I don’t even recall the name of the port where we docked. It was near enough to Berlin to take a bus to a train to a bus to the center of the city. Berlin was a place I couldn’t miss, regardless how much time it took to get there from the cruise ship. So much of the world history that happened in my life -or just before- happened in Berlin.
The fraternal twin cities of Berlin East and West walked right out of my history book and challenged me to come and take a look. I wasn’t prepared for the view. I don’t know quite what I expected. But what I found was remarkable: a city with a vibrant atmosphere, unafraid of taking on its past, marking its history with informative sites.
Berlin seemed to allow history to speak its own story; enormous passion and complete misery shown in the words of the people who experienced it. We spent a large portion of our visit walking the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe and the Berlin Wall Memorial reading the experiences from letters, newspaper accounts and business and personal documents retrieved and photocopied. First-person detail can be the most moving and the most frightening. Both were presented.
The city also seemed to be briskly taking on the future. I left with a respect for the people of Berlin, and a wish that we would all acknowledge our past, have hope for the future, then get on with things, the way they seem to be doing.
There is something about standing on a spot of history. My words are weak in describing that feeling, a blessed benefit of being able to travel. Thank you, Berlin.
Brugge is the perfect Medieval European town says the travel literature. The streets are not to be missed. The buildings are remarkable. The shops are a buyers paradise. I suppose all that is true. Unfortunately, we passed through Blankenberge first, and saw a glimpse of something I really did want to see that day. Blankenberge seemed to me to be where Europeans go for fun, Brugge where all the rest of us congregate. Neither was a disappointment, but Blankenberge called to me as I passed through.
The port where our cruise ship anchored was not an easy walk-off location, so we took a bus to the town center of Blankenberge. Through the rain, we ran to the train station, bought our tickets to Brugge and waited. It was during the waiting that I noticed some of what Blankenberge had to offer. The rain passed quickly and I noticed modern shopping streets, clean walkways, sea-side fun, a pretty town center. But we had already bought our tickets, so when the train to Brugge came along, we got on.
A short ride later, we stopped at the wonderful train station of Brugge. I wanted to take my time here, but the medieval Brugge with its travel brochure appeal lay ahead. We followed the crowds. Once inside the tangle of cobbled pavement, a waffle aroma wound around the entire street and convinced me to try this delicacy: a Belgium waffle in Belgium. It was the best part of my visit to Brugge. Sweet, crisp and – oh-that fragrant whiff.
Fabric shops, trinket stores, all the things tourists expect were there. It was all delightful, and a bit fairy-landish, like a caricature of the medieval town it really is.
It was delightful, and we even got a bit lost – something that always makes a place more memorable. Most importantly, we walked. Soon enough, we walked back to the train station, where I had just enough time to explore a bit before the return trip to Blankenberge. For many Californians, transit stations are a bit of a curiosity, and ones that are built underground are even more so. There is so much life in these beautiful underbellies – out of sight, almost secret. I found excellent coffee underground at the back entrance. I window-shopped regular neighborhood storefronts and wondered at the rates of all those currencies at the exchange. I heard a sudden rain storm from above, and felt the good fortune of being dry. Then we stepped on to the train back to Blankenberge.
We walked up the broad shopping avenue, passing the many fine clothing stores and stopping in at the neighborhood market. I looked at all the manner of coffee there was to purchase, at the pastries, the cleaning supplies, the style of the shopping baskets. We walked the entire distance to the seaside and then walked along a magnificent shoreline. Nearly deserted in early May, it was the perfect setting for simply viewing a lovely coastline and appreciating the elegant design of a boardwalk. Sometimes it’s not what you planned to do that becomes memorable, but what you do without the planning. I walked back to the train station glad that Brugge, a perfectly fine stop along the way, wasn’t all there was to my visit there.
Old town, new town, harbour, shopping mall. Everything in Cherbourg, France had one thing in common: charm. We walked right off the ship and found it everywhere.
