Discussions started by UnaMilanese

Hello 🙂

I should be serving a warming drink to the participants in the discussion about gardens and parks that provide us with beautiful photos, I could mention the delicious buttery scent wafting from bakeries in the thread about returning to France, but my heart, its powerful pulse that nourishes my entire being, is elsewhere.

Dasht-e Lut, Yazd, Esfahan, Bam, Kerman, Qeshm, Hormuz—a melody, a prayer at the heart of desire.

A dream, an unattainable fantasy? No. Not anymore. A very serious Italian travel agency is organizing this trip for 6 people this winter. I’m signed up, I’m going, I’m living. Maybe.

"But you’re completely crazy!!!!"

I know... I know that every civilization, every society has a vital need to create scapegoats to define and justify itself, pathetically. And Iran is one of them, top of the list. I laugh or sigh, and it doesn’t bother me.

But that unchanging red, deep red and garnet, so beautiful in itself, in all the Western chancelleries repeats, whispers, shouts: don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, you’re putting yourself in danger and we can’t do anything for you. You’ll be turned into mere bargaining chips, into arguments for endless negotiations. Fear must be instilled, its power absolutely preserved, no concessions made to the enemy. The information (how many French hostages, real or fake, compared to the number of travelers?) is always lacking.

Traveling becomes a merciless confrontation between desire, the vital pulse, and anxiety, its ghosts.

Catherine

Good evening everyone,

This is where we chat and post non-competition photos. Happy wandering (jogging is also welcome).

See you soon.

Cat

Good evening everyone,

So, it’s settled—the first idea (this book about the lush garden of a New York state parsonage, "this garden obsessed with the love this man had for his late wife." Reverend Cheney musically noting all the birdsongs, the water droplets in the watering can, the wind rushing through cloaks at the end of the 19th century) will be the theme.

Garden: A plot of land, usually enclosed, attached or not to a dwelling, planted with useful or ornamental vegetation.

So, private gardens, vegetable patches, herb gardens, botanical gardens, winter gardens with their lush greenhouses, the "hortus conclusus" of cloisters evoking the Garden of Eden, public gardens, and their extension into parks are all welcome. I’m sure I’ve forgotten some...

Photos can be posted until Monday, November 24 at midnight, following the usual rules: one per message, numbered from 1 to 3, with the location of the shot and, if you’d like, a few details.

Voting, where you explicitly assign 3 to 1 points to your top 3 photos, will take place from Tuesday, November 25 at 12:01 AM until Sunday, November 30 at midnight. The results will be announced on December 1.

Your turn! 😉

Catherine

PS: This thread is reserved for contest photos. For all other photos and conversations under the trees by the fountains, it’s here.

All the side discussions about the contest happen here.

Hi everyone,

This month’s contest theme is WOOD. Wood as a plant material—roots, trunks, branches that make up a tree. Dead or alive, splinters and knots. Sawdust too. Firewood, from the woodshed to the hearth. Wood as a crafting material and all the things it can become: from a spoon to a violin, a boat to a stave church, and so much more—way too long to list! 😉

Technical details:

1. Each of you can post up to 3 photos. One photo per message, numbered 1 to 3. Along with the shot, feel free to share a few written details—location, context, anecdote, or photography technique. Photos can be submitted until Tuesday, July 22 at midnight, Milan time.

2. Voting will take place from Wednesday, July 23 at 00:00 until Tuesday, July 29 at midnight. All forum members can vote for their 3 favorite photos, listing the photographer’s name and the photo number in order of preference: 3 points for first place, 2 for second, and 1 for third.

3. Results will be announced on Wednesday, July 30 during the day. In case of a tie, the number of first-place votes will decide. Photos already featured on a podium are not eligible to compete.

The winner will have the special privilege of organizing August’s contest.

This thread is reserved for contest photos. For other wood-themed photos and general discussions, head here.











