Results for "Embrun+|+127+>+353"

J'y vais de mon témoignage pour encourager (surtout) les cyclistes à joindre le Cap Nord. Je suis monté là haut en voiture avec le vélo dedans en prévoyant de faire du deux roues au maximun, mais la météo et les moustiques ont ralenti mon ardeur. Je suis arrivé tout en haut de l'Europe dans un brouillard pire que celui du Mont Aigoual en plein hiver. Le vent (frais) froid donnait l'impression que la température était trés basse. La purée de pois était si épaisse qu'on l'aurait coupé à coups de hache de viking et les gouttes de pluies si assommantes qu'on aurai cru des coup de gourdins. Pourtant, à l'abri la température était bonne. J'ai même dormi dans la voiture avec un seul duvet alors que la veille, plus bas en altitude au bord de la mer, il m'en a fallu deux. A mon arrivée sur le parking(payant pour deux nuits, il faut donc partir à la troisième ou payer plus) j'ai eu quelques peine à garer la voiture dans un coin un peu éloigné des bus et autres caravanes. Le brouillard était si épais que je ne savais pas où je m'étais mis jusqu'au lendemain soir. La météo était si mauvaise que je me suis contenté de suivre quelques téméraires pour repérer le centre touristique et le fameux globe. Une foi devant j'ai pris une première photo (qui s'est révelée être belle à l'ordinateur) et suis retourné me mettre à l'abri. Il était 19h au premier soir et j'avais peur de m'aventurer dans le brouillard. Le soleil tentait des percées mais sans résultat toute la soirée, puis toute la nuit avec en prime des giboullées ET toute la journée qui a suivi.24h dans la purée à tourner dans le centre et jusqu'à la voiture sans même m'aventurer à voir les monuments installés autour des lieux. Tout d'un coup vers 18h tout le monde est sorti des caravannes pour courrir faire des photos, une éclaircie laissait entrevoir du temps clair. J'ai pu enfin voir où je m'étais garé: au meilleur point de vue! Le soleil revenu la température a grimpé, quelques nuages engloutissaient les lieux de temps à autres, mais le grand astre luttait bien pour imposer ses rayons. Quand il réussit à arracher le brouillard du sol se sont différentes couches de nuages d'altitude qui se sont présentées dans leurs plus beaux atouts. Dans un bleu pur, et plus loin métallisé, des colosses de plombs noir abyssal et d'autres gris d'huître s'enroulaient autour d'un oeil cyclonique et attiraient les flamèches de robes blanches pour former des tubules sans bouts. La danse météo n'en finissait pas de tourner, plus elle s'agitait et plus elle transgouttaient à grosses spires, puis, sur une mer d'encre de chine pissait son trop plein au loin dans des averses juste à côté d'immenses miroirs reflétant le soleil si puissament que j'avais peur pour mes yeux et pour la cellule de l'appareil photo. Pour couronner le tout, en signe de caudale, des nuages trainards, sans doute repu d'embruns' mauruesques' trainaient de ci de là des voiles d'arc-en-ciel. (Pour les sceptiques qui pensent qu'on exagère tout dans le midi je vais tenter de joindre des photos) Le spectacle a duré de 10h du soir à 4h du matin, jusqu'à ce que le jour soit trop clair et j'espérais qu'il serai plus beau encore au prochain soir.

Là haut, je recommande de dormir quand le temps est trop mauvais et de préférence le jour quand la lumière est trop forte pour ainsi profiter du spectacle de la nuit, qui n'en est pas une. J'ai quitté ce lieux aprés la fermeture du centre touristique vers trois heure du matin. Là j'y vais de ma petite recommandation: aprés un superbe soleil de minuit quand les cars trés nombreux ont rembarqué leurs voyageurs, ( qui pour certains ne sortent du bus que pour aller aux toilettes sans prendre l'air sous le globe) prendre le temps de goutter au silence que seuls les oiseaux et le vent froissent. J'ai repris la route sous un lever, ou coucher de soleil grandiose étallé sur 360°, dans une douce lumière et un calme extraordinaire. Je n'ai croisé aucune voiture sur prés de 60Km. Le seul être humain rencontré fut au péage du tunnel. Sur un circuit qui m'a fait longer longer tout l'est de la Suède puis le nord de la Finlande pour redescendre toute la côte de Norvège, ce sont les plus beaux Kilomètres. C'est magnifique cela vaut le détour mais se mèrite. C'est je pense, à partir du centre du tunnel(sous la mer) les kilomètres les plus durs à vélo, MAIS paroles de cyclistes qui ont roulé plus que moi, le voyage est moins dur que prévu et tout ceux que j'ai rencontrés étaient en avance sur leurs feuilles de routes. La motivation réduit les kilomètres qui sont pourtant longs, trés longs. Prochaine grande étape attendue: la roche de Prekestolen.

Je viens de terminer ce livre de Patrice Delbourg.

je le trouve très interessant et j'aimerais avoir l'avis des personnes qui l'ont lu.

Je vous remercie beaucoup.

"La-bas, la mer est un mur. Le désespoir se danse sur un rythme de salsa. La Havane humiliée, tyrannisée, violée, mais aussi La Havane sensuelle, jouisseuse, fataliste, flamboyante. les rires des enfants répondent à la propagande racornie. Sur le malecon, boulevard bétonné du front de mer, à quelques encablures de l'affameur yankee, la vie quotidienne s'organise entre double morale et parties de dominos. Sous le joug du despotisme à figure patriarcale, Cuba, la perle des Caraïbes devenue goulag du marxisme tropical, attend le temps des baleines blanches. Abel Friche, voyageur solitaire, émigré de lui même exaspéré par ses semblables occidentaux, va à la rencontre du miroir déformant de ses propres fiascos. Portraits croisés d'une ville en ruines et d'un homme brisé, dont les complaintes aigres-douces résonnent avec des accords d'une impardonnable vérité dans les ténébres d'une ville en déliquescence, l'auto dérision et l'humour grinçant, l'érotisme de chaque geste, la présence tutélaire du rhum, tempèrent la douleur du climat dans la fuite bancale des jours"

Je suis à la quètte de ceux qui peuvent m'aider à trouver " des mots français d'origines russe" et surtout aussi trouver les circonstances qui ont fait que ces mots sont passés d'une langue(russe) à une autre(française), ceci est tres importante pour mon travail de thèse de doctorat, je suis enseignant de russe à l'université d'oran es-sénia (Algérie).Vous serais tres gentille de me répondre, merci d'avance. Спасиба вам !

