Nooks & Corners

Notes from a Cafe

2008-08-11T12:15:00.000-07:00

I have a piece over at hackwriters. Hop over for a read.

A day with the Stone Beauty

2008-07-31T01:59:00.000-07:00

She is known as the Stone Beauty. Over the ages many have vied for her attention: they’ve tried to woo her with castles and riches; they’ve tried to impress her with art; they’ve even fought wars over her. Today I get to see for myself what all the fuss is about.

Trogir is a town-museum on the Croatian coastline and the best preserved Romanesque-Gothic town in Central Europe. From a distance you can see her magnificent stone structures rising to the sky; white stones and orange rooftops stand stark against the clear blue sky. Keeping with the theme, a stone bridge joins the islet of Trogir to the mainland; a mobile bridge, which wobbles alarmingly, connects it to the island of Ciovo.

Trogir is surrounded by 2300 years of history and tradition, and the sapphire sea. At one end is a shiny white promenade, flirting with yachts from across the world. At the other, years and years of accumulated history beckon. Trogir was first settled by Greek colonists in the 3rd century BC. They christened the town as Tragurion, or Goat Island. It became a Roman municipality in the first century AD, a part of the Roman province of Dalmatia. Over the coming years the town would swap hands between Hungry, the Venetians, Napoleon and Austria before finally settling down with the Croats.

While the city walls were destroyed during the early 19th century, Trogir’s medieval core, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, still sits secure within its stone walls. Built between the 13th and 15th centuries, it is a tizzy of tiny, narrow cobbled lanes, castles, towers, churches, squares and homes in Roman, Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque imprints.

Entering the old core of Trogir through the northern entrance, we are greeted by St. John of Trogir, the town’s patron saint. He leads us to the main square, Trg Ivana Pavla II, which holds an overwhelming amount of history. In the middle stands the town Loggia, ancient relics, sculpted by the old masters Ivan Mestrovic and Niccolo Fiorentino, spruce up its walls. Next to it is the Clock Tower. Standing sturdy in pastel blue, it’s hard to miss. It was once the small Renaissance church of St. Sebastian, believed to protect the town from the onslaught of the deadly plague.

This is also home to Trogir’s most famous building, the 13th century St. Lawrence Church. A magnificent shrine, its main portal is a masterpiece created by the Croatian master artist, Radovan, in 1240. As Adam and Eve, carved to perfection, peer out from their artistic abode, tourists capture a slice of the most prestigious work in the Roman-Gothic style, in their cameras. The 15th century Cipiko Palaces and the Town Hall complete the square, each holding treasure of its own. A little way from the City Hall is the Church of John Baptist. It displays a unique collection of sacred art, as does the Benedictine nuns’ monastery. In fact, for those who love art and history, there are several such small palaces and churches hidden here; the more you look, the more you find.

Just as charming are the paved, narrower than narrow lanes of the old town. An air of mystery and romance clings to them as they slither and turn around the history that surrounds them, and in the gaps, regular people continue to lead regular lives, unaffected by the mass of tourists gaping at their idyllic homes. Sturdy stone walls hold bright windows; across it locals swap daily gossip. The day’s laundry hangs from a clothesline strung up. Old tea pots and tin cans hold bright floral bursts, while a forgotten football lolls around. The more entrepreneurial lot have opened their courtyards to tourists, serving Dalmatian specialities in quaint boutiques, cafes and little restaurants.

Outside the walls, hidden behind the palm fringes and oversized umbrellas is the Small Loggia. It’s a forgettable structure but for its story. The Loggia was built as a night shelter for travellers who arrived after the town gates had been shut for the night. Today, after serving time as a fish market in the 80s, it lets several souvenir stalls sit in its shade.