Alright, your turn! 😛

Catherine

Hi there,

I'm trying to plan a little Greek getaway in early summer, and it's a tad complicated—connections from Sitia to Rhodes via Karpathos are only twice a week (and not on the days that work for me!). I gave up on the idea of Kastelorizo, which isn’t that easy to reach either, and replaced it with Symi, which has a daily connection—even several—to Rhodes, where I’d like to spend as little time as possible. I found a boat leaving Symi at 8:15 AM and arriving in Rhodes at 9:35 AM. The ferry to Karpathos leaves the same day at 11:00 AM. That’s 1 hour and 25 minutes to switch boats. It’s tempting because it’s a perfect sequence, but I’m wondering if it’s still a bit too tight.

Do Sebeco Lines’ speedboats arrive at the same port where Blue Star ferries depart? Are they punctual?

Catherine

Hi there, or γεια σας.

When will the July schedules for Greek ferries (specifically the Prévélis - Karpathos-Sitia route, which I'm interested in) be available?

Catherine

The Afrosiyob races through a premature twilight, lashed by a blizzard of thick snow. In the endless gray, a monumental industrial complex occasionally emerges, ghostly. Here and there, in the middle of nowhere, a human silhouette appears (a soldier?), standing motionless by the tracks. On the screen mounted in the middle of the ceiling, a dashing Bollywood cat in vibrant colors writhes in all directions, throwing smoldering glances at a dancer on the verge of fainting. A server moves down the central aisle, offering crepes for sale—ones I suspect are stuffed with ground beef. I’m in Central Asia, in Uzbekistan, somewhere between Bukhara and Samarkand.

I chose the title "notes"—scattered thoughts, rough drafts. I’m not sure what I’ll write, but one thing’s certain: this won’t be a linear travel journal.

And a photo... there must be a photo, so here:



Local tourists between a Bactrian camel and an electric car, in front of ancient walls—it’ll do.

It’s nighttime and 3 degrees in Tashkent.

Hi there,

Reflection: an act of thought that revisits an object to examine it. The object here is travel (or tourist movement, it doesn’t really matter) and the desire to examine it from the particular angle of the verb that drives it came from reading a sentence by Xrctn in the introduction to his travel journal about Turkmenistan.

Part of that strange category of travelers who like ticking boxes...

Ticking I have no idea how strange that is—I actually get the impression it might be pretty common when I see the diverse mix of trips some people here take. But maybe it’s a different approach that drives these compulsive travelers.

Still, it wouldn’t even occur to me. What does it add?

Connecting Or chaining, assembling, linking. These are my verbs. If I can’t do it—either because finances are tight (I live in one of Europe’s pigsties—a PIIGS country, where the virtuous northern barbarians sent the G&S troika to "nurse us back to health" through austerity, making it all the more pleasant to spend every summer among civilized folks on the terrace of my little white house in Kalymnos overlooking the Aegean), or because I’ve chosen a tricky, unstable direction (Lebanon had to be canceled in summer 2006, Syria too, and Iran right now)—I don’t really feel like traveling. I might just tag along to be nice, but it doesn’t mean anything to me.

If I think about the need behind my verbs—this continuous, meticulous, patient way of traveling—it’s about stripping away sudden, artificial exoticism, weaving small, successive changes, and feeling the presence of the knots too. About understanding, integrating something a little different from the image on a screen.

And you? What’s your guiding verb?

Catherine

(I sense the moderators changing the title here...)

Good evening! 🙂

The departure date is approaching, and I’m side-eyeing my suitcase... well... uh... It’s true I’m allowed 30 + 8 kg, but if I can pack much lighter, that wouldn’t bother me. So, to eliminate a few "uhs":

1. It’s going to be quite chilly outside, especially in the mornings—I know that—but what about indoors? Do Uzbek hotels tend to be overheated? (More than 21/22°C?)

2. Is this country like Turkey, where you find foam slippers in the room’s linen kit?

3. Are dry cleaners or laundromats common?

Possibly more to come later.