Nous envisageons 1 voyage cet été (15/0/ au 31/07) en jordanie, avec mon épouse et fils de 15 ans. Je suis pas un habitué des voyages, mais nous souhaitons le faire avec notre propre organisation, cad vol sec + hotel+ transport en commun. Qqun peutil me proposer qques conseils de départ et des incontournables sur le séjour? 1 hotel pour l'arrivée en indiquant un prix moyen, autour de 20 à 25 € ? Choix du mode de transport, bus, taxi, voiture de loc ? Le nord de la jordanie c'est comment ? Biensur tout le monde pense à PETRA ou au WADI RUM, mais il y a sans doute des lieux moins connus et aussi interessants . merciabiento 🙂

Bonjour à tous, Je pars à Bayahibe en avril prochai et je suis à la recherche de toutes infos sur les visites à l'intérieur du Parc National Del Este. Je sais déjà qu'elles se déroulent accompagné d'un guide (garde du parc) au départ de l'une des portes du parc à Bayahibe - Dominicus ou à Boca de Yuma mais j'ai très peu d'infos sur leur contenu. Je suis donc à votre écoute... Merci d'avance. Denis

Bonjour,

Il y à quelques temps je me suis joint à un groupe d'étudiants francais en Horticulture, qui veulent, d'ici 5 ans mettre au point un projet d'entreprise local, pour dévellopper un marché national et international, pour aider la population d'Haiti à, tout dumoins, subvenir à leur besoin les plus vitaux. Le projet n'est présentement qu'à l'état embryonnaire, nous avons donc besoin de toutes les informations que vous pourrez nous donner et qui pourrait faire avancer notre projet, ou simplement de conseil pour mieux cerner la population et ces besoins. Nous sommes bien sûr à la recherche de contacts et de partenaires. Toutes personnes qui pourrait être intéressé à participer ou à nous donner un petit coup de main de quelques facon que ce soit, est la bienvenue. Vous n'avez qu'à me contacter et il me fera plaisir de vous donner plus de détails et/ou de recevoir vos commentaires.

BON JE SAIS que tout le monde le sait mais si ca peut aider des gens.

DANS LES taxis ou tuk tuk il proposent de passer par le tourism information, soi disant moins cher pour payer les hotels sur les iles ou oles billets d avion, on se fait avoir de quelques centaines de BATH, CE SONT DES menteurs.

En thailande tout prendre sur place et ne pas passer par d interlocuteur... jamias

On part à Mercredi 😎

A part la mer qu'a-t-il d'autre à faire?

Quelles activités avec-vous faites?

Y'a-t-il des boutiques (vêtements, souliers....) proche de là? 🙂😊

MERCII!!

Moi, quand je voyage, je n'ai pas de quoi écouter de la musique avec moi. Moi, quand je voyage, je me retrouve à chanter -faux, certes, mais je le fais quand même- quelques airs juste pour me donner du pep's. Moi, quand je ne voyage pas, j'écoute de la musique qui me fait voyager. Alors, j'ai cherché un peu sur le forum un sujet similaire et je n'en ai pas vraiment trouvé si c'en est un qui demande des chansons relatives aux voyages pour un mariage (donc sujet à date limite, moyen...). Donc voilà, j'aimerais savoir quelles chansons/musiques de quels artistes vous font voyager ou vous donnent envie de partir.

Pour moi, il y a Johnny Clegg, le zoulou blanc, avec sa chanson Asimbonanga qui me donne envie de retrouver l'Afrique et ses paysages. Il y a Buena Vista Social Club, Orishas, Manu Chao, la Mano Negra et Flor del Fango qui me donnent envie de me retrouver en Espagne, au Portugal mais surtout en Amérique du Sud où ces chants sont bien représentés. Il y a Paris-Combo, un excellent groupe français aux sons particuliers dont les chansons Pas à pas, Mobil'homme et Touriste d'une vie me mènent ailleurs, en Inde, en Afrique, en Egypte, en Orient et au Moyen-Orient. Et il y en a tant d'autres, quels sont ceux qui vous mènent vers le voyage de votre côté ?

Pas à pas :

Depuis longtemps, je n'sais pas Où me mène le vent Voilà pourquoi je n'suis pas Ceux qui marchent devant C'est le chemin le plus beau Qui en a tenté plus d'un Le mien se fait au sabot Que je pose tous les matins Au gré des embruns

Ce monsieur fait ce qu'il veut Madame sait pas si elle doit Un enfant qui ferait mieux de grandir comme il le croit Un cheminot sur des rails Qui regarde passer les vaches Une perle dans un serail Qui ne veut plus qu'on l'attache Un antiquaire amoureux Qui soudain se trouve trop vieux Y'a déjà du mieux...

On verra, On verra si ça vaut pas Le coup d'oeil, là-bas Là-bas, juste un peu plus bas On verra, on verra On voit bien que ça n'va pas Non, non, les pas cadencés C'est pas comme ça qu'on va danser...

Depuis longtemps, je n'sais pas Où mène le vent Voilà pourquoi je n'suis pas Ceux qui marchent devant Certains semblent être poussés Par de grands vents d'idéaux D'autres sont restés à quai Car ces pauvres matelots N'ont pas le vent dans l' dos

Ce monsieur fait ce qu'il peut Madame est sûre de son droit Un enfant qui fait des envieux Dès qu'il pose ses premiers pas Un fakir, un prothésiste Qui se trompent et qui insistent Un éléphant blanc de blanc Qui, comme il peut, se défend Pour ses défenses aériennes Ces deux, qu'il considère siennes Faudrait lui laisser...

On verra, On verra si ça vaut pas Le coup d'oeil, là-bas Là-bas, juste un peu plus bas On verra, on verra On voit bien que ça n'va pas Non, non, les pas cadencés C'est pas comme ça qu'on va danser...

Depuis longtemps, je n'sais pas Où me mène le vent Voilà pourquoi je n'suis pas Ceux qui marchent devant C'est le chemin le plus beau Qui en a tenté plus d'un Ce fameux sentier battu Qu'on a battu comme des chiens Mais pour tous, c'est pas à pas A quattre pattes dans les broussailles Qu'on fera des trouvailles...