Sometimes visits just work out. There are so many things that can work against a short stop along the way: weather can be unpredictable, moods can swing, travel ills can cause discomfort. But this day in Cherbourg, all the magic worked.
True to my travel style, I had done little research. I was asked by my history-buff friends: would we be visiting the sites of the Battle of Normandy? set foot on Omaha Beach? tour the medieval compounds? But, in a short morning and afternoon visit, I would have to spend 3 hours on a bus to get to those historical places. These are the compromises of travel, right? In this port, I had the opportunity to just step off the ship and walk. I took it.
We wound right around the harbour area, heading toward the darkened roofline of the medieval section of town. Buildings defined the different areas: sparkling white stone and clean windows lined the harbour. Sharp-angled rooflines, so greyed that I was certain the soot from last century still lay upon the tiles, called to us to walk farther into the town and further back into this area’s past. History lay all around me. I listened for and heard the beautiful whirr of the French language.
The charm of the old town, with its twisting streets – narrow and lined with tall buildings – pulled us into the maze and immediately lost us. The only thing to do was to pick a direction and continue, relishing in the adventure of being lost in a safe place. Along the way, we strolled through a beautiful garden, the product of centuries of careful planning and tending. We strayed up a dead-end alleyway, then retraced our steps to find ourselves suddenly un-lost and at the door of the ancient sea-side church Basilique Sainte-Trinite. From this vantage, I looked back to the harbour, and once again found my bearings. We headed back into the old town, searching for the fountain, wandering along and enjoying the flow of other tourists and many residents.
The charm of the alleyways called my attention. Such a variety of narrow spits of passageways. Alleys were everywhere, laid out to connect walkers to different areas of town. Even in the residential sections, the narrow but open-topped tunnels cut a route from here to there. I couldn’t follow them all, but wanted to.
Through the neighborhoods we walked, and there we found residential charm. Attached to the apartment complexes were small plots of garden land, with pint-sized potting sheds sitting on each section. What would these city farmers plant in their gardens? As I walked, I saw rowcrops of vegetables, and many, many flowers. But mostly, I saw green. Green everything: grass, budding trees, leafing flowers and bushes. We walked up the hills to the larger houses and back down into town, wanting to stretch our legs and our time.
suburban bliss near the
Our return trip took us again through the old town. A cafe owner was attending to patrons sitting at his sidewalk tables. He answered a remark by one of the customers. I didn’t hear the question, but the answer charmed me as much as the town itself had. “Stay as long as you want, we love your company.”
And that’s how I left our short visit to Cherbourg: relishing the welcome and feeling like I wanted to come back, explore the small inviting pathways, listen longer to the language, and enjoy the hospitality.
When you’ve been on a ship for 6 days, even a nice ship, it’s no surprise that stepping on to firm land is a pretty big deal. Our first stop of the transatlantic journey was in Ponta Delgada, Portugal. Maybe it sounds like it’s close to Europe, being a part of Portugal, but it’s really not as close as one might think. Facing another couple days on board after the brief stop in Ponta Delagada, I was determined to set my feet on ground as early as possible and stay there as long as I could.
Ponta Delgada is an island way, way off the coast of Portugal. I figured that there were adventures to be had there, and lovely places to see. But our time was limited, so what interested me most was a nice, long walk. Why not? My plan was to walk enough so that I would be content on board the ship for another two days. Would the town be big enough? Was the port area close enough to walk to town? Would there be guidebooks or maps? I had many confounding questions, all pointing to the fact that I really should have done more research ahead of time. As it turned out, my research – which consisted of looking at the location of the island on Google maps – was sufficient.
We got off the ship, set our feet to the ground and strolled. The weather began cool and got steadily warmer and warmer, the streets appeared wondrously cobbled and tiled, and the people, what few were out on this early Sunday morning, were mostly a group of motorcycle enthusiasts. Why would this surprise me? I have no idea. But their presence sold me on Ponta Delgada, a place where you can walk along the harbour, watch waves crash against an ancient stone wall, admire the beautiful tile work on the sidewalks, and march right up to a group of shiny Harleys.
