Olvr'sTrvls

Lesbos, take 2!

2026-10-10T02:51:59.192+08:00

Yesterday, Anne Carson won the Nobel Prize in Literature (huge congratulations!). Although Chemistry is the Nobel announcement I usually wait for, curiosity drew me toward the literature winner, too. So I did what I often do when something catches my attention, and did a little digging. But I may have gone too deep and started reading some of Carson’s works. Although I expected to discover books I might want to read in the future, I instead found my way back to *drum roll* Lesbos in the process; the very island I was so fortunate to visit four months ago. Among Carson’s works was If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, a translation of the ancient Greek poet whose life and writing are closely associated with the island. So a casual search about a Nobel laureate had led me back to a place I feel I have not yet finished understanding.

Sappho 's statue at the main square. Sappho’s influence on Lesbos is so profound that her ancient hometown of Eresos has evolved into a vibrant, internationally renowned sanctuary that hosts annual festivals drawing thousands of LGBTQ+ travelers from around the world.

I had written about the trip, yes, but mostly fragments of the experience. And writing about where you went dies not automatically mean writing about what the journey meant. I had written sometjing about the visit but maybe not with the words for what made it actually special. You know, the part that lingers after the itinerary ends, and there is that particular kind of guilt attached to that unfinished telling. You return home intending to gather your impressions into something coherent, something worthy of the experience. You tell yourself you will write when there is more time, when the pictures are sorted, when the right opening sentence arrives. Until, in my case, phd life resumes... experiments, conferences, and actual writing of (scientific) papers just bound to happen..

Reading about Sappho, I was struck by the distance between the abundance of her work and the small portion that remains. Her poetry was collected in nine books in antiquity, yet it survives largely in fragments, with the hymn to Aphrodite standing as the complete poem. But perhaps one among the more interesting things was that, in If Not, Winter, Carson used brackets and white space to mark the missing text. Rather than smoothing over the losses or making the poems appear whole, she allows the reader to encounter their brokenness. The page holds what has survived without pretending to restore what has disappeared. And there is beautifully honest and honestly beautiful in that. And so I found myself lingering and amused over those spaces (quite literally and figuratively), probably because that’s exactly where I found myself during these days..

As a phd student on my third year, I have been spending the last few years trying to close gaps. As part of my primary job of writing papers, a missing explanation sends me back to the reading, or to another experiment. An uncertain result demands closer examination. A paragraph needs a clearer argument, a stronger connection, a more convincing conclusion. There is always something to clarify, complete, or defend. Eventually, that habit can extend beyond research. Honestly, I feel that I may be stuck in that loop. Yet here is something that did not disguise its gaps as though they were something shameful. Its fragments were worth reading not because someone had managed to make them whole, but because what remained still had something to say. Isn’t that beautiful?

Of course, an unfinished thesis is not an ancient manuscript. Research requires rigor, and some gaps genuinely need to be addressed. But learning such things and understanding the beauty of “lostness” reminded me of a distinction I sometimes lose sight of, that is recognizing that something needs more work is not the same as deciding that it has no value yet. Incompleteness need not be a verdict. An unresolved question can still mark genuine progress. So I guess I had not really failed at finishing the story. I was discovering that there was possibly more to it than I could have already written..

But seriously, I guess I need to go back now to writing (my papers).. especially since missing the supposed deadline to submit the revision of a manuscript I was working on, yesterday :(

Lesbos

2026-07-08T20:24:06.338+08:00

Last month, I was in Mytilini, Lesvos, for a week to attend a summer school. Naturally, stories inevitably unfolds..

The island itself did not take too long to quietly take over as the highlight of that whole first-time Greek experience. The school was great, no doubt, but the setting and the greek style getaway was just so much more. The lectures were fantastic, but they started to feel like they were happening in the background. This was Lesvos after all – it effortlessly demands full attention.

Fun fact: the word lesbian traces back to Lesvos, home of Sappho (there was a whole square dedicated to her), whose verses celebrating love between women gave the place, and eventually the world, a term for that affection. Over time, Lesvos became more than a location, as it evolved into a symbol of identity, desire, and poetic legacy.

For a week, my mornings began by the harbor, since I stayed in a hotel right next to the sea. The routine was simple, almost repetitive in a good way. Wake up, eat by the sea, walk to Sappho Square, and catch the bus to the university (of the Aegean). Mytilini somehow felt small during the early hours, like it was still stretching itself awake, but fast-forward to eight hours later, after school, and suddenly things turn big time, quite literally. And every night ended Greek as it should be, with tzatziki, moussaka, souvlaki (and many more!), followed by drinks and constantly good company at Παλιά Αγορά. Surely some of the best nights this year, so far..

The harbor started to feel too familiar eventually, so walking up (and running, too) toward the hill where the Mytilini castle stands became a habit. Up the hill, the noise of the waterfront fades, replaced by quieter roads and houses that seem to carry different stories. Some are still lived in, others look like they have been left behind. Something is unsettling about those empty homes. Broken balconies, peeling paint, and doors that probably have not opened in a while. I heard a few stories from locals about why people left. Years of overlapping crises, the strain of refugee containment, tourism declining, and a general sense of exhaustion. For them, staying became harder than leaving, at some point. For some, the place simply stopped feeling like home. Thus, the houses just waited for people who might never return at all.