Touriste d'une vie

Il est parti en voyage L’homme de tous les instants en bagages Car c’est un grand baladeur de bitume D’une espèce peu commune

C’est un touriste admirable Certes curieux mais toujours très affable Il est fort bien équipé car chez lui, tout est jetable

Il s’en va souvent Il s’égare aussi Dans sa vie pas très Zanzibar sans envie de Patagonie

Des plaines, des blonds déserts, des récifs Des mers, des estuaires, des glaciers

Attention, c’est un touriste Qui en a vu de ses yeux, vu des paysages Etonnant, car lui n’a jamais plié bagages

Lorsque la pluie se déchaîne Lui, sous le soleil, traverse une plaine Calme étendue sauvageonne Car pour l’heure, il n’y voit personne Il voyage En solo Dans sa vie pas très Zanzibar sans envie de Patagonie Vers ces plaines, ces blonds déserts, ces récifs Ces mers, ces estuaires, ces glaciers

A jamais, c’est un touriste Qui en a vu De ses yeux vu des paysages Etonnant Car lui n’a jamais plié bagages

Mais dans son fort intérieur L’ennui l’attend pour y fonder sa demeure Lui parasiter ses cartes routières Effacer ses arrières

Qu’il se perde, c’est vrai Qu’il s’y retrouve aussi Dans sa vie, pas très Zanzibar, sans envie de Patagonie

Bonjour,

Je pars pour le Maroc en Septembre. Je serai en vélo et compte me promener dans le pays. Je ne sais pas quel réchaud choisir. réchaud au gaz type bleuet camping gaz ? peut-on trouver des cartouches de rechange, y compris en campagne ? réchaud à alcool ? est-ce que l'on trouve facilement de l'alcool à brûler dans les villes ou campagnes marocaines ?

Merci de vos réponses.

Bonjour tout le monde 😉

Je suis nouvelle ici et j'aurais aimer avoir des renseignements

Voilà je ne possède pas de voiture et j'aurai aimer aller à la panne en train est-ce possible ?

et est-ce-que arrivé a la gare la plage est loin ?

Moi j'habite Mons en Baroeul juste à côté de Lille

Merci pour vos réponses. 🙂

Bonjour à tous ! je vais prochainement partir au Maroc en bateau, avec le Marrakech plus précisément. Est- ce que certains d'entre vous l'ont déjà pris et qu'en avez vous pensez ? Merci pour vos réponses !😄

Je suis actuellement en Iran, a visiter absolument soit dit en passant, et je me promene au volant de mon minibus. Apres le Pakistan, je projette l'Inde ainsi que le Nepal, qui sont accessibles. J'aimerais bien entendu aller trainer mes roues plus a l'est, style thailande-laos-vietnam etc. Le probleme est bien entendu le passage de la Birmanie. J'ai parcouru un message sur ce forum avancant que la frontiere entre l'Inde et la Birmanie etait ouverte par Manipur. J'en ai bien entendu lu une pelletee d'autres avancant que le passage etait impossible mais ceux la, bizarrement, ont moins retenu mon attention. Quelqu'un aurait-il des nouvelles fraiches qui pourraient me mener plus a droite de la carte du monde (celle ou l'europe est au centre) sans avoir a poser mon vehicule sur un bateau ? 😏 Merci 😏

salut! Ma question est bien simple! Je dois choisir entre Marseille ou NIce! merci pour vos opinions! Ca sera au mois de mars! Fin mars

merci ciao!

Bonjour,

Je suis à la recherche d'un appareil panoramique pour mon prochain voyage en Chine, mais pas le truc de grande qualité reflex etc qui coûte très cher!! Plutôt genre appareil jetable, mais pas jetable!! Est-ce que quelqu'un a des filons?!!

Merciii

Judith

J'aimerais avoir des conseils et trucs pour récupérer des photos sur une carte mémoire endommagée.

Un conseiller de "Studio Gosselin" (spécialiste en photographie) m'a conseillé d'aller chercher des logiciels de récupération sur internet et pense que je pourrais être capable d'en récupérer une partie.

Est-ce que ces logiciels sont facile d'utilisation ou avez-vous d'autres conseils pour moi.

Merci!

Bonjour à tous!

Je suis une jeune Québécoise en quête d'aventure! Je veux partir en Irlande 5 semaines dans le but d'y faire le tour à vélo. Est-ce suicidaire pour quelqu'un qui ne fait pas beaucoup de vélo (mais je suis tout de même en excellente condition physique). Devrais-je apporter mon vélo ou en louer un là-bas? Quelqu'un pourrait-il aussi me donner quelques adresses intéressantes d'auberges de jeunesse, magasins de locations de vélo, et d'endroits intéressants dans différentes villes??? Et aussi quelques bon titres de livres contenant des cartes (routières et de courbes à niveau)? Et quelques conseils généraux seraient aussi les bienvenus... Je vous remercie d'avance!

Émilie

Bonjour,

Besoin de vos lumières....et surtout de vos conseils : je pars voir les chutes victoria dans 2 petites semaines. Je suis à la recherche d'un logement (type hotel, bungalow) pas trop cher... et bien situé pour y passer 2 nuits. J'ai quelques numéros de tel .. mais si je pouvais éviter de téléphoner au Zimbawe ....!

Merci pour votre aide

Odile2re

Hey there!

This is the spot where we can chill and chat about fishing at sea worldwide 😊

Here are two charming fishermen taking a well-deserved break near Zanzibar!

Northern Laos, Nov 25

Thursday, Oct 23. Left home at 8:25 AM, took the bus from St Cyp to Perpignan, then a BlaBlaBus to Barcelona airport. Last night, a huge storm crossed France, and the bus was an hour late. We finally left at 11 AM. At the Spanish border, we were checked—several Africans were traveling on the bus, and their document verification took quite a while. In the end, everything was in order, and we set off again a good half-hour later. We finally arrived at Barcelona airport after 2 PM, but no stress since my flight was scheduled for 4:30 PM with Saudia. At check-in, the hostess told me there’d be a 1-hour delay due to bad weather in France and Belgium. In the end, the flight didn’t just have a 1-hour delay but a 5-hour one because of a technical issue. The next flight wouldn’t wait for us. When we arrived in Jeddah, they gave us another ticket for the following day—the flight to Bangkok was scheduled for 11:55 AM. The airline assigned us a room, which was good news since I was exhausted. Friday morning, the flight was still scheduled for 11:55 AM, but the gate wasn’t displayed. It was announced with a 1-hour delay, but that stretched to 4 hours. They handed out drinks and a snack—again, the delay was due to technical problems. In Bangkok, I had a connecting flight to Chiang Rai, where I’d also booked a room—I lost everything. We finally arrived in Bangkok on Saturday at 4 AM. I had to buy another ticket for a 7 AM flight. The formalities were quick, and my flight went smoothly. A taxi took me to Bus Terminal 1, where I caught a bus leaving at 10 AM, and we arrived at the Thailand-Laos border. I shared a taxi with other travelers, which took us to Houay Xai. The guesthouse I’d booked was right across from the stop—that was great. I exchanged some money and bought a SIM card at the guesthouse. Despite the fatigue, I needed to stretch my legs, so I walked down the street to the temple.









and continued to Fort Carnot, built by the French.