Then we walked and walked and walked. We visited the glorious gardens at Jardim Antonio Borges. This free city park is like no other I’ve ever seen, filled with glorious plants, enormous trees and grottos with sunken gardens.
Indian Rubber Tree in Jardim Antonio Borges
leading up to the grotto
grottos you can walk through
At the Governor’s Residence, we paid a small entrance fee, and were delighted by the gardens surrounding the house. Colorful and nicely planned, we even got to see the potting shed and seedlings on display. What a lot of work these gardens are. So, it was nice to find a lovely spot to sit.
Afterward, we walked the pedestrian-only streets with their elaborately-designed stonework. We climbed up the aged stairway of the old harbour walls. We walked neighborhoods of tightly-spaced homes trailing wrought-iron balconies from their upstairs rooms.
The weather was temperate and pleasant on this island, and locals said that was common. But after a while, the sun took its toll. When I needed a break, there appeared before us a modern shopping mall. An air-conditioned store? Yes, please. There was even a fabulous public restroom, with the most amusing wash basin I have ever seen.
Before the visit, I felt confident that knowing Spanish, I would be able to handle Portuguese. No doubt others have made this mistake. Even the written words tempted me into believing more of my language skills than I should have. It was not the writing that tripped me up, it was the spoken word. Sign posts and street signs presented no problem. But I could not understand one single spoken word, no matter how slowly spoken or oft-repeated.
Luckily, the people of Ponta Delgada understood me. They provided a marvelous day-long walking path with wonderful weather. Obrigado – it means thank you, I think 😉
It was an enormous cruise ship. There should have been plenty of walking places built into the design. There weren’t. The Promenade, that ever-present feature of cruise ship fame had been cut down to a single-lane path that wove in, out and around small launches and electrical fittings. It didn’t circumnavigate the ship.
Who’s complaining? Me. I know that being able to travel to many of the world’s note-worthy places is a wild piece of luck, and I shouldn’t complain about any part of it. We plan our travel carefully, weighing cost versus comfort. And when we search for good deals, taking a cruise keeps popping its head up as the most economical way to get from point A to many many other points around the world. I am a reluctant cruiser, but as long as I can tolerate the short visits to interesting places, we will probably continue to book our interior rooms occasionally on these enormous floating hotels. It’s just not a perfect situation. What is?
We had signed up for a trans-Atlantic cruise that included a route into the Baltic region. It allowed for 11 different stops in 26 days. It’s a bit of ‘if it’s Tuesday, it must be Belgium’, but when the price is right, I can adjust to almost any travel style. And when we get to those points along the way, I can walk my heart out for a good morning and afternoon in each port, which is really what I like to do when I travel, so that’s all good. But what about those ‘at-sea’ days? On this ship, a big, beautiful new one, there was the down-sized promenade and a small running track on one of the top decks. So, looking for a better stroll, I took to the stairs.
From our pleasant small cabin on deck 11, I could climb the stairs to deck 15, loop around from the retreat pool to outside the always-crowded fitness room, up one deck to the surprisingly small running track, down again to the deck 15 loop, descend the stairs to the tiny little promenade on deck 7, up again to deck 14 where I could grab a cup of tea and find a solitary spot on one of the exterior lounge areas. It turned out to be an invigorating walk, and there were always plenty of places on the ship where I could find privacy afterwards for some reading or relaxing.
It was interesting to me that as I walked, and as I lounged, I noticed that many other passengers were finding their own ways to get in their exercise. As I looked for books in the library, I noticed a couple walked by four times. They had devised an indoor walking route around the many interior lounges. Then, in my ‘secret’ spot at the very back of the ship where there was a lovely dead end and few people, one man walked rapidly past me, where there was no more ship, turned around and walked just as rapidly away. He came back about 15 minutes later, with the same routine and again 15 minutes after that. On another day, it was a woman doing the same walk. On the days when I sat away from the crowd in my corner at the retreat pool, I noticed an intermittent stream of walkers, one or two or three at a time, looping through the area, returning about every 20 minutes.
