first-time traveller: destination Utrecht

I'm 16 years of age and on my first real trip to a foreign country.

My childhood trips to neighbouring Sweden and Norway with my parents don't really count. I've heard my friends talk about holidays around the Mediterranean and I'm wildly jealous. My longing for foreign travel awoke years ago, and steadily grows as I pore over the world atlas (a wonderful book). My wanderlust is not even hindered by planetary boundaries, because Star Trek makes even interstellar journeys seem possible. 

But my hunger for adventure is hobbled by the fact that I'm not at all an adventurous person.

My two best friends (equally inexperienced travellers) come up with the idea to join an arranged trip to a huge, international Christian youth conference. Conveniently, we can get on a chartered bus close to our home in Finland and it will take us all the way there and back. This is why my first real trip abroad goes to a place I've never heard of: Utrecht. It's in the Netherlands.

We get on the bus. It's filled with other young people going to the same conference, but they all speak Finnish. We're Swedish speakers with shaky language skills, so we nervously keep to ourselves. The trip takes three days, non-stop. One night we sleep in a cabin on the ferry to Sweden, one night we snooze in the bus.

I'm 16 and the whole world is new and unknown. Nearly everything is a first-time experience.

* Copenhagen: we stop for while on a dark December evening, just to walk around Stroget and all the neon lights. My first time in a country where I don't really understand the language spoken around me.

* Germany: it's night and I need sleep, but I wake up every now and then, just to peer in wonder at a dark landscape I can barely see through the mud-spattered bus window, and tell myself, "I'm in Germany!"

* Passport control (there are none between the Nordic countries): no need to exit the bus. Intimidating, burly men stomp down the aisle and frown at everyone's passport. Mine is brand new.

* Sleeping in your seat on a crowded bus: it's possible, when you're young and exhausted. I barely notice the various ferry rides between countries, or the shocking news of Ceausescu's fall.

* The youth conference: there are 10 000 participants, so it's more than ten times bigger than any event I've ever attended. Information packs and brochures are available in about ten different languages (including tiny ones such as Swedish and Finnish). There are people from almost every European country. There are food stands selling snacks from almost every European country. The facility is massively bigger than any building I've ever seen. The girls' accommodation area is an immense hall furnished with thousands of mattresses. For the main meetings, all 10 000 attendants crowd into the same hall. There's simultaneous interpretation into our own language. 

* Eating with thousands of others, brushing my teeth with dozens of others around the same (very long) sink, making friends from other countries, bonding around the fact that the hall is cold and the rented blankets smell of horses. And they all have the same faith as me - I'm used to being part of a small minority that is sneered at by my peers. During the days we attend Bible study, missions seminars, national meetings (with Finns) and language-group meetings (with Swedes). We spend the nights chatting, singing and dancing in crowds of strangers. A few of our friends from home are also there, older boys who are supposed to keep an eye on us, but they soon give up.

* The rest of the Netherlands: we venture out into Utrecht, to have Chinese food and check out the shops. We pay with guilders and try oliebollen. We do a brief tour of Amsterdam, walking among the canals and giggling in the Rijksmuseum until frowning security guards start following us around. Even the grey, damp December weather is novel to me, since I associate travel with summer and December with snow.

* Hamburg: a long stop where we try to do some shopping, but then everything closes early and we resort to people-watching and giggling at McDonald's.

* Sleeping on the bus floor on the way home, freezing cold, and being stepped on by people. 

I come home about a week later, exhausted and with a cough, in the first days of 1990. I haven't managed to see very much of Europe and the Netherlands, apart from what I've glimpsed through mud-streaked bus windows. 

