White

Hello Stranger,

It’s -20°C outside and according to the weather broadcast it “feels like -28°C”. This must be the coldest I’ve ever been. My body is wrapped in so many layers that looking down requires a real effort from my neck muscles. I’m trying to shape a handful of snow into a ball. The powder-like consistence is so dry, it breaks and runs away through my fingers, forming a scoop on my boots instead. No chance to build a snowman. Any other outside activities are limited by the weather, the fast sunset and my inability to cope with these temperatures. But there are about 12.000 lakes crossing the state of Minnesota and their cold whisper traps and allures you to exploit what’s out there beyond the snow.

Lake Minnetonka

I’m standing on the bank of Lake Minnetonka wondering if crossing its waters on foot would be a good idea. There is barely any water in sight. The surface is covered by a thick layer of ice. The view is absolutely perfect. The lake is not part of the ground one can step on, it has become a part of the horizon, merging deceitfully with the grey sky. The entire water landscape of Minnesota seems to have been wiped out by a clean white sheet of nothingness. It’s like someone has pressed DELETE and has presented me with a great empty canvas to play with.

I’ve stepped on a frozen lake once but I’m having trouble recalling my courage. My brain has selected the channel playing horrific scenarios of ice breaking and people falling into the depths of frozen tongues. Hesitantly I let my toes test the safeness of the white coat. I’m keeping my eyes focused on the big trucks parked on the ice ahead. A lonesome little house is smoking in the middle of the lake. It’s one of these fish huts nested on it temporarily for ice fishing. I’m overwhelmed by the wish to peak through the sweaty window pane and see if there is an old man kneeling over a hole he’s drilled in the ice.

Ice fishing hut

The perfect surface of the frozen lake makes me want to run like a child – without the feeling of boundaries, really fast towards the endless horizon that has dipped its corners into the edge of the sleeping waters. I run until my lungs have been filled with so much cold air, I have to stop and breathe into my scarf. I run in circles and watch my steps tattoo a trail into the comfortable skin of the snow. Undisturbed and silent, the scenery responds to my intrusion with nothing but tiny echo dying in the naked branches of the shore trees. Twisted and crooked into poses, the sculptures of the only plants that have survived the kiss of winter tell the stories about the severity and the beauty of the North. Nothing escapes its frosty hug. Its presence transforms the buzz of life into an endless WHITE whisper.

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Saturdays in Schanze

Hello Stranger,

It’s Saturday. It’s been a while that I’ve woken up listening on how the rain can quiet down every urban sound outside the window. Life is barely noticeable in the lack of morning light, below the even tap dance of the falling water. My body has sunk into the warmth of 2 cushions and it’s debating whether procrastinating for a bit longer would unleash the dogs of remorse.

There is so much to do on any given Saturday. For everyone who is part of the corporate 5 day working week, life begins only now. That’s why it is hard to cope with these mornings.  The need to catch up on things, that the week was too busy to give me space for, is biting the edges of my semi-conscious body. Lists with errands are filling my head. I should buy stuff, fix stuff, throw away stuff… I should be working out; I should go back to one of the hundred hobbies currently occupying several boxes under my bed. I should read all I’ve put away for “later” or see what the world of Hamburg has to offer.  But the rain is like a drug. I lie in bed listening to the hypnotic rustle outside. The scars of the week are still very present on my back and I’m not ready to give into the lists. I already feel like a slave chained to the Monday and the Tuesday and all the other Day Masters. Saturdays should be different. They are story tellers - irrational. Saturdays are for late wake up calls, watching bad movies in bed, the need to stretch your sleepy limbs or dance like a madman to an 80’s song in the kitchen. Saturdays are for long walks, for coffee at a crowded place and the attempts to read something in Spanish. And in Hamburg, Saturdays are for Schanze.

Schanze is everything that Hamburg has swept under the carpet after ordering its living arrangements into neatly defined categories. It is a symbol of protest against the rational laws of an organized society, the complete opposite of I’ve always associated Germany with. I imagine the great “Hansa city” like a proud and conservative parent, who wouldn't admit of having this rebellious child under its roof. With the years their relationship seems to have grown more cordial, because Schanze has certainly escaped the faith of a shabby quarter and has become one of the coolest spots in town, a place with a strong and vibrant face.