Walking past the Loggia, to the other end of the islet, we head towards the fifteenth century fortress, Kamerlengo. It was once connected to the rest of the town by fortified walls; today it stands alone, overlooking the waters. The high tower was built by the Genoese in the 14th century and reinforced by the Venetians when they took the city in 1420. It served as a navel base; today it functions as an open air cinema and summer concert venue. After paying the ten kuna entrance fee, we scale the fort. A series of stairways help us explore the fort walls and take us to Kamerlengo’s heart. Its insides smell of bird poop. Little grey feathers are scattered all across the floor. Home to nesting pigeons, we interrupt a petty squabble between two residents. We charge on, past a ladder to the top of the tower, which opens to the most magnificent views of Trogir. The town resembles an artist’s impression in Lego from up here. Satellite dishes sit cosily on terracotta roof tops, hinting at the changing eras; church towers stand up straight reminding you who’s in charge. Off the land, the startling blue water swishes and sways gently. Small boats bob about, while the majestic ones stretch in the marina and get a tan.

Across the fort stands the smaller St. Mark’s Tower. It was built in the 15th century by the Venetians to solidify their defences against the Turks. The two forts were connected by strong stone walls. Today the walls give way to a football field, the goal post are precariously close to the water.

The sights covered, we make for the riva. The promenade is shielded from the growing summer sun by a school of perfect palm trees. White sun chairs and garden swings are spread out for us. Behind us the unassuming St. Dominic Monastery stands guard. In front of us, the sea shines on.

This piece appeared in the Hindustan Times dated July 2008.

Colours of Rome

2008-06-12T04:29:00.000-07:00

Lost in Gamla Stan

2008-04-23T11:29:00.000-07:00

It’s a bright sunny day in Stockholm, and yet I’m grabbing for the warmth hidden in my navy-blue sweater sleeves. I’m standing on one of the four bridges that lead to Gamla Stan, Stockholm’s old town; on the other side a different world exists.

The Old Town is an endless maze of winding cobblestone paths, with candy-coloured, eighteenth century buildings flanking them on both sides; a few remind me of the gingerbread house, from the tale of Hansel and Gretel. Peeping out from their midst is a church spiral, and hidden around the bend is the Royal Palace. If ever a fairytale needed a setting, this is it.

Gamla Stan is the heart of the Scandinavian capital, and it opens up at Stortorget, the old square. It’s still early, but already a street band fills the morning air with music. On the sidelines delicious cafes are hard at work; little wooden tables, draped in red chequered tablecloth, are serving out hot coffee and pastries. As the crowd swells, waitresses dart in and out with the day’s orders, while their guests enjoy the music and toss a few coins into empty guitar cases. It makes for a pretty picture, a sharp contrast to the history of the square: this is the scene of the infamous ‘Stockholm Bloodbath.’ In November 1520, the Danish King, Christian II, had all his political rivals, comprising a large section of Swedish aristocracy, beheaded in this very square. The act would lead to an uprising and the end of his reign.

A I stroll along, I learn that the city of Stockholm was born here, before spreading out to include the fourteen islands that form the city today. This is the oldest part of the city, and also its biggest attraction. This is the seat of Swedish Royalty. The official palace – Kungliga Slottet – sits on the waterfront, towering over locals and tourists alike. The palace is open to the public, and a visit is recommended. The interiors are lavish and house some very interesting museums: The Royal Armoury holds an intriguing collection of medieval weapons; The Royal Treasury exhibits the crowned jewels; and The Museum of Antiquities stores many priceless treasures from the past.

Everyday, from May to September, the change of guard ceremony takes place outside the palace. I arrive just in time as synchronised marching boots halt in front of me – attention! Stand at ease! The guards perform this ritual with a fantastical sense of duty and patience; ever tolerant of the many cameras flashing in their faces.

A few cobbled feet away stands Stockholm’s oldest cathedral – Storkyrkan, the address for all royal weddings and coronations. Adding to the prestigious company, you’ll also find the House of Knights and the spectacular Knights garden here, as well as the Nobel Museum and Library. The museum was opened in 2001 to mark a hundred year’s of the prize and showcases portraits and citations of the winners.

Of all Gamla Stan’s landmarks, the most magical are perhaps the old alleyways, and walking past them is just as fascinating. Some are impossibly narrow, just slight openings between ancient buildings, it is a mystery how they manage to hold the tourists that flood them all through the day. At either end you’ll find quirky little souvenir stores; miniature trolls and Vikings, dressed up in helmets and swords, stand outside, luring tourists into buying bags worth of souvenirs.

