driver. This I will do. Then it’s a dinner of egg and lemon soup and stuffed vineleaves, accompanied by fresh beer and the unbearable din of a music party next door.
From Tirana to Shkoder
Just outside Tirana airport a mob of supporters is awaiting the arrival of their boxing champion. A billboard picturing the muscular star on the background of the blood red Albanian flag with the bicephalous eagle hangs from the railing of a balcony. I am curious and stand at a safe distance to watch the fans cheer and aplaude, the boxer respond gratefully but soberly, paying homage to an elder. The white felt fezes worn by some, and a few matching traditional dress, tinge the ceremony of archaic rituals.
The tortelli Wars
Sitting in the impressive Ponchielli Theatre stalls in Cremona, I was waiting for the show to begin. To be precise, it was not a proper show, but a food-and-wine event staged to mark the 450th anniversary of Claudio Monteverdi’s birth and the award won by four East Lombardy provinces as European region of gastronomy. A lady approached my row and stooped over to talk to my neighbour, reassuring him that the booklet published after last week’s conference provided hard evidence that the Crema tortello had been treated fairly.
The Floating Piers
Counting the times I've seen Christo Floating Piers on Lake Iseo in the only 16 days when they were in place, I add up to three. Actually, four – as I was also able to see them from the plane when I was returning from Poland days before the inauguration, although this very first time the piers were not covered yet with the yellow fabric finish.
Brașov in the grip of frost
I hadn't seen much through the minibus window of what must have been a lovely journey across the mountains. At Brașov it was still snowing lightly at 7 pm, and it felt too cold to walk to the hostel. In spots ice sheet made the pavement rather slippery. Minus eight, displayed a red led thermometer in the street.
At the foothills of the Carpathians
I admit. With only few days at my disposal it would have made more sense to skip Curtea de ArgeÈ™ altogether: the attractions in town are not mind-blowing, and the fortress ruins lie at a certain distance into the Carpathians. However, I had a hotel reservation which I couldn't change, and this allowed me to have some surprises.
Grand show at Echmiadzin
Minutes before the start, the people who were in their various capacities involved in the celebration of Sunday service were all aflutter. The choir members were taking their seat on the raised platform. The girls adjusted the embroidered veil over their hair; in the back row stood the men. The clerics sat down on their chairs on the other side of the balustrade, the faithful gradually filled the space under the high dome. Upon entering the sacred building, most paid their respect by kneeling down and kissing the gospel placed on a lectern on scarlet velvet.
Amberd fort
The mists around the top of Mt. Aragats had dispersed by the early afternoon, but after eating the meat and drinking all the vodka I could only hope to be still able to put one foot in front of the other. Moreover, the boys and the father were going to drive home in their jeep and they would drop me at the turning to the ruins of Amberd. I would have still about 6 km to walk.
At the onset the distance which I had to cover soon weighed down on me as if it was a leaden ball on my ankle. It would be, in the best case, a trundle of one and a half hours on a tarmac track under a fiery sun. After the initial oblivious state faded out, I started to imagine how quickly the passing cars could drive me to destination if they just stopped. Or if I made them stop: hitchhiking was the only way out.
Climbing (or picnicking?) on Mt. Aragats
Mt. Aragats is now Armenia's highest mountain, at least if we refer to what is nowadays political Armenia. Because every Armenian's heart is clear that their country's highest and dearest mountain is Ararat, long lost to Turkey, but still watching over Yerevan from just off the border. With over 5,000 m of elevation it couldn't be otherwise: impossible to miss, its perennial snows glitter incredibly white from the perfect cone that can be admired from the muggy plain or the hot city.
Aragats, if not such a spectacularly beautiful mountain, is still a respectable one. As far as height is concerned, it exceeds 4,000 m but it is easily reached by way of a path that starts from a refuge on the shore of a mountain lake about 1,000 m below the summit. While in Armenia, I had to climb it.
Sanahin and Haghpat
The valley of Alaverdi is a crucial way of communication between Armenia and Georgia, crossed by a highway and a railway, and marked by the presence of a huge mining plant. Industrial structures and chimneystacks are found near the river, some of which look abandoned. A rocky crag up in the mountains gives out a flow of white smoke as if the furnace down below was connected to it by an invisible underground vent. From the bottom of the valley you can reach the bigger part of Alaverdi perched on a slightly sloping ledge by means of an old cableway that travels exasperatingly slow because of security concerns after the plant suffered a breakdown time ago. Very encouraging.