Dawn By iPhotography.

My daily run is slowly becoming a favorite part of my morning.
Not just because I love the exercise, but mostly due to the incredible natural beauty that meets my gaze. Watching a still landscape waking up to a stunning dawn is the most perfect way to start a new day.

I run with my iPhone in the pocket.
Initially, this was to check the time and provided me with a sort of security, as I venture into deserted fields. However, it has become a tool to document the enchanted beauty of panoramic views at sunrise.

Sadly, my little Nikon ceased functioning a couple of months ago, thus until I buy a new pocket camera, my phone seems to be a suitable substitute. Considering the quantum leap that technology has taken just in a few decades, I view every capture I snap with it as a true marvel. Ten years ago no one ever thought that a phone would be substituting point-and-shoot cameras.

My very first camera was made by Kodak and today it would be considered as ancient at the very best, but in 1982 it was a modern gadget. Of course, viewed with today's eyes, the pictures were of limited quality, nevertheless, I was fascinated by its simple process and by the sheer possibility of being able to the capture moments in time.
Unfortunately, when vacationing in the south of Europe one summer, I left it on the rooftop of my parents car at a rest stop. When I realized this some three hours later, I had to accept that it was lost forever.

Since then I have own many cameras - some inexpensive, some of better quality - yet my love for photography only grew.
Almost every day I take pictures of something that entices me, either using my beautiful Canon or my phone. The fact that I can take hundreds of shots and view them instantly will never cease to mesmerize me - anyone can be a photographer these days.
Still, I can at times get slightly sentimental recollecting the anticipation of the old film processing. Taking pictures in the past was just like a box of chocolates - you never knew what you were going to get.

Below: Images of an April dawn taken with my iPhone during my recent run, please click to enlarge.

And here below a sentimental walk down the memory lane - the old add for my first camera.:)

Unthinkably Good Things.

When I was a child, Christmas was an enchanted time. The whole month of December resonated with incredible bliss. The anticipation, the decorations, the various traditions, the scents, my family - it all created a harmonious atmosphere which filled me with happiness.

I recall how unthinkable it was to me then that some could perceive this time so very differently. Those that felt loneliness and sorrow, for one reason or another. Those who felt excluded from this unified joy and for whom during the Holiday Season the world turned into torment and melancholy.
Thus, when I found myself celebrating one New Year's Eve all alone not that long time ago, I did shed a small tear realizing that I had to endure what I thought would never happen to me - being lonely and sad.

Today, within the walls of our warm and cosy home, one that exuberates safety and comfort, as I sit surrounded by people that truly love me like I was loved once before, I become slightly sentimental recalling all these moments in my past. Seeing the children with so much excitement and expectations in their faces, those memories of Christmas celebrations from my own childhood come streaming back. And yet again, that feeling of happiness and unity I once felt seems to fill my world.

Lady Fortune has finally granted me my wishes, those that I carried with me as dreams for what seems like an eternity. They are packaged slightly differently than I envisioned, yet they are my wishes indeed. Today I wonder why I had to reach this late age to finally find that which has been so elusive my whole adult life.
Perhaps our dreams can only be appreciated and savored fully when achieving them takes all that we have got. Perhaps we are to walk those lonely and difficult paths to learn those vital lessons that will become our old age wisdom. Maybe if I would have been granted all that I wanted at an early age, I would never have been where I am now nor would I have seen what I have seen. Additionally, I would have not appreciated what I have been blessed with so passionately and valued it so strongly. Maybe the best is worth waiting for.

To live fully is to dare.
We need an ounce of luck along the way of course, but the quality of our lives is at all times determined by our own actions, something that became very clear to me this year. Thus, as this very important period in my life is closing towards its end, I look back upon the past twelve months and feel thankful, blessed, excited and ultimately surprised. I feel reflective, amazed and endlessly happy.
But most of all, I feel fulfilled, as I am finally exactly where I want to be, even if it took me half a lifetime to get here.