One of these random Schanze images

I somehow always find myself here on a Saturday, attracted to Schanze’s curiosities like a fly to a sugar frosting. I cross Max Brauer Allee and the world full of tasks transforms into an out-of-time soul searching experience. Vintage shops dwelling among the arched entrances to hip Hamburg homes greet me first. Then I follow the thousands of posters announcing events, which are spread on every inch of public space. My mind is catching phrases falling out of their frames, making my eyes follow their dance onto lamp post, walls, supermarket windows, traffic signs. Graffiti messages are scattered wildly onto the building doors, reminding loudly of their creators’ political views. I can identify some regulars at a nearby kiosk. They are smoking yet another afternoon away with a tone of philosophy and the attitude of forgotten cowboys. The disfigured body of the Rote Flora theatre, one of the most prominent symbols of Schanze, seems quiet today. It’s decaying slowly right onto the Schulterblatt street, colouring the air with a sharp and moldy odour. The former theatre building is one of the besetze Haeuser in Hamburg, occupied by a few free souls, who would ask you for a coin or a cigarette, if you dare to pass by closely enough. On a sunny day you might even catch the recital of an unknown poet or hear about the greatest sins of capitalistic societies. The audience that gathers around the chain of cafes & bars on the opposite side of the street welcomes any performance in a relaxed & composed manner.

One can say the reality of Schanze is both cruel and enigmatic. Among the jungle of shattered glass bottles, questionable business affairs, hangover faces you suddenly come across the spiking presence of a coffee shop in uncomfortably feminine colours and its cheerful menu with ultra-modern vegan options. Plenty of exotic brunch spots have also come to existence, each one adding a personal spin to the dining hype. One can always find Susannenstrasse packed in the late weekend mornings. Most guests don’t restrict themselves to the provided seating, using the sidewalk to arrange themselves in a cool pose with a beer in hand.

My exploration continues in direction of the flea market that gathers every Saturday at a square near Neuer Kamp street. I cycle despite the rain, which has chased away some of the smaller vendors. Only the truly dedicated guardians of aging merchandise are still here. Today what’s absolutely hot on display are some passports dating back from before the WWII. Some “experts” have gathered around the stall, creating a buzz like children in front of an ice cream truck. I’m not in the need of anything. The curiosity brought me here. I like seeing what new findings join the flea collection week after week. The eccentricity of Flohschanze is spilling fabrics from the square further onto Marktstrasse. I’m following the trail of clothes, animal horns, singled out shoes, bold psychology books and tacky souvenirs. A skeleton wearing a gas mask is leaning nonchalantly onto a stop sign. The art of nameless painters is piled in the corner of a table. The paintings look sad and full of self-doubt. Their seller is hoping to get a good price at least for their frames…

A walk through Schanze always turns into an overwhelmingly colourful experience. It’s a cocktail of images, different nuances of grey & green, the feeling of a hot mess and missed exit signs, the cruel passion for a vice and indifferent motives for action. I like being yet another anonymous body into this crowd, which seems to be less preoccupied with the need of work morals, clothing aesthetics or rules. Here most people look somehow ageless to me. Everyone seems to be evolving around the borders of their personal destiny instead of following the must-do’s and must-have’s in prescribed age groups.

Flohschanze on a Saturday

The rain continues to reign over the Northern lands. One perceives the world differently through the wet eyes of the sky. It makes it uncomfortably quiet and unconventionally beautiful. And to me Schanze in the rain looks like a woman whose make up is running down her cheeks and every attempt to brush the water away creates big puddles of colour melting into one. I’m pushing my bike through the stains the rain is creating on the pavement, looking for a cup of coffee. 

And all the Saturday lists? They can wait… 

Coffee in Schanze

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

Layers

Hello Stranger,

The Grand Bazaar of Istanbul seems endless. There are more human bodies occupying every floor tile of the fragile building than the London tube during rush hour. Daylight is not welcome in. The traders have covered with rugs every hole in the ceiling that might give access to the stern eye of the sun. It may be a bright morning outside, but inside only the deceiving hand of darkness rules. Never-ending lanes of cashmere scarves, polished cezves, gem stones, spices rush into the periphery of my vision. Tapestry and engravings dance along the wall linings, making the bazaar’s labyrinth more elaborate and enchanting. 

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

The sticky air is pressing my shirt tight to my breast. Drop of swear are running down my back and my head is spinning. It’s like all these thousand voices, footsteps, colours have created the perfect voodoo song. A rhythmical chant is arising from the clinging of lamps, the rustle of gems, the gasps of bodies pushing to make way through. I am surrendering to the warm beat, floating slowly with it through the halls. And tugged in the sleeves of the bazaar’s garment, the adventure continues right to the shores of Bosporus. You can’t find a way out by yourself. You have to close eyes and stretch out a hand to the crowd. It will lead you eventually to a spot from where you can see the way home. Only by the time you turn your back, the chaos will have already swallowed the gate to this mystical world.

The Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

Nothing in Istanbul is simply what it seems. Looks on people, buildings, even the hour of the day are deceiving. If you really want to see its true face, you have to dig below the layers. And the city has so many of them. You enter a building that looks like a chic Victorian house, but the 3 flights of narrow stairs invite you into a living room, which has accommodated a stage of a funky Turkish band and a few guests. You follow a noise coming from a nearby garden and you find a dozen of colourful lamps and among them the silhouettes of another twenty something people chatting energetically. Shy side lanes, living in the shadow of the shopping streets' glamour, expose the intriguing life of local men. In the dim light of the corners, they are playing tavla, drinking tea, smoking excessively and throwing lustful glances at the seductively bare legs of female passers-by.

I’ve fallen deep into the layers of oriental mystery and I’m literary devouring every minute spent with the eclectic persona of Istanbul. But after walking for 8 hours straight, I can hardly make another step. I am completely exhausted. Only the city doesn't have the intention to put its body to rest. Even at 11 pm the streets are completely packed. Istanbul’s thirst for attention and novelty is unquenched and it lures strangers to this devilish game far into the most discreet hours of the night. 

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Gate to Orient

Hello Stranger,

I arrived in Istanbul. The city is a big déjà vu for me. It has the face and spirit of Sofia, the sticky air of Bangkok, the mystical story of Granada, the cheeky mentality of the Middle East. The slim figures of two minarets are the first thing I see from the window of the plane. Then the shadows of dozens of ships follow, melting quietly into the water of Bosporus.  My eyes have barely adjusted to the amount of light. And with the landing, I feel like rolling out of a vacuum - face down onto a carpet in the center of a busy bazaar. Thousands of feet are rushing in all directions, signs for “Baggage claim” hang randomly on walls and the passport control area looks like a wild jungle – 8 lines of twisted postures move nervously, hardly awake enough to stand. People are checking watches and moaning like hungry tigers. We all need about 30 minutes to get our small share of the clerks’ attention. Mine looks at me indifferently. He’s on the phone, yet that doesn't disturb his passport stamping routine. I grab my papers and I just say to myself: ‘Welcome to Orient!’

  

Morning buzz, Istanbul

I’ve hardly stepped out of the exit door and a few elderly men jump at me with offers for a cab fare. I know the drill. They are not regular cab drivers, but they are good for a bargain, so I pick one that gives me a decent price and follow him to his car. It’s parked outside the parking area of the airport, at safe distance from the officials, which instead of giving him a fine will simply ask for a small bribe or might even give him a beating. The guy is nice. He tells me his name and what he does. He actually works for the Post Office, but outside his regular hours he’s transporting tourists to help pay for the university fees of his 2 children. Their pictures are exhibited prominently on the car’s deck. I look around the white Skoda. It’s almost factory-clean and the cabbie is dressed in a chic jacket and nice dark brown shoes, not the cab driver attire I would have expected. It’s a false assumption of course. In Turkey what you wear, what you drive, how big your TV is and what phone you use, are quite important social status factors. I used to hate these status indicators; they are pretty similar where I come from. But the easiness of the familiarity right now makes me feel home. I am content that I can navigate in this insecure chaos, which scares many others.

40 long minutes follow through the lunch traffic of Istanbul. We drive on the highway next to buses, which have probably been manufactured in Russia in the 50s and then also next to the latest Audi’s sports car editions. We are not exactly driving straight on the designated lanes. We cut other drivers by speeding right to that killing point and then stopping abruptly at annoying traffic lights that have suddenly sprung out of nowhere. We use the emergency section to secure a faster pass through tunnels and narrow sections. We jump through curbs and yell at surprised pedestrians daring to use the crosswalk to trespass. The hustle of the streets is a complete contradiction to the sudden appearance of the old Constantinople fortress – proud and beautiful, like a crown jewel upon the riverbed. I can see bits of the defense wall. How many battles from my history books I’ve imagined being fought here… I can see Aye Sofia, which is probably the one centuries-old witness of glory, massacre, victory and fall – a former basilica, a former mosque, a former symbol of power worshiped by kings from Bulgaria, Byzantium, the Osman Empire. I can almost hear the whispers of the Christian and Muslim preachers, who have given their lives for their faith, wander between the stones. I can feel the gentle steps of thousand cats, deviously guarding the sanctuaries, like untouchable godly protectors.

The Cool Cat & the City, Istanbul

A sea gull is gliding onto the warm air above the Golden Horn. A soft wind is flirting with the red mane of a big Turkish flag. The car is cutting through the rattling heartbeat of the city and I am falling deep into my infatuation, deep into the anticipation to get lost in the streets of Istanbul.

Istanbul at Sunset

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.