The views of the Mekong are beautiful for a first glimpse of the country.





yum-yum, bon appétit!

At 6:30 PM, I went to dinner at a restaurant across from the guesthouse—a chicken curry with vegetables.



I didn’t linger and went back to bed. I slept well, even if I woke up often.

There exists a rare land where life expresses itself, a land where everything is destroyed, patched up, where everything is dirty and faded, yet paradoxically, each passing day is synonymous with light and joy. Seen from the sea, magnified by its translucent waters, the island is splendid; seen from inland, ochre and green dress a landscape one would wish to be pristine. As you approach the coast with the tides, countless boat wrecks never finish dying; returning from a hike, you know you’re nearing the city by the increasingly obvious proliferation of all kinds of trash. Overflowing the towns, makeshift homes made of corrugated iron stand here and there, wherever the eye lands; from a height, looking toward the horizon, you find the calm blue of the ocean and the beauty of infinity.

But where does all this corrugated iron come from? Blue, gray, red, or black, you find it pretty much everywhere—except, of course, on the island’s heights, where the heat is such that all life seems impossible. Yet, a few kilometers from the capital, more than an hour’s walk away, the corrugated iron is very much there, omnipresent, guaranteeing a land registry as hypothetical for us Europeans as it is very real for those who live there, far from civilization and comfort. I keep climbing. I’m precisely looking to meet these people who live on very little, if not nothing.

- Jéjé Mogné (Hello, sir in Shimahorais)! Where do you get water here, in this place? How do you drink, irrigate your plants?

- I wait for the rain. We have tanks that fill up well with each rainfall. But right now, it’s not raining much.

At the top of the next hill, lost in the bushes, it’s easier for me to guess the distant city, Mamoudzou, than the rest of the path, a remnant of a magnificent GR called the Island Tour, abandoned for the most part, sometimes maintained between two lost hamlets. The city, the pulse, water. Below, the ocean, running water, drinking water—despite regular interruptions; here, up high, an hour and a half’s walk away, tanks, arbitrariness. On other slopes, however, during another hike, I saw the water supply network, made of sturdy pipes tangled in the earth, right there by the path. It seems there are places where water climbs. Others not. Each to their own karma. In 2025. In a French department.

A path of misfortune, lost and regained, thanks to a sign, an inscription, or the compass’s directions. No one walks here anymore, except those who live here or come to harvest their crops. I remember that breathtaking hike in 2013, when I connected Bandrélé to Mamoudzou, passing by the peaks of Bénara (660m) and Bépilipili (643m), barely pausing at Tsararano and Vahibé: 34 km of intense effort on a rollercoaster path, along a trail that was still discernible. Today, it’s as if everything had disappeared. By also destroying the paths and vegetation, Chido* broke the last momentum of these cautious hikers: insecurity has made its way across the archipelago, and Sunday strolls are no longer the norm. Me, I keep going. I will have walked here and there during these three weeks to get an idea of the places, the people, the landscapes, and the superhuman effort required to move forward in over 40°C. To tell the truth, during my last hike, I cut my plans short and let myself be carried by a group of young people heading back to the city. The path is now just an inextricable network of small trails, the specter of Providence** comes to mind. True wisdom is knowing when to give up. I leave.

* A cyclone named "desire" (in Shona), which ravaged the island of Mayotte on December 14, 2024. ** June 2023, a very poorly prepared hike on Providence Island (Caribbean) from which I miraculously escaped.

On Petite-Terre, Marie takes me to visit some locals, white people who have lived there for a long time and make a living from their art; jewelry for her, all kinds of objects for him. We love this little shop, this oasis amid the chaos that embodies Dostoevsky’s phrase: "Beauty will save the world." It’s clean and tidy, beautiful, well-kept. Invariably, the question of insecurity resurfaces in the middle of the conversation. The woman says:

- I know someone who slipped in their bathtub. Still, I keep taking baths…

So, is this insecurity a myth or reality? I hear stories that are often true but sometimes seemingly exaggerated through the lens of misunderstanding and one-upmanship. Like that of this midwife assaulted one evening (it gets dark early) on her way home from work. Sometimes she was attacked on the path, dragged by the hair for several meters, sometimes she made it home, but it was her roommate who let the two men in. One version talks about a snatched phone and gratuitous violence, another about violence outright. In short, one thing is certain: walking around at night flaunting your phone isn’t a good idea, no more in Mamoudzou than in the rough neighborhoods of Nantes. Also, I played it safe: nothing flashy, nothing bling-bling, and always something to give if needed. I was never approached. It’s not easy to get a sense of the realities, between the hazy reports from journalists sensationalizing everything and the real lives of real people. But I know I can’t rely on these few ideas I’ve formed: I’m nobody, and above all, I don’t live here. What I do know, however, is that since my last visit to the island in 2017, over 80,000 babies have been born, and tens of thousands of immigrants have reached the archipelago’s shores. What’s also obvious is that poverty, hunger, and—let’s say it—indignity foster delinquency and insecurity. So, without taking journalists’ alarmist speeches at face value, we’ll try to keep in mind that a young person rendered orphaned by circumstances (parents expelled), poor and often hungry, involved more or less against their will in village wars and fueled by synthetic drugs*, will readily turn to violence when they truly have nothing to lose. We can trace the origin of this despair to the fact that in Mayotte, those without legal existence have virtually no hope of accessing anything.

* "Chimique" is a series of synthetic cannabinoids

Meanwhile, in the evening, it’s good to go home before the time of stone-throwing. From time to time, along the roads, gangs throw stones at vehicles and school buses, but mostly at police cars—almost all the white Dusters on the island! In front of the Mamoudzou police station, all parked vehicles—mostly Dusters—bear the scars of these attacks. Maybe it’s only at night that gangs unleash and all the burglaries happen? I saw nothing, heard nothing. I lived three weeks in a sort of bunker with no real access to outside light, protected by a fake wooden door doubled with a real metal door, both locked at all times. You don’t tempt fate. You endure it differently.