But I've met the whole of Europe. I've done my first real foreign travelling. 

final report of summer 2025

A car with a locked wheel, mental mentor meeting, almost moving my mother into a care home, three weeks of full-time vacation, several weeks of half-time vacation, almost every weekend at the cottage, fetching a dead eagle from a deserted island and sending it by post, two magical boat trips to summer islands, a little family time, lots of alone time, pondering vocational singleness, a small but exquisite church concert, Midsummer celebration as usual, Kuddnäs and the history of Topelius, selling crêpes at a church conference, wheelchair excursions with my mother, grilling sausages on a rainy day, books, a heatwave so strong it melted glue in the bathroom, weariness and tears, road trip to Pensala and Purmo and a country fair in Jeppo, cottage renovations, funeral of a beloved aunt, Kristinestad with friends, garden cafés and the most gorgeous B&B I've ever stayed in, the Stundars museum, a month-long break from TV, Night of the Arts with yarn crafts and decadent red wine, my mother's last trip to her favourite place, end-of-summer celebration, hospital visits.

I am made of words & rivers & winds & wildflowers. 

I am part grief & part hope & all love.

(Victoria Erickson)

the scrawny teenager that always cried

Living in a community, with idealists. It was autumn in Sweden. 

I was nineteen and on the way to discovering what was perhaps my life calling - comforting, encouraging, praying - and at the same time feeling vulnerable and naive like a child. I discovered playfulness, unexpected physical strength, the importance of letting myself get close to others - physically, mentally, spiritually. I cried like I'd never cried before and realised how little I knew myself. 

I had just left my childhood home, thinking I was independent and grown-up. But I was a bambi-eyed, scrawny teenager, weak and unaware of how much others protected me, even as I gradually learned how to look after myself. Perhaps it's the same for everyone at that age.

I grew like a flower during that chilly autumn, safe among people who loved genuinely and warmly. It was an environment I craved - and crave still, perhaps. Later I would realise how isolation and too much indepence always make me sink into apathy and despair.

It was a community of Christian missionaries, and some of the things we talked about seem odd now - not dangerously so, just odd. Like the sinfulness of pride, confessing sins to each other, dealing with the devil, prophesying. But I learned to be open and loving, accept differences, overcome brokenness, speak English, and let myself be loved by others when I least expect it.

Even with the cynicism that has come with the years, I can't seem to lose my faith in God, genuine love, hope.

in a faraway land of roses and oranges

It's a city of olives and oranges, of a thousand swifts darting around in the sky. The Arabic coffee is soot black and spicy, the sangría joyfully juicy. The April sun is delightful, the wine comes with tapas of tabbouleh or Manchego cheese or, obviously, olives.

We explore an immense cathedral, the burial chapel of monarchs, the heavenly gardens of the long-vanished Moors. We rest among roses, light-headed from their scent and the whispers of marble and fountains.

Feeling a little faint, I stand in front of the sarcophagi of legendary Isabella and Ferdinand. I shudder with fear and excitement when we get lost among the poorly lit alleys of the Sacromonte after dark, long after the tourists have left for the flamenco shows and the restaurants. Shadows are dark, dogs are barking in the distance, footsteps echo in the deserted, winding streets. Danger and the ghosts of gypsies stir the cooling air.

The red castle on the hill and the snow-covered Sierra Nevada summits float over us like a fata morgana. Seven hours is spent exploring the castle - we are, by now, seasoned castle explorers who won't leave any dungeon or turret unseen.

Europe has too many works of art and my head will soon explode. Andalusia is a cauldron of emotions, bullfights and scorching heat. And chilled, white almond soup in the shade is a wonder as great as the Alhambra itself.

No matter how wondrous the place I visit, I very rarely return. How could I, when there are so many wondrous places still unexplored? The sadness of leaving a place like Granada, a fairytale of spices and stories hidden in the mountains, knowing I'll never return .... adds to the magic.

I bury myself in Washington Irving's Tales of the Alhambra for days afterwards, refusing to let go.

the house of the thirteen clocks

The apartment building is surrounded by other identical apartment buildings, fairly new and proper. The area is quietly pleasant and has absolutely nothing interesting to look at. It was built for people to grow old in, snug and warm and alone in front of the telly. 

My mother's flat is nice, clean, with a wide collection of pretty trinkets. My father liked clocks. During his time there were 26 of them in the flat, 13 of which were ticking ones. 

I lived there for a while, years ago, unemployed, unhappy, falling to pieces. I also stayed there during that awful week after my father died. I greeted a steady stream of visitors bringing my mother flowers, lay sleepless at night, listened to the ticking of those thirteen clocks. 