I was stuck on the ship for 26 days. Six of those days were traveling across the Atlantic Ocean from Florida to the Azore Islands of Portugal. I knew I had to figure some outdoor routine for exercise and escape. Even though the routine did not include the usual promenade walk, as things turned out, it did include great exertion and lots of pleasant relaxation. I even found empty hot tubs for a satisfying rest after my walk if I went early enough (so I did.)
Taking a cruise has an odd reputation that I find doesn’t have much to do with the way we experience it. We have been able to bend the cruise experience to our own idea of travel – economical and comfortable sojourns to interesting locations. A nice walk and a hot tub waiting when I’m done is nothing to complain about.
At times, I complain about our rugged American walking life. We have trails, not walking paths. We walk in rustic, remote national parks, not through our cities. I have even – a time or two – been driven away from a walk by nature itself. But today, I am offering a tribute to walking with wildlife all around. It can be a remarkable and reviving experience of renewal. Isn’t that exactly why we walk?
I take a daily stroll around my central California coastal neighborhood. After four years living here, it still is refreshingly new. It is also more rugged than refined. The first thing I do is cross the famous Pacific Coast Highway, State Route One, always on the list for the world’s most beautiful and dangerous highways. The second thing I do is head for my usual path to the beach, filled with sand and stickers and the changeable route through the dunes.
Today, the third thing I did on this walk was stop in the middle of the path for this:
S/he didn’t move, and I worried. Should I just step around? Should I be concerned for its health? It wasn’t a rattlesnake, so I wasn’t afraid. It – a gopher snake? – looked to me like it had just eaten something quite big,
so I knew it might just be in that after-glow of a good meal. Snakes don’t loosen their belts, they lull.
A veeeery long snake…
at least 5 feet, and I couldn’t quite see the tail.
I retreated, and took a different path through the dunes.
Horses have accompanied me on every single walk I have ever taken on this beach. One or two or sometimes three ride along together. Today, a herd was there.
Tourists had to
jump out of the way
herd rode by.
Look closely, some were riding bareback. They frolicked and circled and raced and the riders hooted and laughed. When there are twenty horses and twenty people involved in this amount of hoop-la, it’s noticeable, even above the thunder of the surf. And then the horses and riders actually did surf. Or very nearly.
My usual walks also include a lot of this
And if I am lucky, I can climb the steps up the bluff at the turn-around point of my walk, sit for awhile and watch nature’s show. Today, the show was spectacular.
not a shark
As I sat, I laughed at the antics of the dolphins: dance routines, couple jumps, splashes that looked like pure fun. I admired the skill of the pelicans: their patient search and precise spray as they entered the water for the catch.
I stared into the horizon, hoping to see evidence of those enormous creatures that inhabit our coastline in the summer. I know they are there. But sometimes, I have to be satisfied with that knowledge, and not the sight of the blue and humpback whales.
This summer, I have seen a lot of them. They have been almost too close to the shore at times, almost dangerously close. Today they stayed in the hazy distance, treating me with occasional evidence of their seasonal trip. Like the human vacationers who come in droves, the whales come also each summer.
While I sat, a three-ring circus entertained me, including a pod of dolphins, fishing pelicans and whales in the distance. On the way back home, I checked on the overly-full snake, but found it wasn’t blocking the path any longer. Today’s walk was filled with the wildlife I have seen all my life. Not a city-life walk, but a walk peopled with creatures that have been my walking companions for a long, long time.
Every summer I visit Ohio, and every summer I am amazed. This time, fields of lavender took me by complete surprise. First of all, I have never been a fan of lavender. The scent, that astringent clear-your-head aroma and its ability to hang around uninvited, had never for me been the pleasant experience it seemed to the rest of the world. Secondly, Ohio? Lavender, the little I knew of it, would seem to be a dry weather, everyday sun, never near ice kind of thing. In other words, not for Ohio.