Like the rest of Sweden, the old town too is a showcase of the country’s multi-ethnic atmosphere, which for first time visitors comes as a pleasant surprise. Store windows display little statues of Buddha, Krishna and Mary, all standing side by side. Outside a million tourists, speaking a dozen different languages, jostle past hot-dog kiosks and street performers, singers (they all have a slight bias for Dylan and Alanis numbers), jugglers and artists. It’s easy to envy those who work and live in these quarters; despite the endless crowds it never once loses it charm.

Along with the history and the culture, another attraction here is food. There are a number of chic cafes and restaurants on the menu: while some choose to spill out on the street, enjoying the bright midnight sun, others prefer a more interesting modus operandi – serving out of underground, or cellar cafes. Unless you are claustrophobic, these make for a memorable culinary experience. Keeping in sync with the city’s multi-ethnic attitude, a variety of world cuisine is on offer across Gamla Stan. The real adventure, however, lies in a plate of traditional Swedish food: cloudberry jam, a choice between reindeer, elk and moose, served with mashed potatoes, and rounded off with some traditionally made vanilla ice-cream topped with warm wildberry jam.

I could spend the whole day wandering these alleys, but across the bridges the rest of the city waits. The City Hall, an imposing brick figure spread across the landscape, beckons from the other side, and I succumb. As I walk in a number of elegant statues greet me, following my awestruck progress from their enclaves high in the walls. Ahead, towards the waterfront brick gives way to soft green lawns, each with a fountain, statues and a flowerbed. Along with a spectacular view of the city, you’ll also see young couples with family and friends, some waiting to be wed, others newly wed; there is confetti and flowers, and beautiful wedding gowns.

Stockholm is thirty percent park and thirty percent water – you can tell just by how sweet the air tastes. This makes walking around the city, along the waterfront, across the many bridges, past the squawking gulls and expensive boats anchored in, even more special. A must do here is the archipelago cruise; stopover at the Djurgarden island park, at the Vasa Museum. The Vasa was the Swedish navy’s most sophisticated battleship. She set sail on her maiden voyage in 1628, only to sink a few meters away from the harbour. In 1961 she was raised and restored, becoming one of Sweden’s most visited tourist attraction. Right next to it is the Nordic Museum holding exhibits of cultural, historic and artistic importance, and the Skansen Open Air Museum, one of Europe’s oldest museums; it offers a glimpse to the Swedish way of life.

Royalty, history, sightseeing; It’s been a long day. My feet have taken in every inch of the city, and as the midnight sun calls it a day, casting long shadows into the night, I decide to follow suit. I settle down at a cosy little restaurant by the waterfront; the perfect end to a perfect day in Stockholm.

A version of this appeared in the Hindustan Times on 21/2/08

A postcard called Plitvice

2007-11-29T12:09:00.000-08:00

Painted in the quiet of Croatia’s mountains lies the Plitvice National Park (pronounced Plit-vi-tchka). The park is a string of sixteen blue-green lakes drawn across the Mala Kapela and Pljesevica mountain ranges; and between them is a trail of spectacular scenery - gushing brooks and flowering meadows; caves and wooden bridges above crystal clear waters.

The entrance to the park itself is enchanting –a cluster of chocolate brown log cabins where you can choose your route and purchase an entry ticket to the facility. A park bus then drops you off to the trailhead, and from there onwards the park is a maze of walkways and trails draped in brilliant landscapes. The park offers a number of different routes based on time. The smaller trails take you through all the must-see points within two hours; a great option if one is short on time. However, if you aren’t in a hurry, I recommend the four-six hour trek. On paper it looks back-breaking, and like me if you’d rather curl into a couch, book in hand, a little panic is bound to set in.

Once you step into the park, however, fears of collapsing mid-way simply ebb away. And awe sets in as you snake in and out of cascading waterfalls, past flitting rainbows, over jaded lakes and into rusty mountain caves. The trail is drawn out to ensure a leisurely trek. The steep climbs are woven together with long easy wooden bridges. Wooden benches sit along the path in case you need a break, or simply want to take in the scenery. Not once do you feel exhausted; not till the next morning, when your legs feel as heavy as a dozen tree trunks, do you realise it.