Cat

Hi there,

It’s been a while since I’ve traveled outside an area packed with ATMs, so I’m wondering about Uzbekistan and the best exchange options. The guidebooks aren’t very chatty on the topic.

From what I gather, transport and hotels will be booked and paid via bank transfer to a local agency. For personal expenses, is it better to bring euros, dollars, or can we still find ATMs along the Silk Road cities to withdraw cash with our bank card?

Catherine

Hey there,

This is where we chat and share photos outside the contest.

Good night! 😛

Hi everyone,

After my narrow victory over Herodotos (just one point ahead—I had a close call, even in December in the northern hemisphere!), I’m now honored to organize the next contest, the one for the closing year, whose results will be announced on the first day of the coming year. Out of affection for the poet with wind in his soles, who dreamed of ivory and setting sail, again and again, even in his final hours, I borrow the theme from the first line of a poem dear to me: I embraced the summer dawn.

So, as the year draws to a close, the theme will be: embracing dawn.

The verb here is just as important as the noun. More than just a subject about sunrises or that magical half-hour of pink light before the sun appears (a photographer’s nightmare: either I crank up the ISO and deal with noise, or I lug around a tripod, and say goodbye to spontaneity like a beggar on marble quays), this is about those happy little mornings—the thrill of joy in the soft light of the first hours, whether it’s a landscape, a person, an animal, a plant, architecture, or whatever else. What’s certain is that it makes you want to smile at the day breaking. Even if you go back to bed afterward.

Technical details (shamelessly borrowed from Ragamuffin, thanks!):

Participation Each VF member can submit up to 3 photos, until Wednesday, 12/25 at 11:59 PM, Milan time. Each photo must be posted in a separate message, with its number (1, 2, or 3). Don’t forget to add a little explanation (comment, location, etc.).

Voting: Each VF member can vote for the 3 photos they consider the best, based on their own criteria and the theme.

Voting will take place from Thursday, 12/26 to Tuesday, 12/31 at 11:59 PM, Milan time.

Selected photos will be ranked in order of preference: - 1st photo: 3 points - 2nd photo: 2 points - 3rd photo: 1 point

The winner is the author of the photo with the most points.

Results will be published on 01/01 (if I’m in any state to do so). In case of a tie, the number of first-place votes will decide. The winner will have the honor of organizing December’s contest.

For discussion, it’s here.

That’s all! Let’s welcome Dawn with rosy fingers, dressed in saffron...

Catherine

Good evening! 🙂,

I’m paraphrasing the title of discussions that were popping up back in 2020. Back then, the obstacles were travel restrictions and all sorts of often very arbitrary "health" rules. Today, it feels like we’re facing an epidemic of wanderlust that’s piling up in certain places—places that keep expanding. Places that end up feeling like wallpaper, just part of the scenery, more or less exotic, since the people, the dominant crowd, are always the same. And they’re especially overwhelming in limited spaces like villages, museums, and other remarkable sites.

Personally, it tends to send my cortisol levels through the roof, leading to desperate attempts to salvage what I can (the stress when I saw a travel journal about eastern Crete—then, phew, at least this little piece of old Greece hasn’t been exposed yet. Maybe it’ll survive a little longer). So, no more weekends in beautiful European cities. So, adjusted visiting hours, but that’s not always enough (I’ll still have to say goodbye to Caravaggio’s *Madeleine* since I can’t have a quiet moment with her anymore, even late in the day). So, outright giving up: I’ll never see Machu Picchu. Too late. So, shifting travel dates to minimize the damage (Uzbekistan was originally planned for Easter—with April 24th and May 1st to limit vacation days—but the anxiety of tourist crowds during that mild climate period, with few days off, led me to reschedule the trip for winter. Short days and possible rain are a thousand times better).

Avoiding crowds has become a fundamental criterion for choosing destinations and timing.

And you? Are you able to tune out this identical crowd everywhere, or has it changed your relationship with travel/tourism?