The below clip contains one of the final scenes from one of my favorite movies entitled "Under The Tuscan Sun".  Today I feel the sentiments expressed within these images and words mirror my own life, as indeed - "Unthinkably good things can happen even late in the game..."

Wherever I Lay My Hat...

Home.
A word that most certainly evokes strong emotions, powerful thoughts and unique images in everyone's perception.
We all carry an idea in our head of what home means to us, or what we would like it to mean.

For some of us, the word brings about a sense of familiarity, security and happiness. For others; melancholy, longing, emptiness and even perhaps a sense of loss or absence of something that once was and no longer is.
Or something that never was in the first place.

Already as a child, I moved around extensively with my restless parents. As an adult, I unintentionally adopted this lifestyle, relocating and crossing country borders - and even continents - pretty much each decade. Thus as a consequence, the term home has become endlessly elusive and almost unattainable in my perception. At times I feel as if the search for a home and particularly the idea of belonging somewhere - has become the ultimate quest in my adult life.

During my childhood, nevertheless, home was a secure and very much a defined place. It was without a doubt where my immediate family was; my parents and my sister. I belonged with these people in no uncertain terms and the geographical location of the place made no difference to me. The numerous moves, the constant, anxious new school starts, the continuous effort of making new friends - it all interfered very little with the happiness I felt. Even the ultimate move, which made my family into immigrants, only reinforced the bond we shared and home was still a very substantial definition in my mind.

But then along the way somewhere, as I moved out on my own and set out to conquer the world, the meaning of a home became increasingly obscure. At first it encompassed my parents home, later the city where they lived, then a country and finally even an entire continent. In time I began to experience a sense of almost an identity confusion and the yearning to belong started to manifest itself. Gently at first, a subtle longing somewhere deep inside, perhaps almost a secret wish. I recall the first wave of nostalgia, realizing that I might never be able to call any country my home, no matter however much I try. As the bonds that once tied me to the place of my birth were forever severed and no new were possible to attain.
This realization came however with an acceptance and perhaps a certain sense of relief as well, or a freedom if you will. "Wherever I lay my hat, that's my home..."  became my motto and made it easy for me to settle down effortlessly almost anywhere.

As I however grew older and started to look for and appreciate a certain deeper values in life, being a foreigner came to define who I was and thus my search for home - for a true home - became my quest.
And I believe, in retrospect, this quest brought me on a journey and a passionate search for love. I realized that I was looking for someone who would bring that sense of home I once felt, back to my reality. A man, that would offer me a safe harbour and terminate my restless voyage, by accepting and loving my estranged heart unconditionally. A man that would make me feel like I undoubtedly belonged by his side, the same way I once belonged with my family.
Only today I am sadly realizing that such a man most likely does not exist and my search only led me to numerous misty illusions.

My life is currently in the state of a change and as my future is heading in a novel direction, I find myself reevaluating the term home once again.
I still do not believe that it is only defined by a geographical location, although I have come to the understanding that certain places do evoke in us a strong sense of serenity, security and familiarity - whether these are memories of transcending moments spent in certain locations in our past, or current ties to a special place.
To some degree home is also truly defined by people - those that offer us security and the gift of an unconditional love, trust and deep care. It could be our near family, a significant other, our children, or it could be our friends.
Still, my new realization makes me see that a true home is something we carry with us and is that which we harbour within us. It can not be taken away from us as well as it can not be given to us. Some will find it with little effort, some of us never will.

I feel a strong desire these days to revisit my roots. Places where I used to live as a child and the city where I was born. As well as an infinite longing to once again be in the company of the only people that ever truly defined the term home for me.
Perhaps at times one has to go back to be able to move forward. Occasionally our answers for the future might lie in what we left behind.
And perhaps it is never too late to go back home.

(About the photographs in this post: All are taken by my father last year, in and around the place where I was born. I have not been back in the beautiful Tatra Mountains for almost twenty five years...
Please click each image for a larger view.)