The brilliance of the park lies in its changing features, especially between the Upper and Lower Lake regions. The Upper Lakes lie on a dolomite valley. Surrounded by dense forests, this part makes for a particularly interesting hike. Giant trees form long spells of archways, and the walkways glide past thundering waterfalls and wild flower beds. If you are lucky, you might even cross paths with an endangered European brown bear, though chances are, it’ll be the chatter of a thousand birds that’ll guide you around all day. You never really get used to the prettiness around, which is a good thing; the sights keep your mind off the altitude, the steep fall and any other such silly distracting thought.

Silent electric boats ferry tourists across the big lake, taking you to the other side. The Lower Lakes, in comparison, paint a very different picture. These lakes lie on a limestone bed and are surrounded by small bursts of shrubs and bushes. The lakes here are shallower; you can see the lake floor, the undergrowth and the lively trout through the sparkling clear water; it’s almost criminal that you aren’t allowed a swim. There are a number of smaller cascades here; some are named after local patrons; it gives the park a personal touch, and also involves the community in preserving this natural wonder.

The park is of great significance in local politics and history. It was here that the first shots, triggering the Croatian War of Independence, were fired on Easter Sunday in March 1991. As the conflict between Croatian forces and Serb separatists escalated, the park suffered great damage. Locals had to be evacuated – most spent the war years as refugees; the hotels and other facilities within the park were reduced to barracks, and a large area was infected with landmines. When the war ended in August 1995, UNESCO immediately added Plitvice to its List of World Heritage in Danger, working with local officials to restore the park to its original magnificence.

Today, other than a memorial to a fallen officer, the first casualty of the war, you can’t see any war scars around the Lakes. Recovery has been swift mainly due to two reasons – fantastic management by park officials; and because of the local geography. The Lakes lie in a Karstic basin, and are blessed with the prevalence of a re-generating limestone called travertine. Travertine grows quickly, constantly creating and recreating the pools, barriers, and cascades; preserving the beauty of the region for an eternity. The park today features high up on the UNESCO World Heritage list.

The magic of Lakes can be seen in their ever changing colours; swirling between the dozen shades of blue and green. A friend tells me that there was a time, before the wars, when the Lakes were a popular wedding destination. Every year, couples from all over the country would exchange vows in tiny boats, under the big waterfall. Today stringent environmental laws make such practices impossible. He also tells me about the many caves found here. In the 1960s, many popular German and Italian westerns were filmed here. It’s common to see bus loads of German tourists pointing excitedly at what must be movie landmarks; sort of a German Switzerland, I guess.

And last but not the least is the big feast waiting for you at the park restaurant. Situated on the edge of the big lake, here you’ll find a spread of picnic tables and local delicacies; the aroma of fresh food and coffee mingling with the mint green of leaves. And after a day of adventure, a hearty meal, and a stop at the souvenir shop, as you make your way back, you can’t help but turn around for just one more photograph; after all, the park is but one giant postcard.

A version of this appeared in the Hindustan Times on 22/11/07

A coffee break

2007-10-11T07:22:00.000-07:00

On a recent day trip, we stopped at a stunning little village for a much needed coffee break.

The little country homes were built around a chirpy brook that ran through. Cobbled pathways curled around it, leading us onto the many patios serving out hot coffee and sandwiches.

Delicious coffee, a breath-taking view, tiny flour mills, little log cabins, and drying laundry – it was getting late, but we didn’t want to leave.

History, soaked in colour and wood

2007-08-23T03:01:00.001-07:00

Across the Bergen Harbour I can see the medieval district of Bryggen. It is a fascinating sight; a row of colourful, crooked wooden buildings from an era long gone, effortlessly blending in with the 21^st century.

Bryggen is the only surviving settlement from the Hanseatic era; the oldest structure here dates way back to the 15th century. As we walk towards this series of 61 protected buildings, I'm half worried they will topple over and collapse; instead they stand strong, shoulder to shoulder across 13, 000 square meters of land.