Catherine

Hi everyone,

For my round-trip flights between Milan and Tashkent, I have several airline options, with Turkish Airlines being the most familiar and offering plenty of combinations. But I’m also being offered an outbound flight with a layover in Baku via Azerbaijan Airlines and a direct return (7.5 hours without stretching my long legs 😱) with Uzbekistan Airways. I’m not a fan of flying at all (I feel uneasy when I’m not on solid ground, but it’s a necessary evil when you’re short on time). However, I’m tempted by the idea of trying these two airlines and getting a glimpse of Baku Airport.

Do you have any advice that could tip the scales toward curiosity or fear?

Catherine

Good evening,

The question on my mind is in the title: is it better to go from Khiva to Bukhara by train or by car?

I love traveling by train (though I’ll have the chance to take it between Bukhara and Samarkand, and then from there to the capital). I’m curious about Uzbek roads, but the excursions I’ve planned will let me satisfy that curiosity over shorter distances than the 500 km of this trip.

I’ve read on this forum that the road can be grueling, though those posts are a bit dated now. I’ve also read (on Advantour—reliable?) that the train connection isn’t daily. For the past few days, the national railway website has only shown me blank pages—I can’t check anything. I *did* spot a train leaving Khiva at 11 AM and arriving in Bukhara at 6 PM this summer, though...

Any recent experiences to share about either option?

Catherine

Hi there,

I feel like a total newbie—I’ve never really thought about this before, beyond repatriation—what happens if I get seriously ill or injured abroad? Thankfully, it’s never happened to me.

But now I’d like to cover my bases.

Do you know of any insurance providers, or where to look and how to choose one, that covers potential hospitalization costs, specifically in Uzbekistan?

I don’t even know if this kind of coverage is tied to a specific destination, in Europe (France?), or if it’s arranged directly in the country... 🤪

Catherine

Hey everyone!

Nothing in this section since 2020? Well, I’ll jump in. With Italy—completely random, of course .

Have you heard of Alessandro Mannarino? He’s something else compared to Toto Cotugno or Eros Ramazzotti...

A young-ish guy (45 years old), handsome like a bad boy , who started his musical journey on the streets of Rome, sleeping in squats with people from all walks of life, before being discovered by a journalist and recording 5 albums.

His music is super *orrechiabile* (how do you say that in French?... easy to listen to...?) with diverse influences. And his lyrics—simple but powerful.

A few examples from his different albums:

Svegliatevi italiani

Translation, not bad.

Maddalena

Translation, very rough, but it gives you an idea. PS for Masterpo if you’re reading this: an answer to *Noli me tangere*! Mado had other things to do. Something human, wonderfully human.

Arca di Noè

No translation available for this song, which sings of a lost Noah’s Ark world adrift. So, uh, the chorus? Let’s go, let’s go. But where are we going? Who knows? Who knows? I’m not afraid. This life is all I have, and the shorter it is, the louder I’ll sing: Eu quero viver como um beija-flor

Agua

No translation for this one either. Just two lines: At night, you can search in an embrace for something that doesn’t taste like rage.

Hope this inspires some of you to listen more, in the winter light.

5 AM, I’m shivering. The icy February 2022 fog wraps around the deserted Terminal 2, closed for renovations, on the outskirts of which my hotel stands. I wait alone at the stop in the pitch-black night for the first shuttle of the day, which is supposed to take me to T1. I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is the name: Jerusalem. I’m entirely goy, just as entirely atheist, but I’ve been visiting that imaginary city for decades. It haunts, fantastical, the medieval images that once occupied me for so long. It regularly creeps into my ears through the misfortune of news reports from radios around the world. It crystallizes so many of humanity’s delusions, of which I’m a part. I know nothing about it, haven’t read a single guidebook. But I want to see it, walk its streets, live it for a few days. Make it real, tangible.

