Olvr'sTrvls

Lesvos

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 the highlight of that whole first-time Greek experience. The school was great, no doubt, but the island and the greek style getaway was just so much more. The lectures were fantastic, but they started to feel like 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 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. Every night ended the Greek way as it should be, with tzatziki, moussaka, souvlaki (and many more!), followed by drinks and a constantly good company at Παλιά Αγορά. Surely some of the best nights this year, so far, arguably..

The harbor started to feel too familiar eventually, so walking up (and running, too) toward the hill where the Mytilini castle stands became inevitable. 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 (but not really confirmed), 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, and it honestly was hard to picture what it used to be. Millions of years ago, the area was covered by a dense forest until volcanic eruptions buried it under ash. That sudden burial, destructive as it was, is also the reason anything remains. But without oxygen, the trees did not decay. Over time, mineral-rich water replaced the organic material with silica, preserving the structure down to the smallest details. 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. This made made me think about time, differently.. 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 for few extra days. 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, together with a fellow summer school participant who was also doing a phd. Aside from the walk, there came the inevitable talks about the strange rhythm of phd life, uncertainties, plans, and all such sorts. Anyway, inside the castle walls, things started to feel busier than they looked. A lot has clearly happened there, and 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 in 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 actually 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.

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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.

Black Forest

2025-11-01T09:18:00.024+08:00

The only kind of hike I’m willing to take these days is, literally, up a trail. And one that recently left my quads fully worked-out was in the Black Forest of Germany, the same place that inspired the famous cake, far lighter on cream and heavier on chlorophyll. It was my second time there, and for a different reason, too. This time, I was fortunate to hike one section of its trails, tucked away in Bad Peterstal-Griesbach, a quiet corner of Baden-Württemberg that offers a layered experience of nature, culture, and quiet discovery.

I'd say Bad Peterstal-Griesbach hides some of the Black Forest’s renowned premium trails. What greeted us were perfectly maintained pathways winding through pine forests, vineyards, and half-timbered villages. GPS markers make navigation effortless, and the scenery shifts gently from canopy shade to rolling hills. Thoughtful benches appear just when your legs start to ache, making rest stops feel less like defeat. For us people in our thirties, it was the right mix of effort and ease. Not too intense, yet satisfying enough to earn a cold drink at the end.

One of the best parts of the hike was pausing for lunch by the pristine lake of Glaswaldsee, known as the blue eye of the central Northern Black Forest. It was gleamed in near stillness, bordered by moss and quiet pines, not needing an ounce of grandeur to impress. Formed during the last ice age, it's fed only by rain and melting snow, and reflects the kind of quiet that modern life rarely allows these days. On that day, it shimmered under the midday sun.

But the best thing, I would say, were the occasional stops, at small, unmanned stalls run on the honesty system, each offering cold Rothaus Pils and regional schnapps. It made it possible to indirectly and quietly celebrate things and appreciate the kind of beauty you can’t find inside four walls. No cake required. Just the feeling that, for once, everything was exactly where it should be.