But I also spent many cosy Christmas nights in the flat, with books, chocolates and that old Christmas record I always wanted to play, warmed by candles and a mother's love. 

Still, I never left the flat without taking a deep breath of relief. Not because I wanted to leave my mother. I just wanted to escape the atmosphere of boredom and decay in that building.

The ticking of those thirteen clocks has nearly stopped. My mother will soon leave the building, to move into a home for the elderly. I cannot yet deal with my feelings about her aging and the prospect of sorting through all her belongings, which go back generations. 

Instead, I write about the relief of never having to go near that apartment building again.

hot, exhausting, fabulous Italy

A hot autumn week in Italy. Train rides where I wrote in my old-fashioned journal, stared out the window at fields and hills, and sometimes got into heated debates with my companion. 

The food was wonderful, the coffee even better and the gelato to die for. The heat was no joke and the amount of tourists in some places was unbelievable.

Venice, Florence, and then on to Cinque Terre - village-hopping by train with lots of tourists, but more space to breathe than in crowded Florence. We walked around picturesque villages on this rocky coast, cooled off in the sea. Sun, sand and salt water eased our weary souls and aggravated the blisters from walking over 20 000 steps per day. A fresa colada on a hilltop overlooking the sunset over the Mediterranean was a dreamscape. From the train we glimpsed the white marble mountains of Carrara.

Pisa was squeezed in on our last night. The aim was too see the damn tower and then crash into a hotel bed. But we world-weary travellers were taken by the strangeness and awe surrounding that leaning tower and the basilica. The smooth marble and the green lawns were cool and peaceful late in the evening. We lingered - deep in thought, weariness and a little melancholia. We laughed at tourists taking mandatory pictures of themselves in funny poses with the tower. Then we laughed and took those same pictures of ourselves. 

There is an odd comfort and warmth in sharing the same ridiculous joke with strangers from all corners of the earth.

A leisurely meal at an outdoor restaurant as the warm darkness fell and the lit facade of the tower leaned towards us. We shared spritzes and the best moments of our journey before walking back slowly and discovering that Pisa is an unexpectedly charming city.

As if Italy wasn't enough, the plane that took us towards our home in the North flew over all the tallest Alps - mountain lakes, rivers, summit snow glittering in the sun - and continued over Prague and the meandering coastlines of the Baltic Sea. I got my money's worth from this European trip.

the day we nearly missed Botticelli

After Venice and love at first sight, Florence gave me an overwhelmed feeling - too hot, too many people, too noisy traffic, the Duomo too immense, the Uffizi Galleries too vast with too much to see, too much walking. 

And yet - who wouldn't want to be overwhelmed? 

We had a too-strong drink under the watchful eye of Michelangelo's David, at the site of the Bonfire of the Vanities. Gaped at the thousands of people queuing for hours under a lethal sun to enter the Duomo. Did a few Italian lessons on Duolingo over iced cappuccino on the Uffizi café terrace. Realised, after 3.5 hours of walking through the Uffizi, that we missed the Botticelli room and had to backtrack to the beginning. Stood before the graves of Galilei, Michelangelo and Machiavelli. Found the shirt of Saint Francis of Assisi. Had a pain in the neck after gazing in wonder at too many painted ceilings. Had knees that literally buckled from too much walking. Kept walking anyway, driven by hunger for more wonders, to the Ponte Vecchio, Porta Romana, Palazzo Pitti. Admired a street performer singing "La donna è mobile". Almost got run over by a police car pushing recklessly through a crowd. Almost got run over by one or several horse-drawn carriages. Ate cannoli. 

And finally, had a glass of wine in a deserted B&B while watching the comings and goings in a back street, discussing how the world overwhelms you - with its wondrous art and its infinite masses of people.

all the dark alleys where we got lost

The cynic in me saw damp and mold, rotting buildings and dirty canals, millions of tourists, gondoliers with fake smiles, plastic trinkets sold in old squares. 