The Written Word.

Come to think of it, I have always enjoyed writing. According to my mother, already as a little girl, barely having learned to hold a pen in my hand, I wrote small stories. Mostly fiction I believe, products of my own imagination, although I recall vaguely being inspired by fairy tales read to me before bed time or recollections I overheard being told by others.

When I was about eight years old, I decided to write letters to all my relatives, pretty much everyone I could think off. I no longer remember the details, such as how I got hold of the addresses, but I know that without my parents knowledge, I send all the letters away. Without stamps. The idea of a paying a postage was not  included in my perception when it came to letter writing. However, I knew very well that the orange box at the corner of the street, on my way to school, was intended for the envelopes that somehow would find their way to the recipient.

I can not recall the outcome of the whole incident that well, only that my parents were anything but pleased when they learned that most of our relatives would have to pay a postage fine, as I obviously failed to include the return address.
However, I recall the fate of one letter - the one send to my grandparents, which was delivered around the time when my parents, my sister and I came by for a visit. My grandfather read the letter out loud to my great dismay and embarrassment. Still, I could clearly see that the aggravation on my parents face became displaced by a expression of amusement and fascination. Thus I guess eventually, they did forgive me.

Growing older, I endlessly enjoyed writing assays in high school as a teenager. I recall the scent of the large auditorium, where hundreds of students were confined for hours, in order to produce written stories on a given subject. Even though I was always apprehensive about any kind of test, as soon as the stillness settled over the large assembly hall, I got completely lost in my own thoughts, while the words effortlessly filled the blank paper in front of me. Depicting my visions in letters came easy to me and my good grades reflected this.

Unfortunately, my last teacher in this subject developed a dislike for me and my style. She focused blindly on all the grammar errors, which defined my writing, then undertaken in a foreign language, but which did not detract from the contents, as I have been told by my previous teachers. Her scrutiny, which was borderline viscous, deterred me from enjoying to write all together  - and I rather focused on channeling my imagination into painting instead.

When I begun to work in science as a young adult, I realized that as much as I loved the practical aspects of research, I also relished in compiling the data and I enjoyed writing scientific papers, something most other scientists detest.  However it was not until I started to write my posts here that I rediscover my passion for expressing myself in this way.

There is so much power in the written word. We all know it way too well, as we have all experienced a plethora of emotions when we read a great book. We become educated and enlightened, we can travel in time and space, we are touched to tears or amused until we laugh. The words create images in our perception, make us contemplate and envision or simply just provide a playground to our imagination.  Skillful writers have the potential to make a difference and the great literary works lining the bookshelves in famous or prestigious libraries bear witness to this fact.

To me writing has over the years become an outlet. Not just of the creative kind, the one I share with all of you here, where I can convey my impressions, thoughts and sentiments. There is also the therapeutic kind as well.

Almost any kind of pain or suffering can be channeled into words. Writing down what troubles me, in form of letters which will never become send, is an unusually effective relief. I guess, almost as a form of a diary, where private and personal thoughts are told to an unseen confidant in a written language, immortalizing ideas and feelings in a document seems to be not just a form of release, but also a way of organizing the train of dark thoughts. Once they leave my consciousness and become visualized on the screen in front of me, they feel less threatening and loose their hold on me.

As with any other kind of creativity, to write is to express ones innermost feelings and thoughts - by creating images using words and painting pictures with sentences. Whether shared with others or not, this creative outlet connects our imagination with our intellect,  reflecting and documenting our life and eventually immortalizing us in the written lines.

Never Stop Moving.

It is with amusement that I at times look back upon my youth and scrutinize the way I used to live. Not just the things I did and the way I acted, but also the daily routines that filled my every day - or rather - the lack of those.