As you step into these narrow alleys, you leave the 21st century far behind. Inside you find a clutter of over hanging balconies, shared passages, over beams and wobbly stairways. There is just about enough space for two people to walk together. It’s hard to imagine that these lop-sided buildings were once the head quarters of the influential Hanseatic League, a trading partnership between German and Scandinavian merchants trading along the Baltic ports.

Many of these little rooms and cellars served as offices, warehouses and lodgings for the League. This is where they led their insular lifestyle, following a strict code of conduct; they had their own education system, laws and were known never to mingle with the locals. Their lives revolved around work, fires and reconstructions. A number of monstrous fires have ravaged the district over the years. The worst fire broke out in 1702 when the entire settlement, apart from one or two stone cellars, was burnt to ash. The last major fire to sweep through the area was in 1955. Today only a quarter of the original construction survives.

The smell of dried fish and the sacks of stored grain have now made way for little souvenir shops, artists’ studios and craft workshops. Set against the aged window frames are enticing souvenirs; a row of Vikings look through the gleaming windows, straight at me. Behind them I can spot a bunch of trolls, and in the corners a few reindeer have gathered, some posing as candle holders, others as bookmarks. The stores are flooded in a warm yellow light. There are racks of Norwegian sweaters waiting to be bought. Near the counter stand lines and lines of stunning postcards. Even though I have already bought four, I can’t resist picking one more.

Outside, the shared passages are narrow and dark. I peep into closed windows and discover trendy little pubs and restaurants. These draw large crowds every evening. The food is scrumptious and the drinks flow in these rooms built hundreds of years ago.

The walkways open up to stone paved courtyards. Neat manicured gardens sit at the edges. A water sprinkler is spinning around, a modern addition to this ancient world. Here you’ll find Bryggeparken - a medieval vegetable patch, the Hanseatic Museum, and a little out door café. During the summer several guided walks are available to Bryggen; you can learn the history, sip on a cup of coffee and take a million pictures. Every tourist who walks through these wooden frames stops at the heart of the ancient construction, at the old wishing well. Red benches sit against the cracks in the old stone walls. The stone walls in turn hold on to two shiny plaques which proudly pronounce Bryggen as a World Heritage Site. Any coins dropped in the well, I learn, go towards the conservation of Bryggen. I toss a coin in, close my eyes and make a wish; who knows may be it will come true; maybe I’ll come back here soon.

A version of this appeared in the Hindustan Times – 23/08/07

Hangover Street

2007-08-06T09:40:00.001-07:00

There are lots of places in and around Zagreb where you can unwind, but by far the most popular is Tkalciceva Ulica (pronounced Kal-chi-cheva, and Ulica meaning Street) - the party street of the capital. Here you’ll find a row of pubs, café-bars, coffee shops, restaurants, gift-stores, fast food joints and even quaint art galleries etched into the sides of the street.

This is one of Zagreb’s oldest streets. It is also one of the prettiest. Before the unification of Zagreb, Tkalciceva sat between the rivalling quarters of the Upper Town and Kaptol (both of which are part of the old city of Zagreb, today). Where once the street played peacemaker between the two rivals, today it shrewdly steals their tourists and enchants them with party spirits, willing them to stay in its arms well into the night.

The street makes quite a picture. Tiny bits of squared tar mat the street, swerving deftly into the corners and disappearing somewhere behind brown tables with beer bottle-stains. On either side stand proud Baroque homes; almost every home here today serves out a heady café or a scrumptious gift shop out of their living rooms.

Little tables and chairs spill out onto the side walk, colourful street umbrellas stand on their toes, hoping to catch some free space overhead. On Fridays the whole city can be found here, and you’ve got to be really lucky to find either a parking spot or an empty space. On the menu is a mix match of parties - from bohemian spots like Melin, to the chic overtones of Oliver Twist. The mantra being - choose your mood; choose your party.