The rest of me ignored the cynic and fell in love with this fairytale maze of alleys, canals, bridges, history. Venice, the city that looks more or less like it did in the 16th century. The strange city with no traffic except boats: boat taxis, gondolas, transport barges, ambulance boats, police boats, luxury yachts and immense cruise liners further out, and people's everyday boats everywhere. The city where darkness pools black in back alleys and smaller canals, just outside the colourful lights of cafés and bistros - so dark that the stars can be seen in the middle of the city.

The crowds of people and pigeons, both of which got too close for comfort sometimes, in the vast Piazza San Marco. The expensive old cafés around the open place, a classic orchestra playing newer tunes, thousands of tourists taking selfies. The impressive campanile that crashed down to earth once, the intricate decorations on the ducal palace, the odd cupolas of the basilica and its Byzantine wonders out of my reach.

The stretch of designer shops from the waterfront along winding streets up to the expensive hotel terrace where we dropped of fatigue, drank Aperol spritz in the shade and watched gondolas, some with men singing dramatic songs in them.

The narrow alleys leading from a tower on Piazza San Marco, past a cannoli shop we couldn't resist, past old-fashioned payphones, to a square where tourists milled around and blue lights from spinning toys glittered in the air, on to the Rialto Bridge with its densely packed tourist crowds, shops, entertainers and glimpses of the Grand Canal.

The quieter square where we had gelato among pensioners reading the paper in the shade of old trees and a small boy gave us sweets. The heat of the midday sun and the cooler shadows in cobblestone lanes.

The deserted back alleys where we got lost in the dark, a little scared, until the staircase of Contarini del Bovolo suddenly rose before us, shining like hidden treasure.

The corner of yet another unknown square where we sank down in a corner to drink water and eat over-sweet cannoli - lost again and with the maps app out of sync. Darkness was falling but friendly cafés shone bright and children played around us, there were voices and the tinkle of glasses.

The quiet San Zaccaria where a priest said Sunday mass under Bellini's altarpiece. The Orthodox church where three ladies sang a hymn. The wild peals of church bells echoing between stone walls and bridges, loud and unapologetic.

The quirky bookshop Acqua Alta, hidden somewhere in the maze, with its gondola filled with books and steps made of books leading up to a viewpoint over the canal - and the narrow aisles so packed with tourists you couldn't breathe.

The morning we got up before dawn and watched the stars shine over the promenade by the lagoon, its choppy turquoise waters now dark. Sitting on the deck of a vaporetto in a cool breeze as the morning light crept in, travelling slowly up the Grand Canal. Past palaces, some beautifully restored, some worn down by centuries of neglect and mold. Intricate windows, little jetties, dark canals leading into the maze of alleys behind. Crystal chandeliers glittering under vaulted ceilings in some of them, rotting shutters hiding others. A man watching the sunrise from a top balcony of his palazzo. The boats everywhere - water taxis pushing past at high speed, tiny private boats with outboard motors, small barges carrying wine cases, vegetables, building supplies, garbage. Gondolas tied up waiting for the tourists to wake up. The white Rialto Bridge almost deserted at this hour.

Before I boarded the train to continue exploring the rest of the world, I ate my breakfast sitting outside the station, watching the boats on the canal and thinking I never wanted to leave at all. How many mysteries and old stories did I leave behind?

stand here upon your ground

On my birthday, I sat sulking in a café in Helsinki. I was alone. On my birthday. 

The hotel breakfast had been worse than average, the coffee undrinkable. The sunny weather had turned into icy winds and a little drizzle. My feet and back ached after too much walking the day before - my body felt old. I am old, I thought bitterly. And I have nothing to show for my life so far, and I'm alone. On my birthday. While people I knew were taking holidays in Tuscany or Cape Town and torturing me with sunny pictures on social media. I had gotten no further than Helsinki - cold and not exactly exotic, only a few hours away from home.

My sister had spent a couple of days with me (but had to go home earlier than me), and my friends were gearing up to celebrate me when I got home. But I was forgetting all about that for the bitterness of being alone, right now, on my birthday.

I had a vague plan to catch the ferry to the little castle islands of Suomenlinna, a wonderful place in the summer. Not so wonderful in April, in icy drizzle and high winds. I didn't really want to go.