Moving into my first own apartment, the sense of freedom I experienced when I was twenty one was very welcomed, but also overwhelming. I was not used to be so completely in charge of my days and recall that initially, I did everything I enjoyed and very little of that I did not.  Such as cleaning the place and a multitude of chores that I found boring or tedious.
My life then was completely devoid of routines, except for those absolutely vital ones. Such as getting up every morning at the same time, waiting for the buss at the same buss stop and going to work and from work at a given hour. The rest was undetermined, unplanned and spontaneous, as I found no need in having a structured week, or even a day. A year comprised an eternity and the future felt exciting and distant and received very little of my contemplation.

I am not exactly certain when it happened, but along the way somewhere, as I aged and matured, routines sneaked up on me. Perhaps it was the realization of the fact, that planning meant getting things done. It meant using the time I had wisely, giving me a certain sense of control over it.
Or perhaps it was when I realized that I yearned to control it and in that same sense to control my life.

The issue of having control became a dominating one when I became a young adult. I have often viewed this as the result of my childhood and the fact, that my parents had the heart of gypsies and the soul of constant travelers. We children were uprooted numerous times, the final relocation being my family's emigration to the west when I was in my early teens. This move at such a sensitive age most certainly affected my formative years, instigating in me a endless search for home and stability that surfaced first later in my adulthood.

As I found myself facing the troubles of life,  my need for control and structure and my need to belong became the only constant in my days.
Today thus I relish in routines and dislike stress. I seek and demand tranquility and crave that of those around me. The few moments of stress that occur are anticipated and controlled by me, or at least controlled by me as much as it is possible.

However, somewhere deep inside I feel a new realization has been taking place as of lately. As much as I love my routines and security, the idea of living the way I do until the end of my days fills me with a endless sense of terror. The idea of having no more surprises come my way is not one I view fondly. It is as if I have began reverting to my younger self, trying to find that spark of infinite joy over the uncertainty in the future ahead of me, even though it has been cut by half since I last time felt this way in the past.

I assume it is in my genes, however much I try to ignore it or fight it. My parents, who are and have always been an endless source of inspiration to me, still keep on moving. They have not settled down yet and I do not think they ever will.
In return they have kept a young mind and soul and warmth of the heart, radiating energy and joy.

If there is anything they have ever taught me it is to never stop moving.
In the abstract sense and the literally one as well.
Perhaps therein lies the secret to the art of staying forever young.

Christmas Memories, Part I.

As I was decorating my home for the holidays this weekend, some of the shapes and colours brought back a wave of memories of Christmas celebrations of my past.

It made me contemplate with a hint of nostalgia the fact that I have adopted and gone through so many different traditions, stretching some forty years back in time. Having lived in so many places in my life, it is inevitable that even the celebration of my Christmas today is a product of my cosmopolitan past.

I have decided to reminiscence over my past celebrations in two posts; today and next Monday. I hope you will enjoy this sentimental walk down the memory lane with me.

I was already born into a family that combined traditions of two cultures; the Czech and the Slovak. I do not remember much from my early years, while we lived under the Tatra mountains in Slovakia. That time seems so far removed from my consciousness today, it comes across almost as an entirely different life. Still, a few odd and amusing details enter my thoughts as I recall these Christmas celebrations during the communist era.

Such as my parents covert attempts to trim the tree the day before Christmas Eve, while my sister and me still believed in the enchanted Christmas in which the tree and the gifts magically appear out of nowhere.
The carp, that used to swim around in our bathtub a few days before the 24th, bought live at a marked, to fulfill its grand destiny and be served at the dinner table, according to a long lived Czech Christmas tradition. Although my parents very quickly abandoned this custom, feeling sorry for the poor creature, unable to inflict it any pain.

I recall our pre Christmas visits to the Tuzex store, located in the stunning and beautiful Tatra mountains. Its concept was the irony of the communism regime, selling western merchandise in exchange for hard currency, to those who were privileged and could afford foreign bills.
The drive would always be a very enchanted one, and always in snow, taking us on deserted roads through breathtaking natural scenery and today I smile with amusement as I recall how we would say that "the trees were covered with whipped cream"...