On the last day of school, we were brought to the other side of island to see the petrified forest in Sigri. It honestly was hard to picture what it used to be, but equally interesting in a good way. SO short story time, pushing back to millions of years ago, the area was covered by a dense forest until volcanic eruptions buried it under ash. And that sudden burial, destructive as it was, was also the reason some things remained. Without oxygen, the trees did not decay. But over time, mineral-rich water replaced the organic material with silica, preserving the structure down to the smallest details. And what stands now looks like wood at first glance, but actually was stone. Growth rings, textures, everything is still visible, just no longer alive. Long before this forest was even buried, entire ecosystems had already come and gone. Even the age of dinosaurs had ended by then, yet the island kept changing, reshaping itself again and again. What is there now is only a small slice of something much longer. Talk about how time restores things, but also time showing us how insignificant the years we'll all get and share to live. So spend it wisely :)

In such an effort to spend time wisely right away, I decided to stay on the island after the summer school ended, for few extra days. And what felt just right to close the trip was a final look at the castle. This time, visited it more up close and in detail. And I'm glad I did this with a fellow summer school participant, also doing a phd. Aside from the walk, there came the inevitable talks about the strange rhythm of phd life, uncertainties, plans, and all sorts. Anyway, inside the castle walls, things started to feel busier than they looked. A lot has clearly happened there, but the stones seem to remember. We walked along worn paths, past ruins whose original job descriptions are long gone, but clearly once important enough to justify all the stonework. From the edges, Mytilini spreads out below, harbor, hillside houses, and scenic coastlines. Contrary to the petrified forest, from there, it was not so hard to picture ships arriving centuries ago, with people possibly standing right where we were.

For days, it felt like life on the island was moving slowly. Or maybe it was just me, slowing down. Or both. No one seems in a rush, people just sitting by the sea, watching boats and ferries drift, and pass by casually. Nothing particularly remarkable, really, but it felt enoughly just right. Time becomes less exact, like it matters less how long things take. But Ironically, it seemed like a time well-spent. And it definitely was!

Sarajevo

2026-01-24T07:25:00.116+08:00

Much has been said about Dubrovnik in the past (at least in this site), so I’ll save the new story about it for another time. Split, meanwhile, left a good impression too. Bright, historic, and full of life, even in winter but will save the narrative for later too. Sarajevo, for some reason, demanded an immediate feature. Just because it screams reeks of stories I wish I never knew -- of wounds, both old and new, and scars impossible to ignore. Writing about it now brings a tinge of sadness for everything that had transpired, but at the same time, deep respect for everything the city has endured.

______

It was Christmas Day, and the city greeted me with an unusually sharp, crisp, quiet December air. The city was wrapped in fog, almost uninviting. Although it was a fitting atmosphere for what the moment deemed to be felt. Cold, blurry, but thriving. When I stepped off the tram and stood across the Latin Bridge, I realized I was right on that very site that birthed a defining moment that significantly changed the world. That very spot, where the act was committed, set in motion the inevitable war that no one could stop at that time. And the rest, as they say, is (a bloody) history. For that, Sarajevo, big-time carried a certain weight and a fair share of painful memories.

Just like how I normally do when travelling in cities I visit for the first time, I wandered aimlessly through its streets. In one corner, there were the peaceful Ottoman courtyards and old mosques. Down another street rose the neat lines and pastel Austro-Hungarian buildings, then the grey apartment blocks from the Yugoslav years. The scape seems to me like a patchwork that shouldn’t make sense but somehow does. Like pizza with jalapeño and pineapple. Or my current data analysis playlist that has Fleetwood Mac, Elvis Presley, and Edoardo Bennato in it. It's giving dark comedy set in postcard-beautiful cliffs of emotional rot and casual cruelty. However, history has a good explanation for why this is so.

Given the limited time, I did try to learn as much of Sarajevo as I could in the two days. And it was just too much to take all in (for beginners, read: Sarajevo Safari). But my main takeaway was how Sarajevo takes pride in not hiding its scars. Museums documenting all the terrors, atrocities, and darkness, were abundant. Too raw, too real, unapologetically present. Each screams with a quiet plea to never forget. Like the Banshees of Inisherin, wearing silence and severed fingers, not as spectacle, but as facts. It's painful, but it makes a whole lot of sense to openly share the story so that that the world will clearly see it in the hopes that it will never ever happen again.

Two days weren’t nearly enough. And possibly no visit ever will be. The thing is, Sarajevo is one of those few places not just to see, but one to return to. And I do hope to go back one day and see how it progresses to heal. Or maybe preserve the damage. Or both. In some cases, time may heal, but sometimes, it just teaches us ways to hide the pain better. Healing a slow process, always.

The Eternal Flame of Sarajevo — a memorial dedicated to the victims and heroes of WWII, located at the intersection of Ferhadija & Titova streets, was unveiled to honor those who lost their lives during the liberation of the city from fascist occupation, and remains one of Sarajevo’s most important historical landmarks.