birdsong and deception

May, and the world races towards summer. Colour bursts and evenings in the sun, millions of birds, the smell of earth and life, the first sensation of bare feet in cold grass - and then it's over.

A warm May is like first love. A cold May is like being deceived by your first love.

zombies and nuns in the capital of Bohemia

A zombie appeared and disappeared at irregular intervals as we strolled lazily across the famous Charles Bridge in Prague.

You know the type: white face, wild hair, weird eyes, threatening air. We avoided eye contact and nervously hurried onwards and lost it among the tourist crowds. A minute later, there it was again. Blocking our path, staring hungrily. We decided we had had enough of Charles Bridge and escaped into the narrow streets of Mala Strana.

Apart from this, Prague was all good. Well, except for the pouring rain as we explored the castle. It put a damper on our mood as we ran shivering between the cathedral, the White Tower and Golden Lane. But the lazy hour we spent in a warm, cozy café afterwards was worth it. We felt that we had earned our lemon tarte and excellent coffee.

Memorable moments included:

* drinking Staropramen on the roof terrace of a dancing house
* asking a stranger in the street for directions and discovering that he was able to sing our own national anthem to us - in Finnish
* discussing whether a horse can be painted, in the Old Town square
* gawking at all the impossibly beautiful buildings all over town
* having serious trouble finding dark beer in the capital of beer
* realising that the Astronomical Clock isn't a good meeting place at the strike of the hour
* listening to a sermon in Czech, only understanding the words for "truth" and "love" - but what else do you need from a sermon?
* pretending to be Czech as we travelled back and forth on trams and subway trains
* taking the wrong tram and deciding to stay on it and see what happened, in the company of a crowd of nuns
* being struck dumb with horror and awe in the Jewish Quarter, where Hitler had intended to create "a museum of an extinct race"
* being struck dumb with delight and awe at a Mozart dinner opera, where we drank Czech pinot noir and fell in love with classical music (and the baritone)
* getting a private guided tour which included a tame duck, many insults, political debate and shouting of the word "absinthe!"
* finding a lunch place far from the tourist streets, complete with surly waiters, incomprehensible menus and excellent bramboracky that cost next to nothing
* giggling over sweet American cocktails after an exhausting day

Sometimes I long to travel in luxury - being whisked from my grandiose hotel in an expensive car to an exclusive restaurant. Not having to do all the hard work of budget travelling.

But I have now decided that I much prefer travelling like I always do - walking for hours on aching feet, eating strange meals in local pubs, staying in tiny back street hotels, squeezing into trams filled to bursting with tired commuters, their dogs and their dripping umbrellas.

How else would you discover the hidden treasures of a city in the real world?

cloud lake found

Walking in the forest - tiny emeralds on every branch, birdsong, the soothing whisper of ancient trees. I'm breathing in silver air.

The lake, pale and smooth, has clouds in it and above it. I have found it, after half a lifetime. I sit down, hug my knees and stare into the past and the future. The haunting call of a loon echoes between tree-lined shores. A boy is fishing and a man has lit a fire on the shore. Woodsmoke, a hint of summer parties to come. Dogs are playing, people are smiling at strangers. But I could walk in this forest for hours and be all alone, all at peace.

Paths are promises of adventures. I will return to breathe more silver air.

Prague and the long-lost friends

I went to Prague for the first time in my life.

The sun shone bleakly on the famous astronomical clock, where a crowd of chattering tourists waited for the hourly chime. The cool April air shimmered with spring promise. I stood underneath the fifteenth-century clock and waited for a friend I had not seen for twelve years, the girl who taught me to play chess in Cambridge. I was nervous. Seeing a close friend for the first time in twelve years is scary. Would I even recognize her?

She suddenly stood before me. I recognized her immediately and hugged her tight as the clock chimed the hour and all the apostles looked down on us. We went to an obscure pub where nobody spoke a word of English but where they set cheap, delicious potato cakes and dark beer in front of us with typical Czech matter-of-factnesss. We discussed life for hours. Then we parted ways again. Not knowing if the next time we see each other is in twelve years or never.

The following evening, I crammed myself into an overcrowded tram in lashing rain and tried to interpret the tram map while not falling into a stranger's arms. In a dark restaurant by the river I was greeted by a man with wild, greying hair and beard. Another friend not seen for fifteen years, the last time in an Irish pub where he mocked me relentlessly and forced me to grow intellectually in order to keep up with him.

He told me his dark secrets and then showed me the secrets of Prague. As he kissed me goodbye, he looked as sad as I felt. Fifteen years or how long? Or never again?

April shimmers with promise of new adventures and is a good time to travel. To find long-lost friends. To lose them again.

burned sugar day

A red balloon drifted by my window.

Exhausted by my latest foreign adventure I decided that the world could celebrate May Day without me.

Someone pulled me out into the cold wind anyway. We had Mexican food and traditional Finnish mead, and admired vintage cars. The town smelled of exhaust fumes and burned sugar.