Finally, the enchantment I felt when watching Cinderella on television, when the broadcast of this famous fairytale in a Slavic version became a tradition during Christmas. The Czech adaptation is still today one of my favorite films, due to its stunning visual and infinitely romantic feel.

Thus I leave you with the final scene of this cinematographic gem, one that still today keeps me spellbound, even though I should long have outgrown the allure of make believe and naive fantasy...

It Is All In The Journey.

Ever since I can remember, I used to daydream. I did this a lot as a young girl and at times my dreams spilled into my drawings and paintings.

Being a child of immigrants, I constantly yearned for items my parents could not afford. Thus, not being able to own or posses them, I drew them.
 It was a wonderful escapism and my imaginary world supplied me with a relatively adequate substitute, when reality failed to provide what I needed.

Later, as a teenager I continue depicting my dreams on paper,  because my imagination was always vivid and to my dreams the sky was never the limit. I found a release in being creative, one that brought a certain amount of tranquility into my days. I relished in the idea of being able to create a world the way I wanted to see it. My romantic views came to their full potential as I drew and painted, and I most absolutely enjoyed the idea of putting my visions on paper and later on canvas.

Thus daydreaming occupied many spare moments of my teenage years and continued long after I turned into a young adult.
Today I no longer feel the need to draw my dreams, instead my contemplation about life, past, present and future is channeled into my writing and my photography. Nevertheless, my thoughts still do wonder from time to time. That momentarily reality escape, as my gaze is drawn to an invisible point in the air,  instigating a flight in time and space, where anything is possible...

Over time I came to the realization that the magic of my teenage dreams and the way I depicted them on paper had very little to do with them coming true. It had to do with the idea and the anticipation of them doing so. As I have traveled through life's up and downs, I have come to the enlightenment that true joy and happiness lies in the pursuit. However grand and satisfactory it is to reach one goals, the euphoria we feel is temporary.

The enchantment and the absolutely unforgettable experience is hidden in the expectations and in the journey itself. Too often we are so blinded by the efforts of reaching our destination, that we forget to enjoy the trip.
We forget to enjoy the magic of detours and wrong turns and we let the best pass us by...

For The First Time...

Recently I experienced an enchanting occurrence - for the first time, ever. It was a moment that will forever stay etched in my perception, creating an unforgettable recollection to last a lifetime. And beyond.
I felt my body, heart and soul being consumed by this experience, which lingered within me, long after it was gone, to become an eternal, precious memory…

It made me realize how very few “first” we get the privilege to come across as we age and mature and it made me recall fondly all the pristine experiences we encounter as children, as we set upon the journey of life.

There are many memories in my recollection that make up for the very first steps into the unknown. The most vivid ones I can remember fully and completely. Their imprint has left behind a sensation of sounds, scents and sights.

Such as my very first day in school, walking with my parents up to the grand building, which still appears vivid in my memory. I recall the feeling of excitement as well as anxiety, feeling the onset of change, as if nothing was going to be the same ever again.

My first bike ride, the very first one when the safety was removed and I really controlled the bicycle on my own, without the supporting hands of my father or my own feet on the ground. That incredible feeling of achievement and victory.
A very similar sensation to the one I experienced when I learned to swim, in the pristine waters of the turquoise blue Mediterranean on a vacation with my family, when I was about ten. As my small body floated on the surface of the warm water, finally after I have conquered the fear of letting go of the sea bed, trusting my own capabilities and not giving into failures or giving up.

And later in life, the first time I sat behind the wheel of a car. My first flight. The first time I traveled on my own.  My first pay check. The first time I moved out on my own. My first published scientific paper. My first scientific discovery. The feeling of excitement when I signed the deed to my first house…
My first kiss of course, but that came when I was six years old actually, I admit. But the one that really meant something came much later in life and I still remember every single detail about it.