Today, extraordinarily, it’s raining. Yet, it’s the rainy season! But with my karma helping (what selfishness to want to walk dry when so many souls live off the rain) or is it climate change? The rain only falls once I’ve put on my horrible green pajamas. In front of the board outlining the program, I’m told that out of the six scheduled C-sections today (sic), they’ll probably only do two, maybe three. Because it’s raining. And when it rains, people don’t move around. Not for lack of will. Rather, for lack of means. And that ties into those sad days when the police patrol around the hospital: patients don’t come. They’ll come back tomorrow. To compensate, I’m happy at the thought of tackling the abscess program, but the sterilization unit is acting up and blocking the instrument trays. When it’s not the rain, it’s the unions. And when both finally quiet down, there’s always someone to find fault with the order of operations. You have to imagine an operating room where the question of urgency reigns supreme. Here, no surgery is scheduled more than 24 hours in advance—only emergencies, nothing but emergencies. So, following that reasonable adage that what’s done is no longer to be done, it’s sheer madness when the rain meets the interests of Force Ouvrière and the bad will of some combines with the laziness of others. To tell the truth, I’ve never seen so much energy expended to… do nothing. Hallucinating. But who am I, a small-time striver, an islander in my spare time, a temporary worker at the end of the world? I came, I saw, I was disappointed? Not really. Here again, I can’t judge a system in so little time. I can barely utter a few bitter words in front of obvious facts. But nothing will take away my joy of being here for three weeks. Here, they heal with somewhat outdated but still functional means. You do what you can with what you have, 8,000 km from the Métropole. Yes, the operating room doors hesitate, and the operating tables stutter, but in this blessed period, we lack neither medicines nor supplies. So we examine, anesthetize, and repair, far more undocumented people than French—if I may play with somewhat borderline statistics here; we deliver babies, dress wounds, and relieve pain in this hospital at the end of the world where neither white women nor Mahorais women would ever consider giving birth or getting treated.

What’s the solution? The obstetrician talks to the woman during a C-section under spinal anesthesia:

- Bouéni! (Madame, in Shimahorais) You need to think about tubal ligation. This is your fourth C-section. Your uterus is like tissue paper. Your next pregnancy will be very risky.

No answer. Culture. It’s all about culture. The funniest thing is that France also gets bogged down with the idea of other cultures’… cultures. The woman in question arrived illegally a few years ago to give birth to her first child. Since then, rejecting the very idea of contraception—her husband, for his part, will invoke God or Allah to refuse a vasectomy—she comes back every 12-14 months. And the obstetrician explains to me how his idea of making information about permanent contraception mandatory was deemed racist by associations. It’s always the same story. I suggest to the associations that they take charge of all these extra births, not only the medical costs but also the entire education, not just financial, of all these children doomed to live a life of misery on this forsaken archipelago. The probability that one of these offspring will emerge as a gifted, sensitive, and fiercely happy individual must truly be weighed against the degradation and abandonment that will invariably afflict the thousands of others living around him. In reality, simply mentioning a very real danger to the mother should be enough to impose sterilization. But we are a country whose greatness of soul is measured by the number of heads cut off to uphold the famous rights of man... Already a proponent at home of ending family allowances after the third child—you can’t subscribe to a certain idea of society and, at the same time, accept that tens of thousands of children are sacrificed on the altar of thoughtlessness and financial interest*—I will weakly advocate here for a controlled right to have children. Well, what will they say about me when I express the idea of imposing sterilization on women in irregular situations after the birth of their third child? National solidarity funds the noblest ideals? In Mayotte? Let’s be serious. It’s so much easier to hide behind the inalienable right of women to control their bodies than to acknowledge one’s own powerlessness to assume the consequences of such a policy. Because after 18 years of struggles as a second-class citizen, the young stateless person will have no choice but to live in hiding: faced with the impossibility of claiming birthright citizenship**, they will be deportable. In Mayotte, there aren’t enough schools, not enough housing, not enough projects for youth, not enough jobs, not enough money, not enough future… In Mayotte, an average of 5 children are born per woman. In reality, we never ask about the right of children to control their own lives.

* Single parent with 4 children: RSA at 1937 € + family allowances… ** Law of May 12, 2025 aiming to strengthen the conditions for accessing French nationality in Mayotte.

I live in the city in a clean apartment where air conditioning eases my aches and sweat, and where water flows abundantly, thanks to huge tanks that fill up between water cuts. On the hills of Koungou, I was struck by this image: there, women (a matriarchal society?) do the dishes in a miserable stream. Upstream of the same stream, the same image as downstream: disgusting water with bits of foam floating on it. A little further, however, there are taps with running water that children play with. Strange. In any case, water is a question. They tell me it’s drinkable; I doubt it. A system that’s regularly cut doesn’t seem reliable to me. In any case, I can’t help but think of the Canary Islands and their chronic water shortage, especially in Lanzarote. Without entering the debate on desalination plants—I’m quite ignorant about environmental repercussions—I’ll just say that in the Canary Islands, you can buy 8 L jugs of purified water for less than 2 €. Here, in Mayotte, the price of water—as is the price of gasoline—is the same everywhere: 0.65 € for a bottle of Cristaline (1 €/L)*. While I was walking up there with a couple of farmers shuttling between two remote spots, I know I hit the mark by offering them one of my two bottles I’d brought for the occasion.

* At home, we find Cristaline at 1.14 € for a 9 L pack, i.e., 0.13 € per liter.

Outside, everything is broken, abandoned, old, worn, torn, faded, heavy, dirty, forsaken. But life goes on. And that’s fascinating. At home, at 5:45 PM, people close their shutters and watch cable TV, sometimes late into the night, emptying the streets of any salutary clamor, unwittingly extinguishing the necessary pulse of life. At home, we die of boredom. In Mamoudzou, between two dying trash cans, metal frames laid on the ground are covered by the elements of a broken garden set. A bare concrete staircase, without railings, provides access to the upper floor of a dwelling. On the steps, you can read: Private space - Please take your trash with you. Metal rods protrude from the said dwelling. On the ground, it’s a festival of screws and nails… A cat passes by. It doesn’t look great. A madwoman crosses the street dancing. A slightly hurried driver brakes. A six- or seven-year-old boy comes out in his underwear from his low house made of corrugated iron. He smiles. He’s having fun doing acrobatic figures over an old mattress on the sidewalk. Forward roll, backward roll. You wonder if he eats enough. Different culture. Different customs.