But we heard about a nearby lavender farm, and farms in Ohio are something worth visiting. My friend Debbie and I got out the map and went.
Luvin Lavender Farms in Madison, Ohio is a tiny spot of heaven on earth. Bee-friendly, organic and enticing, the display garden is home for row upon row of lavender plants. Before our visit, I had only known vaguely about this herb, but now I was being introduced to specific types: mailette, provence, hidcote and edelweiss. Each variety had a row, a signpost and a special reason for being at the farm. One had a unique aroma, another a special flower, a third was long-lasting. As we were introduced to the marvel of lavender, bees flew by to show us how important the plants were to their busy summer season.
The day we visited, an entire row of twickel purple lavender was being harvested by hand with a scythe. As the flowers waved in the breeze and the bees dropped in on the plants, sachets of cut lavender lay atop the shrubs and added their scent to the fresh air. I sniffed. I couldn’t get enough of that luscious smell. When had I become a fan of lavender? Somewhere between the cozy gift shop and the informative tour, the aroma had hit me and I had been won over.
Sipping on lavender tea in the gift shop, I took my time picking out the supply I would take home. Because, once a fan of lavender, always a fan of lavender…and the soap that is made from it, and the body butter, and the sachets…and the shampoo. I’ve always liked farms. Now I can say I like lavender, too.
Afterward, we drove a couple miles west and enjoyed a refreshing lunch alongside Lake Eerie. Ahh…Ohio. Always a surprise. Thanks, Debbie.
If you come by train from Bucharest to Brasov, Romania you have already had a mountain-side seat to view the Carpathians. Legendary mountains of beauty (true) and vampires (maybe not so true), you have already formed an opinion about the countryside you came to see. Transylvania. It is truly pristine, with tall triangled pine trees, rock-tiled streams, and towns along the way that make you question your choice to visit Brasov over the many other cities and villages out the window of the train.
But I had done my research and picked Brasov for what I hoped would be a classic Transylvania visit. There is always a gamble in traveling to places you haven’t been before. I simply had to let this adventure play out. After the train reached the Brasov station, I hailed a taxi and asked the price to ‘Piata Sfatului’, the Old Town Hall Square, doing my best with the pronunciation. Thankfully, the driver answered in English, and we set out. After a five minute drive through the soviet-era apartment neighborhood, I was delivered to the town square and back into Medieval Times. If it weren’t for the people, dressed as if they were from today’s world, I would have looked for someone lighting a candle in a store window as the afternoon began to give way to evening.
The streets were so walkable they beckoned my footsteps to add to the multitude that have passed this way over centuries and centuries of people going about their every-day lives. There was a procession in the late afternoon of Medieval soldiers who walked the Romanian flag to the Main Square in a casual arrangement of mismatched footsteps. They chatted along the way and passersby watched for a moment or two, then proceeded with their own business. It was an encouraging mood, a daily ceremony to be enjoyed but not taken too seriously.
Walking into the older neighborhoods, I found tiny streets not much wider than the span of my arms. The polished stone underfoot reminds travelers how many others throughout the centuries have walked these steps. That constant march of people, only the soles of their shoes changing with style and technology, leaves a sheen of history. Looking up at the road ahead, as it climbed into a tighter and tighter twist of ancient homes, gave me a respect for the workers who built the steps so long ago.
Back in the Square, I noticed the slogan on each wide umbrella covering the tables outside every restaurant: Brasov – Probably the best City in the world. At once humble and proud, who could deny this charm? I was certainly convinced, and happy with my travel choice.
Town Square from your walk
The Black Church
Biserica Neagră: The Black Church, watched attentively from the end of the square, a dark gray menace next to so much optimism. Continuing to walk, I was drawn to the darkness of this church’s entrance, feeling insignificant next to the enormous doors and heavy rock exterior. So imposing, the church itself seemed to challenge my plan to chance a visit inside. But, curiosity won and I passed through the massive doors into the 14 and 15 centuries. Tall, slim windows along the sides let in very little light. Benches close to the doors were meant for peasants, while the seats closer to the altar for richer folk. The gloom of the interior matched the outside threatening look of the church. I hadn’t paid too much attention to the legend of Dracula, and had been told by several Romanians that they weren’t too fond of the connection. But here, in the Black Church of Brasov, I nearly believed.