There are indeed many first in my recollection, either of personal, professional or intimate nature. My recent experience though made me realize that a first can occur at any time, at any age. And often when we least expect it. The promise of new wonderful encounters is made by each sunrise.
As after all, each new day we get a privilege to experience is the first one in the rest of our life.

Education At The Dinner Table.

My parents are visiting me this week. As my family - near and extended - is spread all over the continent, the moments we get to spend together are few and far between. Thus I cherish every single second when we do.
Their presence bring back sentimental memories of times gone by. It seems like it was only yesterday when I lived at home with them and my sister. But after closer contemplation I realize, I have been living on my own longer then I ever did with my family. Or anyone else for that matter.

I guess I enjoy being alone to a certain extend, but there are times when I miss having a family of my very own. And the good and the bad that comes with it. I yearn for the company of my partner on every day bases and the idea of having children, filling the empty space with laughter and life, giving the future a certain higher purpose.
To this day, what I miss the most about my childhood, my teens and my early adulthood; all spent at home - are dinners and weekend breakfast at our dinner table. The best time of the day on a school night was when my mother would shout "Dinner!" and we would all gather around the table, as the evening settled over the city. We would dine, but always talk as well, discussing everything between haven and earth, while recollecting our day, joking and laughing. Even better were weekend mornings, when we slept in late and had no school or work to go to. Weekend mornings that very soon turned into noons, those magical moments that I never thought I would cherish so one day.

Most of what I needed to know about life, the magic of living and how to handle its ups and downs came from those discussion at the dinner table. All the strenght that I felt I possessed when I set out to conquer the world was born at the gathering at the table with my family; something that seemed so very ordinary then, but came to have a profound impact on my adulthood.

Perhaps just like the ancient or even primitive man, sitting around the campfire, feeling the security and warmth of not just the fire itself, but the connection with the individuals that surrounded it; the best start in life, the most important education in and about life - comes from the family itself.

Perceptions Of Summer.

Crossing the solstice, we have entered the season of plenty. The Scandinavian summers however are short and the weather very unstable. Even yesterday, which was forecast to be sunny and warm by meteorologists, turned out to be more or less a cloudy and dull affair.

I love summers endlessly though and I have always done so. Being a true summer child, I was born in July and I worship this season passionately. So full of colour and light, it is additionally abundant with scents and tastes as well.

We all know the wonderful property of our senses and the way they are connected to our recollection. How a sound, a fragrance or that particular tingling of our palate can bring back moments in time, so easily and with such an elegance.
I have collected here ten such significant catalysts of wide range of perceptions, which speak summer to me like nothing else can.

The Sound Of Cicadas.
I grew up in family of sun worshipers and almost as far back as I can remember, we used to travel south to the Mediterranean for summer vacations. The sounds of Cicadas equals summer to me, as these little critters are not native to Central nor Northern Europe. Thus their exotic song brings the feeling of summer to my senses in its purest form possible.

Fireflies.
Fireflies were the sign of summer while I lived in North Carolina. I will never forget those humid, hot nights, full of sounds of crickets and insects and full of these small specks of light, adding an enchanting feeling to the hot summers of the southeast.

Coconut Fragrance And Taste.
As a fragrance in sunscreens, shower gels and shampoos and as a taste in exotic drinks, nothing speaks of tropics more loudly than the coconut.

The Feel Of A Warm Sand.
The feel of hot sand of the beach between my toes and between my fingers, sticking to my blanket and to my skin, oiled in tanning lotion, while I listen to the gentle surf, watching the endless blue of the sea... Only in summer.

The Song Of Swallows.
The flight and the song of swallows as the day is closing to its end, brings back the summers of my childhood like nothing else can. Almost in instant I am transported back to the Czech country side, where I spent every single summer until I was thirteen.

Scent Of Melted Asphalt.
That scent takes me back to Czech country side too, decades in time, in a split second. I recall walking barefoot on a small country road, after spending an hour or two swimming in the local river during lazy summer days. The hot asphalt would almost give in under my feet, as I was leaving footprints behind, having fun trying to burst the small bubbles, which would form on the melting surface, while its particular scent hung in the hot air.