I will remember for a long time this blinding morning light, a raw, vital, striking light. I almost forgot where I came from, the grayness and boredom of that continental European country where nothing really happens anymore. Here, I could join Camus, contemplating these people placed halfway between misery and the sun, resigned for the most part and, for the other part, not too unhappy with their lot. But the Mahorais discourse is unanimous: "France really screwed us over!" Today, more than half of the island’s inhabitants are undocumented; a tremendous amount of energy is spent expelling 20,000 to 25,000 of them each year; colossal sums are swallowed up to care for all these people, and the island is drifting. I talk with some gendarmes. One of them tells me:

- They intercept one kwassa* out of three… Can you explain to me why they can’t catch everyone? It’s 2025! Can’t they put the necessary boats in place?

Clearly, and this is also my opinion, this whole mess serves interests beyond us. For who can believe for a second that this glaring incompetence isn’t orchestrated? Shared interests between secret France and the Union of the Comoros? A desire to bring insecurity to its peak, either by the Comoros to eventually take back control of Mayotte, or by our own government, in a deliberate effort to see all the white people leave the archipelago and let the Mahorais fend for themselves? At one point, I’m even told about an extraordinary deposit beneath Mayotte’s soil, a promise of infinite wealth**. Not to infringe on human rights, to do some cleaning from time to time, to calm things down to avoid implosion, while waiting to go after this providential bounty? Decidedly, Mayotte hasn’t said its last word!

*What’s paradoxical is that in the early 2010s, to revive traditional fishing activity, the UN financed in Anjouan the construction of a factory to produce these light boats, 7-10m long and 1m wide, which largely served the interests of smugglers. This skiff owes its name to a Congolese dance known for being as rhythmic as it is jerky, much like the navigation experience offered during a crossing to Mayotte. ** A 2025 study revealed the existence of a gigantic magmatic reservoir located 23km beneath the archipelago. If the Icelandic experiment succeeds (Project KMT, see here), Mayotte will then possess almost unlimited energy.

Hell on earth. Paradise at sea. The world’s largest lagoon offering spectacular marine depths, Mayotte’s coral reef suffers less from the abundance of tourists* than from tropical storms**. So, let’s admit that Mayotte is best appreciated when approached from the lagoon. The heights are for old hands like me. The sea spray is rather for the snobs who shun the sun god Ra, risking too much exposure and ending up on sick leave for sunstroke! But I’m not exclusive: I twice don my snob attire and head out to tackle the waves, the seabeds, and the elusive. Because yes, underwater, we leave our landlubber reflexes behind, and flying over corals and other magnificent drop-offs, it’s as if we’re soaring, keeping in memory only what our eyes can store. Multicolored, even phosphorescent fish, sharks, rays, the immensity of the blue, and then, there, dolphins, just a few meters from me, underwater. Incredible.

* 70,000 tourists annually, mostly affinity tourism (links with family or an expatriate). ** Present almost at the water’s surface, the reefs were largely destroyed by Chido.

Paradise at sea? When you think that Mayotte comes from the Arabic Jazirat al Mawet—literally, Island of Death—because of its double coral barrier where many skiffs have run aground and continue to do so… Paradise. Eldorado. The Comoros now face an unprecedented influx of immigrants from the African Great Lakes. And Mayotte, for its part, continues to attract relentlessly, thanks to the evolution of the law*. In reality, whether hidden interests exist or not, France remains bound hand and foot by international, European, and French rules: it can’t do much. Barely has it boarded a kwassa when the one who flees by swimming cries attempted murder; barely has one been sent back to the Comoros when an association will look into their detention conditions and find a loophole; barely has one told a bouéni how her next pregnancy could be fatal when so-called human voices cry scandal.

* Regarding the Métropole, the rights of squatters and other bad payers against the notion of private property, legally violated in favor of the right to housing… ** You can read about France being condemned for its illegal practices of expelling Comorian minors. Inhumane treatment, arbitrary detention, collective expulsion.

Everyone forms their own idea of justice, and no one can claim a monopoly on good thinking. So, as long as I treat without prejudice, as long as my hands are sincerely guided by the love I bear for our humanity, I’ll allow myself to think what I think, understanding that I’m rather open to dialogue and that my opinions evolve with time and events. Today, Mayotte represents for me the failure of a model, a European one in this case, where opulence quickly meets its limits. For it’s not wrong to think that our society can’t share more than it produces, nor is it wrong to think that every human being has a right to their share of the pie; in Mayotte, you’ll find the proven result of our civilization: it doesn’t work. Exclusively financed by the right, the ideas of the left jam in Mayotte more than anywhere else: national solidarity coupled with a sense of guilt creates chaos. Political courage, or true social justice, would be to offer a future to those who have no choice—the one who’s already here, the child to be born—not to offer a present to those who can choose or to whom one can give keys to understanding—the woman of childbearing age, the candidate for exile. Ultimately, the Comoros’ coup d’état over France comes at the cost of many innocent victims, starting with the children*.

* Tens of thousands of deaths by drowning between Anjouan and Mayotte, tens of thousands of children left to fend for themselves and doomed to a non-existent future.

On the evening of the 31st, I go for my usual run and notice near a roundabout a fool in rags pedaling the wrong way. A police car passes by: the guy gets stopped. A rather quick identity check. The guy is taken away. Would he still be among us if he had ridden the right way? In the evening, the line is long in front of the club near the dock. Me, I’m just passing by, greeting my friends of the season, much more inclined to savor rest than to exhaust myself on an overheated dance floor. There, a man, thirty or forty years old, clearly in a world of his own, is searching the trash for something to eat. He’s barefoot. I console myself by thinking that at least he won’t die of cold. Out of ten children born in Mayotte, I can reasonably think that only one will be able to afford an existence that minimally meets any of our criteria.

It’s time to go home. After sweating and thinking so much about this gem of the Mozambique Channel, I spend peaceful hours by the pool at a hotel next to the airport. We checked out at 8 AM, and the flight is at 7 PM. The perfect opportunity to slack off and chat a bit more. I’m happy to get to know one of the co-pilots of tonight’s flight, staying at this hotel, while one of my flight attendant friends from this airline had already recommended me to the crew. But it’s not the captain’s day, who’s in a rather gloomy mood. I’ll travel in the back, up to the vertical of Cairo. Midnight has just struck; it’s January 2nd, my name day. Concerned about solving an unsolvable problem with a passenger, the crew asks me to give up my exit row seat and takes me to the front for the last four hours of the flight. In the end, the captain gave in? I laugh to myself: if there’s one thing I mustn’t forget, it’s that God never abandons me!