There's no way you can go wrong with coffee in Zagreb; every place serves a killer cup. But the beer isn't bad either. More importantly it isn’t expensive. You could go for one of the popular international brands or try a mug of the local beer – the list is endless, but a few of the more popular beers here include Karlovasco, Tomislav and Oujsko. What took me a little getting used to is that none of the cafes or the pubs serve food - no sandwiches, not even peanuts. Some of them are nice enough to let you buy your munchies from near by stalls and polish them off at the cafe tables, with the drinks they serve.

Tkalca, as it is better known, is really where all East European clichés unwind, with a cool pint; gorgeous women with never ending legs; not so gorgeous men with enormous beer bellies; giant backpacks with their bent tourists somewhere below; narrow winding streets dotted with multi-coloured cafes; and the obligatory church tower beaming overhead. All just hanging around to have a good time.

Bits of Bergen

2007-08-03T06:42:00.001-07:00

Bryggen – the face of Bergen

The Bergen Waterfront

Don’t miss the Indian restaurant on the left

A stone celler in Bryggen - one of the oldest buildings in Bergen

Spooky, isn’t he?

The Bergen Castle

The waterfront in a splash of colours

I’ve never seen penguins before. They are so beyond cool.

I love the crazy cobbled patterns leading up to the blue and white castle

On the Viking trail

2007-07-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

It’s an explosion of blue and green. The two colours swirl, smudge and melt into one another in the quiet of the Norwegian fjords; like dolphins, dancing and diving around the boats that pass them across these waters.

This is the Sognefjord, Norway’s largest and most famous fjord. Framed by ageing mountains on the sides and an icy wind all across, these waters run endlessly, constantly teasing and flirting with the sky.

The sky is not one to be out done. It answers the teasing water with magic of its own, pulling on different clouds and sketching new patterns; some heavy like a dark cloak, some breezy like a summer shirt; the sky is thundering and dark one minute, it is bright and blue the next; a different sky every 2 kilometres.

Breaking the monotony of this blue-green symphony are the little villages precariously perched on the edges of the fjord. A cluster of orange, red, white, yellow and pink splashes dot the corners.

Bright hotels and tiny stores nudge each other, holiday homes and farms wink at the boats, full of tourists gaping at them. The old churches stand even taller and the grazing sheep ignore the crowds, as a car pants up the winding road. Life in the mountains goes on.

All along the waters you can see chunks of history floating past. Listen to the mountains carefully and you’ll hear tales of valiant Vikings, the men behind the heavy steel armours and fur coats; of their wives and their homes in the mountains; of their incredible ships that wondered the worlds.

The view throughout the ride swings prodigiously between spectacular to stunning and breathtaking. Adjective abuse is common here. And the songs of the birds and the wind are punctured by the continuously clicking shutters. As this five hour ride draws to an end, the mountains are replaced by more urban sights. But like everywhere in Norway, nature prevails and everything else dances to its tunes. The scenery changes, the brilliance remains.

The midnight sun and other stories

2007-07-19T08:50:00.000-07:00

The first day of our Norwegian holiday begins on a slightly damp note. It’s been raining all night, and a slow drizzle still falls. It’s early; the streets are empty, the stores are still closed. We pass silent cafes and exhausted pubs. We pass last night’s big parties, being emptied into grabage trucks. Every now and then, we look up; hoping to find the sun. Instead, we spot a few backpacks bobbing up and down at the end of the street, we’ve reached the Oslo Train Station; slightly wet, but right on time, just like the Norwegian summer.

It’s been years since I have stepped onto a train without a book by my side. Today, I carry two scrumptious reads, waiting to be pored over as soon as the train starts. We’re travelling on the Bergen Line, known to be one of the most beautiful train journeys in the world. The Bergen Line is Northern Europe’s highest railway system, and connects Oslo and Bergen, Norway's most important cities. It runs through brilliant trails of Norwegian scenery and across spells of harsh winter weather. Every now and then the line throws up a beautiful stop, with little story-book villages. We plan to leave the train at one such stop, in Myrdal, and head down to the Flam Valley, before making our way around to Bergen.