Scent (and Taste) Of Barbecue.
Moving forward in time, barbecue reminds me of the Scandinavian summers and always will. As soon as the first sun rays warm the cold North, the scent of grilling is everywhere. The Scandinavians worship the elusive sun and move their cooking outside during the white nights.

White Nights.
I have described what they mean to me in such a detail before, thus any more words feel obsolete. I can only add that the midnight sun was the only summer sign I dearly missed while I lived in North Carolina.



Taste Of Strawberries Warmed By The Sun.
My first real summer job as a teenager involved picking of strawberries. There is nothing that literally screams summer more loudly to me, then the sweet taste of the red berry, picked during a hot, sunny day. The Scandinavian strawberries are renowned for their superb quality and are exported all over Europe. A celebration of the Midsummer is never complete without a strawberry cake, made with freshly picked berries.

Scent Of Fresh Cut Grass.
The ultimate sign of summer, that stretches back in time and encompasses both my childhood and adulthood. Endlessly soothing, like a blanket of comfort, when the fragrance of cut grass spreads through the air, it instigates security and happiness. It brings back the meadows of my childhood as well as the city parks and the country side of my teenage years. And even today, this scent defines summer just outside the windows of my white house on a hill like nothing else can. A universal sign of summer in every corner of the world that harbours the four seasons; as soon as the grass grows again, summer has begun.

Happiness Is A Warm Loaf.

“With bread and wine you can walk your road.”
Spanish Proverb

There is no word that encompasses more what life is all about in such a versatile way than bread.
Bread is literally what keeps us alive and what we work for, it has been used symbolically throughout history in literature and art, in politics and in speeches, it has deep meaning in religion and importance in prayer and it is ultimately what brings families together at meals. There is nothing that speaks home and security more loudly than the aroma of baked bread.

Bread is one of the oldest prepared foods dating back to the Neolithic era. It is intriguing to ponder how the first bread might have come about; most likely it was a cooked versions of a paste made from roasted and ground cereal grains and water. It could have originated from accidental cooking or deliberate experimentation with water and grain flour. Descendants of this early bread are still commonly made from various grains in many parts of the world, such as the Mexican tortilla, Indian naan and Middle Eastern pita, to mention a few.

Later, again most likely by a chance, spores of yeast could have been introduced into the dough, thus this meant the origins of leavening. Although again dating back to prehistoric times, the earliest evidence of such a bread can be traced back to Egypt. Accounts exist describing Gauls and Iberians to use the foam skimmed from beer to produce "a lighter kind of bread than other peoples."

No other food caries so much meaning in many different cultures, then bread. Every country has their own recipes, their own way of making and preparing it. It holds a deep cultural and historical significance, going back centuries in time. In the country of my origin, Slovakia, offering bread and salt is an old and a very traditional welcome greeting ceremony.

I personally love bread. And I practically live on it. There is always bread in my home and although I am a lousy cook, I have been experimenting with baking bread in the past and have made delicious loafs and roles.
Bread also holds significant memories tied to my childhood. Upon our immigration to Sweden, we could get used to pretty much all the new and unusual food and missed in a way very little from our culinary origins. All except our bread. We missed it to such a degree that my father started to bake bread on weekends and became very proficient in it. Thus through out most of my teens in Sweden, we always had fresh and home-made bread at home.

To this day, the scent of baking signified Sundays to me. The best part of the day was in the late afternoon, when the fresh roles came out of the oven and we children were called to the kitchen for a slice of fresh bread with butter.
The best evening snack I can recall, a simple pleasure and happiness, a sense of security and feeling of home, all locked into such a plain thing as a piece of bread.

Ghost Towns.

The title above has a certain uncomfortable feel to it. However, it doesn't refer to actual haunted towns, but rather to abandoned cities. They exist all across the world; eerie places that once flourished and functioned like any other settlement, but are now deserted and utterly devoid of any life.