Hi everyone, We’re just back from a month-long trip to Morocco in our camper van. After crossing France (we left from the Nantes area) and Spain, we arrived in Algeciras where we bought our boat tickets to Tangier. When we got to Tangier, as we were going through customs, you can imagine our surprise when the customs officer took our road map of Morocco and pointed out the label "Western Sahara" (just like in the forum’s destination section, by the way!). He wanted it to say "Moroccan Sahara" instead!!! But there was nothing we could do—it was an old map... He wouldn’t listen, and after long discussions with the other (younger) customs officers, he finally gave it back and let us through... Unbelievable! Later, we heard that other travelers had their maps confiscated outright. So, hide it well if you want to keep yours!!!

Anyway, we skirted around Tangier’s suburbs—pretty grim—and finally arrived in Asilah.

Following the coast and the long promenade along the beach, we reached the campsite. It was a bit crowded, not much shade, but it wasn’t far from the medina or the beach, and it wasn’t expensive. There’s some life here: Moroccan families seem to live on-site, in tents or basic bungalows. A woman was cooking tagine on a brazier—we were right in the atmosphere! The night was quiet, and we slept well. We set off on foot, walking along the seafront to the medina... We’d already been here in 2009. It was less touristy back then! Still, at this early hour, the little streets inside were very quiet. The walls had been freshly whitewashed, and there were even more murals than before. Around 11:30 AM, we strolled along the ramparts by the sea. There was a nice breeze! And a lot more people around. We enjoyed a milkshake on the terrace of a café overlooking the beach that stretches out at the foot of the medina. Some young guys were having fun diving off the rocks—and even off the top of the wall!

We’ve just returned from a cruise that my wife and I will remember—unfortunately, not in a good way. There’s so much to say that I’ll proceed chapter by chapter. Pre-Cruise On January 24th, 2025, I booked through a supposedly attentive cruise agent the repositioning cruise of the CFC Renaissance to the French West Indies, initially departing from Le Havre, then from Dunkirk, on November 1st, 2025. The return flight was included in the price of this trip. From January, right after booking, this adventure got off to a bad start. Used to major cruise lines, I asked my agent to reserve a table for 4 at the "Vatel" restaurant for the second seating, and to link this reservation to the cabin of friends traveling with us. First brush-off: "Ask the maître d’ at the restaurant entrance on the first night."

"To govern is to foresee, and to foresee nothing is to head for disaster," as Émile de Girardin said.

Following this maxim, in February, I started looking for transportation to Le Havre, which was initially the departure port. Then, I asked the travel agent which airport the return flight would land at. I knew flights from Pointe-à-Pitre to Paris served both main Parisian airports. Here, I found myself like a ping-pong ball between the cruise agent and CFC: The cruise agent said, "Ask CFC," and CFC replied, "No, your agent is your intermediary—ask them." It went back and forth like that. Impossible to pre-book the flight that would take us back to our final destination. During the summer, we learned that the departure port was no longer Le Havre but Dunkirk. We canceled our transfers to Le Havre but, of course, lost the cost of the reservations. Meanwhile, we purchased our "Beverage" package—we chose the "Fraîcheur" option, which included all non-alcoholic cocktails, canned sodas, fruit juices, bottled water, and regular coffees. This detail is important for the rest of the story. Every month, I followed up to find out the return airport. Nothing until October 28th (3 days before departure), when CFC finally informed me it was Orly, along with the flight number and time. Of course, on top of booking at full price, I had to arrange my final transfer home. Since I had very little time before the return flight, I had to book an Uber in a rush for the Orly/CDG transfer. Right after, we were told that our first stop in Lisbon—the most anticipated for many cruisers—had been canceled due to a strike at the port of Lisbon and replaced with Vigo, Spain. A completely unremarkable stop—nothing outstanding. As you can see, the prelude was already problematic, yet we’re far from reaching the peak of our disappointments. .......... to be continued soon.

Hello everyone,

I’ve wanted to take this Norway cruise for a very long time. The first time I booked it was in July 2020 with Azamara. Unfortunately, it was canceled, as everyone remembers. When I tried to book it again, the prices (already a bit high with Azamara) had simply doubled. So, since then, I’ve been keeping an eye out every year for any opportunities...

The last time we sailed with Princess was eleven years ago, and things didn’t go very well. I came back pretty unhappy with their service and quite disappointed. Despite the $600 they gave me as credit for a future cruise, I’d never set foot on one of their ships again.

But this time, the opportunity arose—a fantastic itinerary with lots of stops, a reasonable price for 16 nights (I’ll share the details in the conclusion), and a ship that’s not too big, so to speak, with only 3,000 passengers. I’m not expecting much from the cruise line this time and am boarding the ship with low expectations beyond the itinerary.

Princess has introduced an app to download before the cruise. It’s essential because online check-in is no longer available, and the agency doesn’t send a travel journal. Everything is done through the app. After completing the check-in on the app, we only know that we’ll need to pick up our key, the Medallion, at embarkation by following the blue line in the terminal and presenting our passport.



Up until our departure, the weather forecast for the coming week in Norway is disastrous—rain, rain, and more rain. It was pretty much the same two years ago before our Iceland cruise, and in the end, the weather turned out fine.

If you’re ready to embark on the Emerald Princess to discover this beautiful cruise and the stunning landscapes of Norway, let’s go!

Southampton - Sea day - Bergen - Olden - Åndalsnes - Sea day - Tromsø - Honningsvåg (North Cape) - Alta - Sea day - Molde - Trondheim - Two sea days - Edinburgh - Sea day - Southampton

We stayed in Iceland from August 27 to September 13, 2023. Actually, this was our second trip to the island.

During our first visit, we rented a camper van from Snail Motorhome Rental, a family-run business that provided outstanding service.

Unfortunately, we discovered that this company no longer exists.

So, we rented a camper van through a third party, specifically via the Nordic Travel Group website.

We chose City Car Rental, located near Keflavik Airport, because the rental cost was really appealing.

Apart from the quality of the sleeping bags and the size of the pillows we rented, our experience with this company was very positive.

We noticed a significant increase in tourism since our last trip in 2015.

Several sites have been redeveloped, and parking is now paid in many places.

Accommodations have multiplied, not only near major cities but also in remote areas.

One notable advantage, however, was discovering the wide variety of food products available in supermarkets. In 2015, the selection was very limited.

I invite you to continue reading this travel journal and watch the videos that will let you explore this destination, which has everything to charm outdoor enthusiasts.

Videos are embedded throughout the summary. Click on the image to start the video.

