By the fire, my indigenous guide Sáráhkká explained that the modern age sees the world as resources to be extracted and consumed, and in the process one forgets that mother nature is a living being, of which all of us are its cells. This belief underpins the Sami philosophy of ‘Birgejupmi’ - one should take the world’s gifts in temperance, out of deference to mother earth, and as a blessing to future generations.

Wading through the Arctic winds and snow, I was compelled to respect the dominion of natural elements, but also to admire its immense beauty. To traverse the cold barren expanse, man’s symbiosis with animals provides the comforting warmth of kinship; in the long winter dark nights, wonder is kept alive by the dances of the ancestral spirits, whose emerald shimmer points the way.

The Spirit's Forge

The Caucasus are home to nations that are spiritual as they are spirited: Two ancient houses of Christ, stand as bejeweled monuments to the resilience of man, hardened by generational pain.

In ethno-heritage scriptings, their stories are written in fire:

The fire of prayer candles, sanctuary of wishes and illuminating hope in times of darkness;

it is also the blaze of sacred sword that burns away all, except for the good and true.

The Forlorn citadel

I was wandering around the Marais district, 4th arrondissement, when I was reined in by the sound of an elderly gentleman busking with his violin. As we struck up a conversation, Jean, the mild-mannered violinist, eagerly introduced me to his favourite folk song "Mon Amant des Sant-Jean" which is also his namesake, whose lyrics narrate the intoxicating, unrequited love for a boy from the town of Sant-Jean.

He told me that it would take centuries for one to truly understand Paris; a city with a personality as volatile and temperamental as the ripples of the seine, constantly rejecting and reinventing itself. And just so, any Parisian’s feelings towards their home is just as complex, always intense. For some it is mystique, for some it is ennui, for some it is love.

Rolling Hills of Clouds

On the topic of solitude, Henry David Thoreau philosophised that it refers not to the physical distance from other people, but rather how spiritually close one is to oneself. To be alone is to confront oneself, clearly and comprehensively.

The Swiss ideal of life is centred in nature. In solitude within the hills, where one can be their purest self, uninhibited, untempered, like rivers flowing straight from the sky. This reverence of personal freedom does not translate to antisociality, but instead a culture where its citizens helps uplift each other, for each to be their most complete person. Where along with the symphony of cowbells and hillsongs,

the spirit of liberty echoes through the valley.

Songs from the Danube

The two capitals of a once formidable European empire, still reminisices about the glory long since passed, still romanticises the dreams that never were.

This nostalgia crystallised into a drive for self expression: whether in the forms of high-browed classical arts, or in the forms of ancient folk rituals, the past is kept alive in the present; from which one may find elevation, and salvation.

The Evergreen Isle

I asked the ex-IRA elderly gentlemen, now a museum keeper, what constitutes the spirit of Ireland? Is it a fervor to protect a certain sect of faith, a certain yearning for autonomy, or an ancient celtic heritage unstifled by centuries of colonisation? The answer he gave is but one single word:

Friendship.

Eis tín Pólin / Konstantinopolis / Byzantium / Lygos

Samuel Huntington called Turkey a "cleft state", not belonging to any singular civilisation; always caught in the crossroad of many cultures. This quality is best reflected in this inter-continental crown jewel of history's greatest empires, whose mystique bewitched conquerors' desire: the city with countless names, the city of many faces.

The Sovereign's Sandbox

The ideals of a free cosmopolis became the monument to ambitions. The artificial gilded skyline forms an enticing mirage in the sands, carrying the hollow dreams of honest souls, foraging for their own treasures. His stern visage adorns every hall, his name invoked in every institutions, yet it is someone else who is remembered in prayer.

The Blessed Isle

Here is a question I have deliberated on for sometime: Where does the soul of Britain lie?

Is it the sardonism that permeates pub banterings, the yet-broken sensibility of social classes, the guilt hanging off the shadow of a once-empire? Or might it be the humanism that shines through in times of darkness, an honourable propensity to a kind heart, in an island whose very heritage is diversity, with a 2000-year long tradition of embracing settlers from far corners of the world, and make greatness of them all.

Dracopolis

The iconography of a dragon came to represent this city not as a symbolism of fantastic, fire-breathing might; but rather a symbolism of its serpentine wile. Nimble and in control; crossing and weaving through the labrynith of skyscrapers and back alleys, as its denizens do in every hustling day. A breeding ground for aspiring dragons, who all dreamt of riding the cloud.