The reasons why a town becomes a ghost town are numerous. It could be due to the collapse of its infrastructure, failing economic activity due to epidemics or relocation of its inhabitants, or due to natural or human-caused disasters such as a flood, government action, uncontrolled lawlessness, or war.

One ghost town that intrigues and haunts me more than any other has to be Pripyať. It is located in the zone of alienation, in northern Ukraine. The tragic story linked to this abandon city is well known.

Founded in 1970, Pripyať was to house the workers that were employed at Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, located near the towns vicinity, then in the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic. First officially proclaimed as a city in 1979, it was home to some 50,000 people, right until that fateful spring night almost 25 years ago.

On April 26, 1986, reactor number four at the Chernobyl plant had a meltdown. This incident is commonly referred to as the Chernobyl Disaster. The resulting fire sent a plume of radioactive fallout into the atmosphere, spreading radioactive material over an extensive geographical area, including large parts of the western Soviet Union, Eastern Europe, Western Europe, and Northern Europe. Large areas in Ukraine, Belarus, and Russia had to be evacuated, with over 336,000 people resettled. A complete abandonment of Pripyať took place first on the second day after the incident, severely effecting the health of its inhabitants. No one was ever allowed to return, thus the city is now a ghost town.

I remember that day very vividly. Or rather the few days after. They were beautiful spring days in Sweden, coinciding with a weekend and most Scandinavians were outside, enjoying the sun. Including my family, quite oblivious to the fact that we were being hit by radioactive dust.



There are several factors about Pripyať that move me in an uneasy way. The obvious is the extend of the terrible accident, that even today is not under control. The ultimate sacrifice by the many workers who gave their life when participating in the initial clean up and the horrid conditions they had to work in. The tragic fate of their families and the effects still seen today in their descendants.

But even more perhaps it is the town itself. It reminds me of my childhood. I grew up in towns in former East Bloc, in very similar housing conditions as those seen on the many famous photographs. Concrete ghettos, the only way we knew how to live. I attended similar schools as the one that remained until very recently in Pripyať , sitting in similar school benches, attending similar activities as the children of this former communist city. Seeing that famous Ferris wheel, that now stands abandon and withered like a silent witness to a life that once flourished, sends shivers down my spine. Never used by children, it was about to be opened a few days after the incident, yet it looks so ancient today.

They say that the Chernobyl Disaster was in a certain way a catalyst to the fall of communism, which came later that decade. Today most of the countries in the former East Bloc have changed beyond recognition. New generation is growing up, with no recollection of the past and the traces of the old regime can not be seen anywhere.

In some way, Pripyať is a snapshot of a moment in time. The only city preserved in a haunting way, showing us what once was. A ruin of a not so distant past, a sad memorial to innocent lives lost, a symbol of human imperfection, a political system gone wrong and a piece of European history; all in one...

My "Second" Eyes.

When I was fourteen, I started to squint when watching television. The Swedes subtitle all the foreign films and I found it difficult to read the small text below each scene.
Very shortly after that I got my first eyeglasses.

Although I did not directly hated those things, I still wore them only when absolutely necessary, such as during classes in school and at home. Thus I spend my teenage years in a constant state of squinting and quiet oblivious to my surroundings. I appeared most likely rude in my interactions with people, as I simply did not see anyone until they were in my very proximity. In a certain way I got used to be living in a world of my own, where I felt almost invisible; I could not see, thus I felt unseen too.

When I was twenty, I got contact lenses and have been wearing those ever since. Even today, I only wear glasses in the evenings and on weekends. I still have all my old frames stowed away in a drawer. When I took the pictures below I was laughing when seeing my very first ones; they look so large and almost ancient. As the years passed, the frames got smaller. Luckily, the prescription never changed.

All eyeglasses I ever owned have survived all my moves and relocations. In contrast to all my other possessions, I always knew where they could be found, no matter where I lived.
My second eyes. I guess I must care for them more than I think.