Olvr'sTrvls

Split

2026-10-21T07:52:09.157+08:00

Last time, I promised to save the Split story for later. Well, later is here. Sarajevo has had its feature, and Split has been quietly waiting its turn, which is very on-brand for it.

I went in December, which is not when anyone would advise it. The season was winding down, the wind off the Adriatic had plenty of opinions, and the cafés had tucked their chairs under blankets. But I'm hard-headed like that, plus I didn't have many other options anyway (?).

It was cold and a little grey, and tbh, I didn't expect much, but Split gave me far more.. unearthing the eternal, seasonal, personal question that usually, conveniently comes during Christmas holidays (especially when spent away from home).. do I even know what I want, at this point?

I guess (definitely) not.

But Split did show a sneak peek of how and what it looks like to know what matters. Case in point: the story of Emperor Diocletian’s palace. Around the year 300, after ruling most of the known world, he built a retirement palace on this coast. When his old colleagues begged and talked him out of returning to power, he told them that "if they could see the cabbages he was growing, they would never ask". Mannn, it stings. For someone who has held everything and still picks a vegetable patch.. the guy knows exactly what he wants. And we envy that.

Only in my wildest dreams I wish I could reach half of that point in my life. haha

Diocletian chose his cabbages. He knew exactly what they wanted.

And here I am, doing PhD (and whining).

Oh, life 😊

Lesbos, take 2!

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

Yesterday, Anne Carson won the Nobel Prize in Literature (huge congratulations!). Although Chemistry, was the Nobel announcement I usually wait for and look forward to, curiosity drew me toward the literature winner. This was because I found myself drawn to literature as of late, probably and partially due to oversaturation (from science stuff off my plate). So I did what I often do : did a little digging. Or so I thought.

Long story short, 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 Lesvos, in the process; the very island I was so fortunate to visit four months ago. And this was primarily because of Carson’s work, If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho, a translation of the ancient Greek poet whose life and writing are closely associated with the island.

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 just fragments of the experience. Writing about where you went does not automatically mean writing about what the journey meant, after all. I had written sometjing about the visit but maybe not with the words for what made it actually special. You know, sometimes there is that part that lingers after the itinerary ends, that particular kind of guilt attached to that unfinished telling. Whenever I return home, I intend to gather my impressions into something coherent through writing (or video editing). And I always tell myself that I 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 a little about translated Sappho, I was struck by the distance between the abundance of her work and the small portion that remains. One interesting fact was that 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 of 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 us to encounter the brokenness. The page simply holds what has survived without pretending to restore what has disappeared. And I think 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.. It gives me that blanket sense of assurance that missing something could be enough.

As a phd student now in my third year, I already had a fair share of spending nights trying to close THE gaps. As part of my primary job of writing papers, a missing explanation sends me back to reading, or to another experiment, or both. 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. Having been perennially stuck in this kind of loop as of late, I definitely have high regard for things that do not disguise their gaps as though such gaps were something shameful. I guess, fragments were worth reading not because someone had managed to make them whole, but because what remained still had something to say.

Of course, an unfinished thesis is not an ancient manuscript. In my world at this point, gaps genuinely need to be addressed. But learning and understanding the beauty of lostness could lowkey mean recognizing that something just needs more work, and is not the same as deciding that it has no value yet. Incompleteness and unresolved questions can still mark genuine progress.

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. And 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 greek style of doing it was just so much more. The lectures were fantastic, but midway started to feel like they were happening in the background. All because Lesvos effortlessly demands full attention (in a good way).

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. And over time, Lesvos had become 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!