I walked outside in the midst of a sudden rainstorm. The streets filled with run-off and people had fled. But it passed, the waters receded from the streets and I continued walking to reach the city wall. Constructed hundreds of years ago to keep residents safe from outsiders like myself, I walked along the grassy top and looked back to brick-roofed buildings and cobbled streets. As I looped back to the town square, the encroaching darkness reminded me it was time to search out the hotel.
I wanted to congratulate myself for an excellent choice in finding this lovely walkable city. But I know the truth, that I have simply had some wonderful travel luck in picking Brasov. Like the slogan says – probably the best city I will visit in the entire world. Or, at least until the next one.
Linked to Restless Jo’s Monday Walks, a wonderful way to find walks all over the world:
Ushakova Boulevard in Kherson runs straight from the railway station to the Dneiper River quay. Along its sides, many of Kherson’s important buildings have stood for decades. The street is lined with broad pathways and sidewalks, covered by enormous green leaves from chestnut trees in the summer, made dangerous by ice and snow in the winter. If you walk one street in Kherson, it should be Ushakova, and it should be in springtime.
Like many post-Soviet railway stations this one impresses you with complex walkways from the many possible railway lines. There are overhead walkways, round and about walkways and zig zags. Follow the other passengers exiting the train, and you will soon enough find yourself in the reception area, filled with high ceilings, wooden walls and Cyrillic-lettered notices. Pass through the station, head toward the sidewalk and soon the street becomes a grand Avenue. Ushakova.
A slow crumble begins
Near the station, the buildings that line the street are Lenin-era buildings, kinder and gentler than the newer concrete-block buildings. The Stalin-era buildings, the concrete ones, were built to last not built to be loved. The Lenin-era buildings were built with love, wood, and high ceilings. Many are beginning to slowly crumble, waiting for someone to decide their future.
Glory to the Liberators of Kherson
Soon, you pass by one of those newer concrete buildings, and notice that even it is beginning a slow crumble of neglect. Other buildings, the Music College for example, are loved and well-tended.
Orthodox Church back view
There is an extravagant Naval College and a long, industrial-looking post office. From your sidewalk, you peek though an open lot and see a beautiful little Orthodox church. Tall feathered stems from grasses wave between you and the church, surrounded as it is with a graveyard that grows field grasses high during a quick and vigorous spring.
Many places to sit
Large sidewalks for the many walkers
Ushakova here becomes a true boulevard. Benches for sitting divide two wide walkways that line each side of the street. The traffic portion of the street itself is wide, but not so wide as either of the pedestrian walkways. More buses than private vehicles fill the avenue. But there are many, many people, like you, walking. You have to set a truly fast pace to keep up with your Ukrainian sidewalk companions. If you want to just sit and watch for awhile, pick a bench and rest.
But don’t stop yet, for farther down the boulevard is Lenin Square. When I was taking this walk, in 2010, a huge statue of Lenin stood in the middle of the expanse of concrete. I have seen You-tube videos of the statue being pulled down during the Maidan protests of 2011-2012. Whatever else is left in the square, the size of this rectangle of concrete will impress you. Massive public areas, a leftover of the Soviet Union, are here and there around Kherson. Once a city of 500,000, now retreating to near 200,000, this amount of common space seems almost overwhelming.
All along Ushakova, you have passed restaurants, many with cafe tables along the sidewalk. Now, as you pass the pedestrian street of Suvarova, you see there are many more, as well as shops and perhaps some sidewalk artists and vendors.