The first hour goes by quietly. Everybody settles down in the right seat. Bags go up, come down, and go up again. Sweaters come off; jackets are packed up, and then pulled on once again. Hungry eyes watch the train pull out of Oslo’s suburbs. Beyond the station, life continues as always; work, newspapers, cigarette butts, ties. But in the train, the weekday just blurs past. As we leave the city behind, the stops get prettier. It's still early and you can see the mist kissing the mountains, good morning. Dainty little bed & breakfast places look eagerly for passengers getting off. Outside, it's still raining.

Norway is built around the nature that surrounds it. Whatever little space the mountains and streams can spare is crafted into a town or a little village. Instead of tall concrete buildings, you see giant pine trees. Instead of cold black roads, you see bridges jumping over forests and past gurgling streams. Highways run through mountains, and the rail track, around it. As yet another green patch bursts out in front of us; we make our way to the cafeteria. It's amazing how a few hours of being touristy can work up such a big appetite. We capture a little table in the café and don’t let go of it for another 40 minutes. Through the huge viewing window we catch a stunning reel of the country side. Felt green farms with wooly dots of sheep grazing; chestnut brown horses catching some sun; delicious country homes, the white walls gleaming behind the cherry red flowers; colourful gardens full of swing-sets, trampolines and bicycles; picket fences and smoking chimneys. And not for the first time today, we envy the people who live here.

The higher we go, the faster our jaws drop. The landscape changes dramatically, like some twisty thriller; from bright green to shiny white snow. It is the beginning of July, and the snow is still deciding weather it wants to melt or not; waiting for the sun to kiss it goodbye.

All we see now is a spread of white, with a log cabin here and a cold stream there. It’s so white; I have to shut my eyes from time to time.

At the mountain station of Finse, the train stops for a little longer than the previous stops. A voice over the loud speaker announces this to be the highest station on the Bergen line. It stands at a height of 1222 meters, cloaked in layers and layers of snow. The air outside is frosty, but pure, and sweet. It tastes delicious to my city bred lungs. As a bunch of tourists clamour around for group photographs, we explore the beginnings of the 10.3 km long tunnel ahead; this is the longest high mountain stretch in Europe. The whistle blows and the train slowly gets swallowed by the giant tunnel.

The tunnel spits us back out on to the white expanse. The sudden burst of white is harsh on the eyes. But as we inch towards Mrydal, I notice bits of green crawling back into the white. The closer we get, the greener it gets. Soon, it’s time to get off.

Mrydal is surrounded by green-white mountains, a falling valley, hiking trails and a little village. We wait on platform 11 for our next train. It reminds me of Harry Potter and platform 93/4. I have an insane urge to go crashing into the red structure; after all this is the magical land of vikings and trolls. As we wait I notice, for the first time today, the number of tourists around; enthusiastic camera wielding Japanese tours; loud Americans with gigantic guide books; seasoned Europeans, armed with their multi-purpose backpacks; a formally dressed Chinese crowd, with satellite phones to match; and a few Indians looking around with small, happy smiles - an old aunty in a pretty orange cotton sari clutches at her shawl, trying to wrap every inch of warmth around her crumpled sari.

Our way down to Flam is in the Flamsbana, a green carriage train. Unlike the fancy modern train that dropped us off at Mrydal, the Flamsbana is more traditional; it has an old world charm to it, and reminds me of a toy train chugging down steep mountain slopes. The ride through the Flam Valley is an engineering marvel, to say the least. The 20 km route has been carved across and through the valley, connecting Mrydal, perched 866 meters high in the sky, to the village of Flam, sitting pretty at a mere 2 meters.

The Flam Railway is the world’s steepest line (on normal gauge). It was built to link the Bergen Line to the Sognefjord. This complex system of spiraling tracks along the mountain edge dives into the heart of the valley, through 20 manually crafted tunnels. Little wonder the line took a good 20 years to build.

If you look closely you can see the spiralling tunnels embedded on the mountain edges.