I went anyway, thinking I would have a quick look around and catch the next ferry back. The islands were still grey, no spring green yet in sight. Thousands of geese had invaded the place, cackling gleefully when I stepped in the poo they left everywhere. A few tourists wandered around, looking lost. I got lost too - it was off-season and signposts were missing. Incredibly annoying.

Finally I found my goal, the King's Gate which I remembered from previous visits, decades ago. Specifically, an old inscription there had stayed in my mind: "Posterity, stand here upon your ground and never rely on outside help". 

There I stood upon my ground, in a beautiful spot normally crowded with tourists. At the Fortress of Finland. All alone (on my birthday) except for a couple of geese. The sun came out.

I found a deserted beach with an incredible view over the Baltic Sea. Sheltered from the wind, warmed by the sun, it was actually enjoyable. I ate the salad I had brought. I swigged Sangre de Toro directly from a (mini) bottle and got pleasantly tipsy. I talked to the sparrows that looked for crumbs around my feet. A friend called to wish me happy birthday, and sweet messages were pouring in on my phone. I looked out over the sea, sun glittering on waves, and suddenly saw adventures and hope and a long summer ahead.

When I caught the ferry back, hours later when the drizzle returned, I had explored the castle and every exciting little footpath on the islands. I had also sat for ages in the sun, writing my journal and making plans for the future and gotten a tan. I had had the absolute pleasure of being alone, on my birthday, and loving it.

helsinki magic

Vague sounds of traffic, far-away sirens, voices. Lights from the street projected on the ceiling of a city flat at night. I'm trying to sleep on a makeshift bed, on crisp sheets smelling sweetly of detergent. Listening to the sounds but not disturbed by them. Unfamiliar sounds, a large city living and breathing around this young country girl. Unfamiliar smells of old stone and concrete, fumes, gas stoves, other people's cooking.

Whenever I visit my sister in the big city, my days are spent exploring. Being treated to delicious desserts and cinema evenings. Learning how to travel on the metro, navigate the city, savour ethnic food and appreciate art. Laughing at the sarcastic, hilarious jokes of my sister and her friends in candle-lit cafés at night. Seeing strange things and strange people.

I'm shy, wide-eyed, hopeful that life will always be adventurous like this.

The world is much louder than I knew, I think as the nightly sounds of the city rock me to sleep.

the ancient road to Samarkand

I spin my old 80's globe gently, brushing the dust off the USSR and inspecting the crack that has appeared just off the International Date Line.

I got the globe as a Christmas present as a kid. Probably after nagging my parents about it for quite a while. I love maps. Nowadays I can explore Google Earth with a passion but I still find it fascinating to read the mystical names in tiny italics on my globe: Kufra Oasis, Sea of Okhotsk, Society Islands ...

I used to love travelling. I logged quite a few countries during my intense twenties. Now I dread bumpy flights and the exhaustion of arriving at midnight in foreign cities. I still travel, but not without suffering many sleepless nights about it. I force myself to go - because I have to. I have to explore.

I explore mysterious forest paths and strange neighbourhoods locally. But I daydream about sailing among the Society Islands. In my nightly dreams I follow the ancient road to Samarkand.

summer, only a very old one

In a suburban house, October is grey like the suburban dystopias I've read about in novels (usually psychological thrillers). Wind and rain shake yellow leaves, the neighbours have dogs and prams and curious gazes. An atmosphere of quiet bleakness and tedious lives. My vanilla-coloured vintage leather coat feels out of place among Gore-Tex and softshell jackets.

But there are also flowers surprising me in the garden, half-frozen and withering. Blackbirds, magpies, woodpeckers and pheasants among the smaller birds outside the kitchen window. Over-ripe plums dripping juice from a windblown tree. A roaring fire to ward off the chill in a house with empty rooms. Silence that feels like kindness.

A feeling - both sad and comforting - that I don't belong here.

In the rain, I carry an old dog down the steps and then walk slowly, slowly, as he limps after me to sniff along the side of the street. I don't care if my mohair sweater acquires mud and the smell of wet dog.

