Over the hills, under the moon - and off the beaten path

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...

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...

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 curious 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 t...

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 Lisbon, 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 wi...

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  Lisbon . Lisbon , 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 esca...