There’s the science and then there is the view. Snow capped mountains tower around the Valley, spilling thunderous waterfalls all around it. The water roars, making the valley seem even quieter and calmer. Each time the train takes a sharp turn, a sheer cliff or a gorgeous ravine shows up. As the train chuggs downwards, the whole valley opens up, like a pop-up card, unfolding in all its glory. When I finally manage to tear my eyes away this addictive collage of white and green, I notice a crazy riot of wildflowers spread out on the slopes.

The train makes only one major stop in the valley, at the majestic Kjoss waterfall. A mass of white thunders down, drenching everyone in a sharp, cold spray. And as you take in this marvelous sight, suddenly from somewhere within the waters, a beautiful voice rises, drapping the valley in a haunting melody. You look around for the singer, startled, surprised. And up on the rocks, you see a woman dressed in a blue peasant’s dress, singing her heart out. It is all slightly surreal, but fairly exciting. We are later told it’s a tragic troll song, from Norse mythology.

As we get closer to the floor of the valley, the reckless cliffs make way for mint green meadows; broken in parts by crooked mountain streams.

The village of Flam makes a shy, quiet appearance towards the end of the ride; it looks more like a painting that has escaped from somewhere. I have to constantly remind myself, real people live here.

The village sits in the inner most corner of the Aurlandsfjord. 'Flam' literally means 'little place between steep mountains.' The mountains and the valley stand behind it, and the fjords open out in front, no wonder the tourists come in train loads.

Flam is teeming with tourists; especially near the souvenir stalls. You really can't blame the crowd, with little Vikings and trolls lined up on the counter, I couldn't resist either.

We sit at one of the little restaurants lined up on the waterfront. And immediately, accents from the world over join us for a meal. As we dig into our plates, the camera takes a much needed little nap. Next on the agenda is a fjord cruise; we wonder if it will match up to the train rides. And as we wrap up our meal, and head to the boat, I realize my books are still in my bag, unopened.

The sea and a bit of history

2007-06-04T02:38:00.001-07:00

It looks like a scene out of the movies. The sea sits pretty on one side while the road winds along its edge, curling around pastel villas and freshly brewed cafes. We drive around these twisty roads, half in search of our hotel and half in awe of the prettiness that we've arrived at.

Opatija (pronounced Opati-ya) is one of the most popular costal towns in Croatia. It is also the first. Tourism came to these parts in the 1800's with a rich merchant from Rijeka. Ignio Scarpa and his wife fell so much in love with this idyllic little town, they decided to build a summer home here. With the sea at their door step and a lush green garden around, the Villa Angiolina (named after the wife, of course) was opened to family and friends in 1844. Within no time, they were playing host to famous businessmen, aristocrats, even royalty. Hotels followed the tourists and an industry sprung up. And since that time Opatija has been on holiday.

Today the Villa is the centre of Opatija, standing tall in pink, around the history it has created. It isn't hard to see why the town attracts so many. Sapphire waters like these and the delicious breeze will entice anyone to give up the city.

What more could you want then to while away the hours sitting on the beach, with a cool drink in hand. A beach ball here, a bikini there, the waves singing their song, serenading the trees beyond their reach.

When you've had enough of the beach, the streets beckon. They take you across faded old homes and past big bright hotels. They take you to the old Abbey, from which the town gets its name. They bend in at the waterfront and onto the gorgeous promenade. They draw you to the touristy little shops selling hats and souvenirs.

The Opatija Riviera is a string of stunning spots which just have to be explored. Take your car and head out to Icichi, Lovran and beyond. Drink in the sea, a brilliant blue, and discover the colours of the little towns.

The thing to do in these parts is to bring your own boat along and chart the seas. But if, like us, you don't have one, you can always sign up for a cruise and join in the fun.

Opatija is picture perfect, but it does come with a warning: there is very little parking around the town, and finding a spot can drive you off the cliff. Even hotel parking is paid for, and fairly hard to find. (This is true only for car owners, if you've got a boat, well ... )

All said and done, this is the kind of place you come to when you want to get away. A couple of days here and you'll feel fresher and younger than you have in weeks, maybe even years. There is something very calm about the place. The air is sweet and carries with it a general cheer. By the time you drive out, you have a smile on your face, the knots have come undone, and the world seems like a nice place again.