To jump to a specific post, here are the relevant links:

Hlauptungufoss, Midfoss and Bruarfoss Geysir, Blesi and Strokkur Gullfoss Brúarhlöð Canyon Faxafoss Kiðjabergsvöllur – Belvedere Kerið Crater Reykjadalur Valley – Hike to the hot springs Seljalandsfoss Gljúfrabúi Waterfall Seljavallalaug – One of Iceland’s oldest geothermal pools Skógafoss – Fimmvörðuháls hiking trail (partial) Kvernufoss Plane wreck at Solheimasandur Dyrhólaey Peninsula Reynisfjara Beach – Puffins and seals Vík í Mýrdal Fjaðrárgljúfur Canyon Skaftafell National Park – Svartifoss, Magnusarfoss & Hundafoss Svínafellsjökull Glacier Hofskirkja Church Fjallsárlón Glacial Lagoon (West) Fjallsárlón Glacial Lagoon (East) Jökulsárlón Glacial Lagoon Litlanefsfoss and Hengifoss Rjúkandi (Rjúkandafoss) Stuðlagil Canyon Selfoss and Dettifoss Krafla – Viti Crater Lake Krafla – Leirhnjúkur Lava Field Hverir Geothermal Site (Námafjall) Hverir – Hverarönd Geothermal Site – Blue Lagoon Grjótagjá – Hot Spring Cave Stóragjá – Hot Spring Cave Goðafoss Akureyri Zipline Hofsós – Pool by the Skagafjörður Fjord Víðimýrarkirkja Church Hvítserkur Rock – The Troll of Northwest Iceland Gislahellir (Gisli's Cave) Dynjandi (Fjallfoss) – One of Iceland’s most beautiful waterfalls Hellulaug (Natural hot spring pool) Stykkishólmur – Stykkishólmshöfn Port Kirkjufell & Kirkjufellsfoss Ólafsvík – Bugsfoss Lóndrangar Basalt Columns Arnarstapi Ytri-Tunga Farm – Seal watching Deildartunguhver Hot Spring Hraunfossar & Barnafoss Exploring Reykjavik Reykjavik – Whale Safari – Whale watching Raufarholshellir Lava Tunnel Gígvatnsvatn Lake (Green Lake/Graenevatn) Seltún Geothermal Site (Krýsuvík) Kleifarvatn Lake Blue Lagoon Thermal Spa Gunnuhver Geothermal Site Reykjanes Peninsula – Reykjanesviti Lighthouse Reykjanes Peninsula – Valahnúkamöl – Reykjanestá Ægissíðufoss Super Jeep excursion to Landmannalaugar Hiking in Landmannalaugar Scenery along the way

My buddy Christian and I (Patrick) are off for 28 days in Argentina in March. We’ve already shared several trips as a duo (Bolivia Peru, Namibia, Laos, Costa Rica). Since we’re starting from the idea that at our age (65) we won’t be coming back here—there are just too many other corners of the world to discover—we did the "grand tour" of Argentina, with 6 domestic flights to make the most of our 28 days. Here are our stops: 1) Departure from Brussels to Buenos Aires via Madrid 2) Arrival and first contact with Buenos Aires 3) Early morning flight to Ushuaia. Boat trip on the Beagle Channel 4) Ushuaia: hikes in Tierra del Fuego National Park 5) Ushuaia: last hike and flight to El Calafate 6) El Calafate to El Chaltén by bus. First hike 7) El Chaltén: hike 8) El Chaltén: hike 9) El Chaltén: hike and bus back to El Calafate 10) El Calafate: Perito Moreno Glacier 11) Flight to Bariloche. Car rental and surrounding areas 12) Seven Lakes Region 13) Nahuel Huapi National Park region 14) Flight to Salta. Car rental 15) To Tilcara 16) To Humahuaca 17) To Purmamarca 18) To Jujuy via the salt flats 19) To Cafayate 20) Around Cafayate 21) To Cachi 22) Back to Salta 23) Flight to Iguazu 24) Waterfalls on the Argentine side 25) Waterfalls on the Brazilian side and flight to Buenos Aires 26) Buenos Aires 27) Return flight 28) Morning arrival Happy reading!..

My train to Mathura is at 2 PM, and we’ll arrive an hour late—all good. I booked a hotel on booking, but unfortunately, it’s really far from the ghats. Walking there is out of the question—what a shame. The hotel itself is fine, and there are several restaurants right across the street, which will be handy for dinner. This won’t be an exception, though—starting at 10 PM, they must wake up because I can hear them talking loudly, and music is playing along. My room faces the entrance, so it’s going to be tough. At midnight, I ask them to lower the volume, but they don’t listen. By 1 AM, I lose my temper, and this time, everything stops. Finally, I can get some sleep—until 4 AM, when they start up again for a little while before quiet returns until 6 AM. But when do they sleep? The noise never seems to bother them—it’s unbelievable, and I’m finding it harder and harder to tolerate. It makes a huge difference. The next morning, as I leave, they tell me they’ll give me another room for the following night. Oh, two nights like that wouldn’t be possible—I’m exhausted. I head out to explore the ghats and take a rickshaw, which I share with a family, to Vrindavan, a city of temples dedicated to Krishna. I visit several while wandering through the lively streets, surrounded by a crowd of devotees. By 1 PM, I’m near the Bankey Bihari Temple, but I can’t go in—it just closed. Nearby, there are restaurants, so I take the opportunity to grab my usual aloo paratha with a lassi.





The work women do here is incredibly hard, and their pay must be miserable.



I want to leave Vrindavan for Govardhan. Two young guys on a motorcycle in front of the temple approach me, and the driver offers to take me part of the way. I’m pretty skeptical, but he insists, and I eventually agree. I didn’t fully understand what was happening. Once on the bike, his friend hops on too, and suddenly I’m sandwiched between them for a multi-kilometer ride—*travel Indian-style*. We quickly drop off the friend, and I breathe easier for the rest of the trip. At an intersection, he stops—Govardhan is straight ahead, but to get to his village, he needs to turn right. We wait for the bus for a few minutes, and he flags it down so I can hop on and continue my journey. What an adventure.





the neighbor with its beautiful dome.

"In one place, in one day, a single deed accomplished, May hold the theater filled until the end."

- Sunday morning, a chilly dawn - The kitchen - Smell of coffee and toast, a jar of honey on the table.

- Tits pecking at sunflower seeds in the transparent feeder stuck to the window.

- France Musique on the radio: Brahms, violin concerto by the lovely Hilary Hahn - Characters: - An old man in a plush dark blue dressing gown - An old woman in a worn-out duck-blue dressing gown. They dance cheek to cheek, the woman’s head resting on the old man’s broad chest. The old man breathes in the tangled hair of the lady. She smiles. Happy. Tomorrow, they’re off on a trip.