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What No Moving Box Can Hold: Saying Goodbye to Our French Mountain Home

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Selling a house should be regarded as just a transaction.  That, at least, is what one of our more unsentimental friends told us. Yet, as we packed up our now-sold townhouse in the mountain village of Antraigues-Sur-Volane in Southern France, we found that the cardboard boxes stacked in our living room represented more than mere containers for transporting objects. They were, in fact, inadequate vessels for what we were truly attempting to pack: Almost twenty years of lived experience. The real estate listing described our house as a "charming two-bedroom property with traditional features," but it failed to capture what this place actually represents.  This has not just been our vacation house. During the last many years it became truly our home away from home as the seasonal rhythms of our visits created a peculiar form of belonging.  Though we were never full-time residents, the village baker would greet us warmly upon our arrival each year, and the neighbors woul...
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Lisbon: Crawling Through Time: Reflections from secret Roman Galleries

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Yesterday, I crawled through muddy, dark Roman-era tunnels below Lisbon, which are normally filled with groundwater and only accessible to a few visitors each year. The tunnels were carved during the reign of Emperor Augustus, and for centuries, they directed underground rainwater while the empires above rose and fell. Eventually, they were completely sealed off and forgotten,  only to be rediscovered by chance during the rebuilding after the 1755 earthquake, which had turned most of Lisbon into rubble. Today, the crypts are pumped dry on a couple of days each year, and the only entry to the below is through a narrow shaft in the middle of the busy Rua da Conceição, right between the rails of the 28 tram line. The stairs  leading down are steep and risky, and when you finally reach the galleries, a few lights illuminate the void that had stood in complete darkness for more than a Millenium  Some of the tunnels are so low and narrow that you have to climb through t...
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Lisbon: Exploring the LXFactory

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Nestled in the Alcântara district, the sprawling LXFactory complex stands as an intriguing monument to Lisbon's industrial past.  Once the area was home to a thriving spinning mill, the largest in all of Portugal, but when industrial production in Lisbon declined, the 23.000 square meters of abandoned brick buildings were eventually taken over by young entrepreneurs and startups, and today the LXFactory hosts an eclectic mix of more than 200 creative spaces and shops. Cur.ious to experience this reimagined slice of urban history, we decided today to spend an afternoon wandering its halls. Following the sound of animated chatter down Rua Rodrigues de Faria, we first came across a  courtyard filled with mismatched tables and chairs, where patrons sipped drinks purchased from small kiosks dotted around the space.  The aroma of fresh pizza and spices mingled in the air, emanating from the var.ious eateries bordering the courtyard. Venturin...
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Lisbon: Crumbling Warehouses and Crispy Sardines

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Yesterday, our journey along Lisbon's shores took us from decay to delight.  We began the day by walking along the crumbling warehouses and abandoned factories at the Cais do Ginjal, and we ended with golden sardines and moist monkfish at the Ponto Finale restaurant, experiencing some of the cur.ious contrasts this city has to offer.  Cais do Ginjal - the waterfront across the river from the city proper - were once thrumming with activity, but  now they stand empty as a relic from Portugal's industrial past while slowly succumbing to rust and decay.   Wandering past the locked warehouses with their peeling paint and cracked windows, one could almost hear the ghosts of ships being loaded years ago.  Wildflowers sprouted from brickwork worn by salt air and time. Graffiti swirled vibrantly across deteriorating walls in attempts to reclaim these forgotten structures. In one warehouse, an entire wall had collapsed, exposing rusty pipes and machinery ...
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On Fleeing Nordic Gloom and Finding a Portuguese Storm

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Many modern Danes have  developed a peculiar relationship with harsh weather - we don't adapt, we flee, and when Nordic winter darkness descends, we book flights.  Rita and I succumbed to this impulse last week, boarding a plane to L.isbon, where winter just about now should be yielding to blissful spring.  How perfectly ironic that we arrived just as the historically wild storm named Martinho hammered upon the Portuguese coastline. As we huddled up in our apartment, watching the rain lashing horizontally against Alfama's ancient buildings, we considered how Martinho had conspired against our escape plan; how the brutal winds now seemed to mock the notion that we could outrun nature's rhythms. Yesterday, I sat in a tiny cafe, completely drenched after yet another massive downpour. I scrolled through weather forecasts on my mobile (as if digital certainty might alter physical reality!), when an old man approached my table.  "You came for the sun?" he asked w...
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The pursuit of a winter escape

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It is February, and the Scandinavian winter has once again tightened its cool grip. The days are short, the nights are long, and the sun—what little we see of it—seems to be about to give up on us entirely.  It is during these dark months that the collective Nordic psyche begins to entertain a peculiar fantasy: escape. Not the kind of escape that involves a permanent relocation or a dramatic life change, but the kind that involves booking a flight to somewhere warmer, sunnier, and altogether more forgiving.  For us, this winter, that somewhere will be  L.isbon . L.isbon , with its pastel-colored buildings, cobblestone streets, and seemingly perpetual sunlight, is the antithesis of the Scandinavian winter.  And yet, as we sit here in our Copenhagen apartment, bundled in layers of wool and existential dread, we can’t help but wonder: is this annual pilgrimage to the south really the solution to our winter woes? Or is it just another form of modern es...
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Paris: Stumbling into serenity: The secret garden of Saint-Serge

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The other day I walked the streets of the edgy, regenerated Villette area of Paris, and here, on one of its busy streets, I stumbled upon what seemed like a portal opening into another time. Entering through an unassuming gate, and going down a narrow,  semi-private alley, I was transported from the frenetic present into a hidden,  quiet garden that turned out to be the garden of the  Saint-Serge de Radonège Russian Orthodox Church.    Photo: SortirAParis Before me unfolded a scene that could have been plucked from a 19th-century Russian novel: Long-bearded orthodox priests wearing flowing black robes and cylindrical kamilávka hats, moved unhurriedly among the flowerbeds, and a group of elderly parishioners sat in the garden, on rickety chairs, chatting in a melodic blend of Russian and  French. The abrupt transition from bustling street to  tranquil sanctuary was so jarring that I half-expected to find my smartphone transfor...
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Night under the full moon: A unique gathering

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  The other night I was invited to a so-called Full Moon Party in the center of P.aris. The host was a guy Rita and I met, when we, a couple of years ago, stayed on his houseboat a bit up the Seine. He arranges these casual parties at the middle of the Pont des Arts and he has done so, come rain or come moonshine, every month for the last many years. As I approached the iconic bridge, now mercifully devoid of its plague of "love locks," I was greeted by a cacophony of excited chatter in a United Nations potpourri of accents.  French people as well as expats from many corners of the globe mingled freely, their laughter and chatter forming a symphony of human connection that was actually quite infectious. As I accepted a glass of wine from a beaming Spanish astrophysics student, I pondered the curious phenomenon before me.  Here we were, a motley crew of strangers, united by nothing more than our shared presence in this city and our willingness to gaze skyward tog...
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