I go to the fitness center in a grey, square building, as ugly as the grey streets around it. A hopeless greyness that induces weariness. Grey rooms, quiet and mostly empty. A vague smell of sweat and industrial cleaner. Working out on the crosstrainer still feels good, after I plug music into my ears and open my phone screen to a weird Kindle novel.

I walk for miles in the neighbourhood. There are large woods to get lost in. New streets where young families are moving into modern houses. Old streets where old memories dance around me like ghosts from the Seventies and Eighties.

The weather clears up, the sky rises high and blue and icy. The sun is low but warm and tricks me that this is summer, only a very old one.

a French town of all times

It's so typical of France - a town that no tourist has ever heard of, full of impressive ruins from Roman times. A huge triumphal arch, a well-preserved large amphitheater ... I gasp with delight. I love Roman ruins.

We happen to stop for the night just as the town is hosting a large festival that no tourist has ever heard of either. Outside a church, bathed in golden sunlight on a warm July evening, we drink the local beer and listen to people chatting around us. Loudspeakers in the tree branches above us play classical music. The bartender is beautiful, too beautiful for a small French town.

Onward we drift, to another sidewalk café where we feast on galettes as darkness falls. Are we the only foreigners in town?

We decide to go to a concert at 10 pm, much too late for a weary traveller. The 12th century abbey is mostly dark. Only the middle part is lit. A few dozen people sit in a semi-circle around a small stage where musicians play 17th century music on viola da gamba instruments - music that only serious lovers of classical music have ever heard before, I suspect. I'm not one of them. I've never even heard of viola da gamba instruments before.

A mezzo-soprano's soft voice sends German words drifting upwards to the vaults. The shadows around us flicker, smelling of stone and history. I almost doze off, lose myself in time. Am I in an obscure Roman town, in a medieval abbey with Benedictine nuns, in 17th century Königsberg with exiled musicians, on a French road trip in the scorching summer of 2022?

We walk back to the hotel at midnight, through empty alleys lit by weak streetlights. Too high on the experience to feel fear. Footsteps echo between stone walls, a cat jumps out of our way, plane trees rustle in the wind.

in the Savoie, at last

Many, many years ago, when I was young and travelling but not always free to travel exactly where and when I wanted, I spent a few summer weeks working in Switzerland. 

I partly enjoyed it, partly felt insecure and stuck in a boring job. I dreamed of running away. Getting on a train, taking off for the mountains I saw from my window. I longed to explore, to go and see what's behind that mountain ridge, to wander in complete freedom to the ends of the earth.

The mountains I saw from my window were the Alps of Savoie, white and wild and mysterious, a wilderness in the heart of Europe. During thunderstorms you could hear them boom, like the galaxy's largest drum being struck. It reverbated in me.

Now I'm in Savoie at last. Not quite in the wilderness of those highest summits. But close enough. There are immense mountains and clear, blue lakes and a chill in the evening air.

We shiver with cold as we get out of the car. After two weeks in summer-hot France, it's a delicious feeling. The car engine ticks in exhaustion after a long trek on steep roads with hairpin turns. The cheap hotel, clearly meant for skiers, is quiet in off-season and smells of pine wood and adventures. As we splash happily in the outdoor pool, there is a sound of sonorous bells. A herd of cows is returning home from their grazing in mountain meadows. 

Wrapped in scarves we spend a long, happy evening in the restaurant around the blue flame of a fondue pot, sharing Savoyard wine and giggles. The food is hot and heavy, the comfort food of a chilly mountain night.

bad night, big city

When we arrive in one of France's largest cities, we get stuck in a loop - in heavy traffic - as the navigator stubbornly insists on a route that is temporarily closed. Night is falling over hot, narrow streets in a seemingly endless city filled with cars and exhaust fumes.

Irritated, exhausted and uncomfortable, the way only an introvert gets when she needs a private space to withdraw to, I arrive at our destination. A tiny flat with no air-condition and windows that can't be kept open because robbers would climb in straight from the street and kill us in our sleep. Somebody, who knew very well how unbearably hot this flat is, decided that I would spend the night here. During France's hottest summer.