The flight is on time. This is the era of mandatory FFP2 masks on all flights landing in Italy (Europe?). The crew valiantly fights against passengers’ ingenious attempts to remove them: sipping their drinks milliliter by milliliter, nibbling their snacks cubic millimeter by cubic millimeter, feigning breathing difficulties, yanking off the elastic bands... A rabbi passes through the rows collecting donations. Men put on their tefillin, drape their prayer shawls, and rock to the rhythm of their prayers. Already, the sense of elsewhere.

Ben Gurion Airport is a stunning airport—monumental, bright, functional, adorned with archaeological remnants and enormous photographs showcasing the country’s great leader in its works. I collect my visa from a kiosk, quickly endure the routine interrogation from a military officer slumped in his seat, withdraw some shekels from an ATM, get my nostrils swabbed at one of the many molecular testing stations in exchange for a yellow all-inclusive resort-style wristband that grants me passage through the outer doors. I spend ages (I think I’m just not good at this) in the crowd trying to find a sherut heading to Jerusalem, then lose myself in the landscape. Mediterranean-style—red earth, stunted vegetation, overrun with sprawling construction. I do glute exercises in this traffic, where a Neapolitan driver would embody road indolence. Endless traffic jams signal the city’s approach. The sherut drops me a few steps from my hotel, the Saint George’s Cathedral Pilgrim Guest House, right on the edge of the dotted lines on maps marking the divide between Jewish and Arab Jerusalem. It’s a pleasant complex with an inner garden and beautiful rooms featuring exposed stone vaults—and thank goodness, because I’m not allowed to leave until I get my test results. The reception staff, incredibly helpful, guide me through the myriad of meal delivery options. A roof over my head, a full stomach—all that’s left is to wait. Read Caillois, check the increasingly precise, increasingly ominous rumors of war brewing, yet again, in Europe, and navigate the city’s virtual map to get a sense of where to head once freed.

The next day, it’s done, and my first destination is, quite naturally, the Old City. The first gate I come across is Jaffa Gate, so Jaffa Gate it is—leading from the chaos of vehicles of all kinds into the labyrinth of alleys packed with goods of all kinds.

October 7, 2023, is a sunny day in Milan. Since morning, in this light, I’m WhatsApping with Afrooz in Tehran, and I decide to call her. A lively, joyful conversation—French with that Farsi accent becomes a wonderful language. Suddenly, everything feels possible. Isfahan, Shiraz, Damavand, Yazd, Yazd, Yazd—a delicious word savored endlessly—become within reach. Iran, so longed for, is finally here. Pure joy, absolute enthusiasm. Six months to plan and relish a trip before living it.

Then I open *Le Monde*.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Frozen. Empty. No. We decide to wait, not to give up right away, pretending to believe—just a little, just to keep from collapsing—that with this wretched human race, the worst isn’t necessarily certain. It is.

So... meh, Madeira? The Azores? Uzbekistan (a pale substitute)? New Zealand? Greece. Again, always. Nestling into the only European promise we’ve been given. Indulging in illusions, for the pleasure of it.

So, train from Milan to Ancona (9 AM–12 PM), a typically Marchigiano lunch (Italy is paradise for food lovers), a stroll through the city, then at 4 PM boarding the *Olympic Champion*. Arrival in Patras the next afternoon, car rental, and off to Lepanto—Nafpaktos today—to reminisce about glorious victories and pay tribute to Cervantes, who lost a hand there before writing.

That’s the plan, anyway. The train is unusually on time. The ferry, replaced in the meantime by the *Hellenic Spirit* (why not? Even if it’s less suited to the season), is 3 hours late, then 4, no 5, then finally 6—oh wait, 7. And on top of that, it’s pouring rain in Ancona, and the port waiting room closes at 6 PM. Great...

At 11 PM, the ferry’s lights emerge in the pitch-black night. We jostle through the downpour, board, and sleep well in a cozy cabin with the white noise of the engines. Then:

23 hours of rest. Of forgetting.