The Travel to Turning 30

Hello Stranger,

Waking up at 4am is like getting a really strong slap on the face out of nowhere – my head is ringing, suddenly everything is a blur and I’m walking around rubbing limbs that have gone numb from the shock. I’m finding salvation in Nirvana’s songs. I must have listened to them last 5 years ago. But “Something in the way” helped me tune into the early hours of the last Friday I will ever be in my twenties.

The Hamburg airport is becoming a well-known stranger. We greet each other with a cordial head nod like English royalties. We take regard of each other’s existence and hope to plunge back to our separate lives quickly and with not much interference. I have 3 flights on my agenda today, 2 of them before 10am - Düsseldorf, Zurich and finally Barcelona. Like an old dog I’m going back to the one place that has left more storytelling on my skin than the ink of my tattoos. Words like sun, love, friends, mystery, cancer, disappointment, yearning, hear, hope, fight, courage, eternity roam the streets. I welcome them all like old friends and equal enemies - inconceivable elements which have shaped the edges of my being.

Why is there so much fascination about Barcelona? On the outside the recipe seems fairly simple and easily reproducible – throw lots of stones, dirt and people into a pod and stir energetically. Yet only a handful of places can make this mixture worth returning to repeatedly. It’s the secret ingredient. Like every great storyteller, Barcelona knows how to keep her admirers drunk on the sole words she whispers in their ears. So many people like me have carved their deepest sentiments into the walls of this city. It’s like a giant ship carrying the load of centuries of romance, failure & hope. And she’s sailing toward an unknown destination. You can feel her moving, you can sense her body breathing heavily under the weight, yet her face remains gracious and unrevealing. Whatever secrets she has swallowed, she keeps them locked forever in a heart made of sandstone and salt water. And I, like a foolish young soul, will always love her. No matter what the terms of our relationship, she manages to draw out from me new metaphors in search of ways to paint her proud image. Some people fall in love with Barcelona for all the practical advantages she offers, others hate her for the truly untamed character she exhibits. I’ve developed an immeasurable affection for this secret keeper, who’s found space within her mysteries to guard tenderly a piece of me as well. It’s her streets that lead me like a lost child back to the path where I first found how strong my will to live is. The city is now an eternal symbol of the strength I needed, of all the ghosts I had to overcome, of all those friends and strangers who stretched a hand to pull me out from vertigo of sorrows and fear.

That’s what Barcelona is for me – that secret box some keep under their bed, the locked diary hidden among a row of books, the old photo album neatly folded under a stack of magazines. And when I turn the key and peak through the belongings I’ve surrendered to her, I find so much happiness I’ve been blind to for years. Like the way May has always made me feel in my childhood – the first month of the year with long warm days, which undresses you to the comfortable layer of a thin shirt. It’s the month when the lilac tree in our garden will begin puffing clouds bursting with sweet aroma. My home town will suddenly become alive under the chimes of high school graduation festivities and all sorts of other holidays. They will throw the locals into a long string of busy preparations and celebrations, making all troubles fade quietly into a thin vale of indifference. Once all this hype begins stirring the air together with the lilac blossoms, my stomach will murmur pleasantly with anticipation of my Birthday.

Els Castellers, Port Vell, Barcelona

I’m turning 30 on Monday, a memorable day NOT because it’s my special day, not because I’m getting older or because I’m stepping into a new decade, but because sometimes such milestones matter for the mere fact that they help us find the way to that box, diary, album. Putting importance in a sheer moment can help us dust away the lid over those unpractical feelings & memories we tend to ignore in our daily round. They are the ones that remind us why life is a great story and that it’s up to us to decide how it will be told – like a short newspaper strip, a smooth sailing report, a catching thriller, a wild romance or a sad song. And today flying towards the laid back sunny face of Barcelona, towards the vault of all those old friends and enemies within me, I wonder if I have managed to grasp the grace and wisdom from all the adventures in the past 29 years, if my heart has healed from all the battles and mostly – how do I want my story to be told.

I look over my left wrist. The "BE NOW" phrase is tattooed on my skin and it gives me a feeling of complete calmness. No matter how hard my screenplay has been at times, no matter how often I’ve wanted to leave the skin of this role & fast forward, now I know I prefer this novelty - the one with ups and downs, which bring new encounters with people that change me, the one filled with sarcasm and humour in hard moments, the one with a lot of memorable revelations, unexpected travels and hopefully with a little bit of love. It has taken me 30 years to arrive at this gate and understand how thankful I am for the story of my life and every moment in it. And I’ve needed a great city like Barcelona to finally make me start living in the meaning of the words “BE NOW”.

Direction?, El Raval, Barcelona

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Please note: All articles and photographs contained here are property of © Gypsy Letters, 2014 unless otherwise noted. No part of this website may be reproduced without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.