First, I need to make awkward conversation with the half-strangers we will share the flat with. I'm hungry, but too warm and exhausted to find food. Getting into bed I have the feeling of my body dissolving into liquid, into salt water and blood leaking away to leave me a dry, dead husk. The night is the hottest I've ever experienced, unmatched even in tropical countries. It nearly brings me to tears of desperation. I'm trapped and dissolving in Lyon. 

Outside are the sounds of a large city - cars speed by, people shout. As my breathing and heart-rate slow down, my body temperature goes down a little too. Drinking water helps. So I sleep, exhausted.

The next day, we taste coussins of Lyon and explore pretty streets and awesome cathedrals and exciting Roman ruins. Lyon has two rivers and the biggest city square I've ever seen. Under the right circumstances, it could probably be a nice place to live. But I'm happy to leave.

ascending into the hall of the mountain princes

We're in the south of France, following our loosely planned travel route from Pau towards Carcassonne. The heat is shimmering over withering sunflowers and vinyards. The mountains of the Pyrenees follow us like hunking, hazy clouds on the horizon to our right. 

An idea is forming in my mind.

"I know the plan is to explore France. But ... how about a little detour to Andorra?"

It takes a few seconds for K to understand what I mean. Andorra, the independent and mysterious little principality hidden in the mountains between France and Spain, where nobody we know has ever been? In those few seconds, she already warms to the idea.

I'm a little doubtful myself. I'm nervous about driving in mountains and this is more than a little detour. Heights of 2000 meters, an unknown country. Still, it can be done in a day. And it's something very different - we have to google even the basic facts about Andorra. The microstate was founded by Charlemagne, officially became a democracy as late as 1993 and is ruled by two co-princes: a Spanish bishop and the President of France.

So the next day we set off. It's our first sunless day in France. Clouds hang low and grey as we follow the winding road towards the border, the only real road from France to Andorra. Higher and higher we go, past vast caves we wish we had time to stop and see. Hairpin turn after hairpin turn after hairpin turn. There is some traffic - the French and the Spanish apparently like to go shopping in Andorra because the prices on things like fuel and alcohol is lower.

Suddenly we're above the clouds. Around us lie a sunlit vista of treeless mountains. France is behind us, beneath a lid of clouds. We pass a border station without stopping.

The first thing greeting us is a shopping centre. A shopping village really, and ski resort, formed out of modern, colourful building blocks and followed by a long line of petrol stations. The uneven French road is suddenly a smooth, tidy highway. It continues higher, through a mountain pass. We pass a herd of freely grazing cows with cowbells on, then a herd of horses with similiar bells strung around their necks. We marvel at the tenacity of many cyclists doing high-altitude training on the steep road.

There are villages but they are nothing like the villages of France, where even the newer houses look old and cute. These are ski resorts with blocky chalets lined up on the slopes. Nothing looks old here, except the mountains surrounding us.

Andorra la Vella, the highest capital in Europe, hunkers down in a valley and the summer heat is oppressive. Most of the town seems to consist of one long shopping street filled with the most popular clothes stores. The language is Catalan but most of the people are French and Spanish visitors. Slightly dazed from the exciting journey and not a little jubilant, we find a table outside a restaurant, sit down and order goat's cheese salad and white wine. 

"We made it! We're in Andorra, of all the weird places on earth!" 

For me, the most poignant contrast is that I'm sitting in front of a shop selling expensive Karl Lagerfeld clothes. I'm wearing an old, faded t-shirt that I usually only wear at my cottage in the Finnish forests, the other end of the world (because it's too worn-out to be used in public). I packed it for the trip only in desperation because I simply did not have enough clothes suitable for the hottest summer in a century. I'm not ashamed to be seen wearing it here, though. It's a symbol - I came from the remote wilderness of the North all the way to the Principality of Andorra.

After lunch, we look around (not a lot to see except shops unless you count the beautiful mountains around us) and buy a lot of small items in different shops, paying cash in the hopes of receiving two-euro coins as change. Andorra is not a member of the EU but still issues its own euro coins, which are pretty rare. I finally find one of them among the French and German euro coins littering my purse. The only thing left to do is to enjoy an icecream, fill up our car with cheap fuel and go back to France - and we find a toll tunnel that makes the return trip surprisingly quick and easy.