The street begins a fairly steep descent to the Dneiper River. There is a beautiful wharf walk along the river that runs through a park that is allowed to grow wild with spring grasses, then just in time, trimmed with weed whackers in a fit of tidiness.
a sometimes busy river
across to the island
Something invades your peaceful river thoughts – the Hotel Fregat. A futuristic design sixty years ago, the building and grounds now look like a sad mockery of the 1960’s. It hasn’t fallen into disrepair, just fallen wildly out of fashion. Maybe a little disrepair, too.
But the river is glorious. Ushakova ends here, at the wide, powerful, decisive Dneiper. Large and small outboard motor boats can take you back and forth to the islands just across the current. Large yachts sail by, but not often. Large commercial ships ferry goods occasionally. Most of the time, you can stand here at the quay with just you, your thoughts, and the steel-colored waves.
For a westerner’s eye, like mine, photographs capture the beauty of this city in northern Ukraine better than words. We have separated the world, giving an east/west classification that may be simple, but it is not descriptive. Ukraine is easily distinguished from many western countries, and Chernigiv is unlike any city in my home state of California in the USA. But different can be beautiful, and it is always interesting. Let’s prove that by seeing the sights in Chernigiv. Let’s take a walk.
Drain spouts hang politely over the sidewalk, buses pass by, and you walk past forested areas as you near the city center. The season is autumn, and it is felt in your toes as they contact the stony cold of the street or sidewalk, and in your lungs as you breathe crisp cold. You feel the cold on your nose as you try to figure out ways to cover up in the coming winter. Autumn is coat weather, but pleasantly so. As you walk, you gather some steam, for there are hills to climb in Chernigiv.
First, you walk past older homes, one-storied and rectangular. Their corrugated metal roofs are a study in geometry. Electric wires invade a building made before electricity, searching the easiest way to enter the home. Three-paned double windows line up along the houses’ sides, but only the smallest pane is open and only a few of those.
A river rambles by. Or maybe it is a stream off the main river. There are so many trees that it is hard to get a view. Until you walk up to the top of the hill, and then there it is, a panorama memorialized by the residents of Chernigiv. A shrine is placed at the top of the hill, and the view is suddenly extraordinary. Orthodox domes, one after another line up into the distance. A wedding party gathers in the bright yellow fallen leaves, posing for photos. The houses nearby give off steam, adding to the mist of the day, swirling this landscape in a beautiful uncertainty.
You stop at the restaurant by the river, amazed at the fireplace in the center of the dining room, and grateful for the warmth. The meal is plentiful and robust. Dark bread and buckwheat, roast chicken with vegetables. You drink hot tea simmered with leaves still on the twig in a iron-wrapped tall glass.
Now, you walk to the main avenue of downtown Chernigiv. You can walk on either side of the street on the broad sidewalks, or you can venture down the promenade in the center of the street, passing water fountains that you are told shoot colored sprays during festivals. Of course, there is a statue of Lenin in the middle of this concourse, and several other statues. You recognize the name of a famous poet, but struggle to read the Cyrillic letters on the plaques.
Continuing, you pass a school, then the side street that leads to a large outdoor market, and the underground entrances to the walkways that take you to the opposite side of the avenue. You decide to use one of these underground crosswalks, and are delighted to find a string of small shops hidden beneath the street. You linger a bit and make some purchases. On the other side of the avenue, you wander into a large apartment complex and past a neighborhood grocery store.
You feel chill in the air and decide it’s time to return home. Past the apartments, through the forested area and back to the older one-storied homes, you are grateful for those two-layered windows. For the first time, you realize the significance of the complex design of the three panes and the double layers. You open the larger pane at the bottom of the interior windows, then reach through to the small pane of the outer one. You take off your coat and scarf and gloves and hat – your boots have already been left at the door – and let the steam leave through the window. Then, you close everything up again, and are grateful for the two layers of protection from the cold.
Residents of Chernigiv have structured their city in a way that makes sense. The cold, the ice, the beauty of the autumn leaves, the wandering river, the church domes all remind you that California is half a world away, and you are so lucky to be seeing this place that is new to you.