I descend from the mountains back into beautiful France with some unnecessary items: a cheap linen top, a fridge magnet, a stick of lime-flavoured lip balm and, weirdly, a hash brownie.

the Atlantic and a new song

You may not think you'll miss the sea when you have fascinating mountains, historical river valleys, fields full of sunflowers and old castles to look at all day long.

But if you're born and raised by the seaside, reaching the coast feels like coming home. The light, the salty breeze, the seagulls, the smell of seaweed. It's easy to breathe. Your eyes find the blue horizon, your skin suddenly longs to be immersed in salt water.

You just have to find a beach, no matter how rocky. Walk barefoot into the outgoing tide. Breathe in the eternity of the open ocean. Look for the most beautiful smooth pebble. 

If it's La Rochelle, you also have to order mussles with white wine on the pier, browse creative shops and randomly walk into a church where an organist plays a song you've never heard before and instantly love.

da Vinci, Joan of Arc and the wonderful K

The Loire valley. Too many castles and palaces to count. A royal air. The murky, slow and sensous Loire river. A muggy heat that peaks at 43 degrees Celsius.

I have found the perfect travel partner in K. Like me, she enters a place of ancient history, sighs with happiness and settles down to read the basic information provided. She then takes all the time she needs to explore every nook and cranny, study the facts in the brochure or "histopad", admire the furniture and the views from the windows, plod up and down steep stairs to towers and dungeons. We have all the time in the world. We are equally awed by standing at Leonardo da Vinci's grave and being in the room where Joan of Arc met the future king of France.

K also understands the importance of putting on mascara in the mornings, in order to be ready to conquer the world, and the pleasure in ordering a glass of wine or a Ricard with the chèvre salad for lunch. 

And she drives the car.

My role in our holiday is to speak French and translate menus, look for cute bed & breakfasts and drink Côtes du Rhône out of the three-liter box hidden somewhere in the car. And admire the views, guess the song playing on the car radio and dream up wonderful places to visit.

The highlight of our days by the Loire: not the royal ramparts of Blois or Amboise, or the free rosé provided by one charming bed & breakfast hostess, or the views from Château de Chinon - but the coolness of the murky waters of the  mysterious Loire on one golden evening when we take off our sandals and wade in the shallows.

the Jura surprise

Sometime last winter, I was browsing through Google maps and happened upon the Jura Mountains, for no obvious reason except that I love mountains and Central Europe. I dove into Street View and followed a few mountain roads, sighing in pandemic isolation over views I would probably never see in real life.

This summer, I found myself in the passenger seat of a car at the foot of these mountains, near the French/Swiss border. The driver programmed the navigator with our destination - the Loire Valley in the middle of France. I peered at the suggested route, winding back and forth across the navigator screen. "Looks like it's taking us across the mountains." I'm a little nervous about driving in mountains. I  don't have much experience - Finland is pretty flat.

So we drove across the Juras. It was beautiful - steep, wooded slopes, valleys with cute villages. Good roads. A very surprising hilltop fortification (Forte l'Écluse) looming over the road. As surprising as my dream coming true - diving into a map and surfacing in France.

dragons and kings and dormant volcanoes

Three thousand three hundred kilometers, seven castles, four mountain ranges, three countries, two freedom-loving ladies, one car.

Happiness is getting into a car and driving through France (and small bits of Switzerland and Andorra) without any goal, just to see where you end up. 

We ended up in a heatwave, in the murky waters of the Loire, in the airy throne rooms of ancient kings, in the vicinity of dormant volcanoes, in a wild garden party with magnum bottles of wine, above the clouds on hairpin roads, in a concert with instruments we'd never heard of, in a cave with a chained dragon, under Roman triumphal arches, in medieval villages with loud cicadas and silent bats, in a hot city flat with no air-conditioning, at tables with strange and wonderful dishes, in the middle of our wildest dreams of freedom.