roadtrip. [travels]

how come that the moments you cherish in your memory are never the big spectacular ones but always the absolutely inconspicuous ones? 












 

hey rosetta! red song. [songs]

there are only few people whose voices i immediately fell in love with after listening to one of their songs for the first time: tim baker is the exception on this very short list by not being a blues singer like the others on there. but all about my love of all things blues in a later post. 
first things first:













hey rosetta! is one of my favourite bands ever since i was in newfoundland and a hitchhiker, who was on his way from port-aux-basques to st. john's, recommended their music to me. i love their music for the absolutely stunning lyrics, the energy of their songs as well as for the wonderful quiet moments they create. in many songs there is an atmospheric build-up to the belt-out-happiness moments that i have not yet found in other artist's music. they also possess a powerful live presence which is incredible to witness. 
red song was always the song that i liked most. back home, i convinced a friend, who didn't know them before, to drive out to their concert in basel with me and when we were standing in the middle of the crowd and they started playing this song, she turned around and said, beaming with joy, that this was her favourite song, when she looked them up before coming to the concert, and that she already learned the guitar tunes to it. it was this magical moment of understanding each other and having a shared appreciation for something. plus, a shared joy is always a more profound joy.

our van. [memories]

in autumn 1987, a few months before i was born, my mom and my dad decided that - with a third child on the way - it was probably the right time to buy a family car and that maybe my dad's - admittedly - incredibly cool old-timer would simply not cut it anymore. the car they bought then was the only brand new car my parents ever bought in their life and it turned out to be way more than just a car. over the years we all grew so attached to that car that when we finally had to get rid of it because it was just not worth investing any more money into it in order to pass the forthcoming inspections (oh swiss laws...) it was quite an emotional goodbye for our family. so many memories are attached to this car, so many stories wrapped around it and so many experiences made in it. it was the site of many quarrels, conversations and happy moments but most of all it was the our faithful  companion of our "gipsy holidays". we threw our stuff in the back, hopped inside the car und set out to encounter many adventures all across europe. when the day was coming to an end we would look out for a hotel to spend the night and continued on our journey the next day. to be honest, knowing my parents, those trips were probably much more planned and more structured than i remember it, but that was how i experienced it as a little child. if i could have one single item back from my childhood, this would be it. i do not know what i would do with it. maybe put it in the garden as a little hideout or something but i would never give it away. never.

hosting. mountains. [travels]

two years ago i hosted three wonderful couchsurfers from canada and the us. we randomly set out to explore swiss mountains and ended up at the peak of the säntis (a mountain in the eastern part of the country). here some photos of the grand, mystical atmosphere up top...

anais mitchell. coming down & bon iver. coming down cover. [songs]

i think with anais mitchell's voice it is the same as with whiskey. it is an acquired taste but once you fall for it the appreciation is even bigger than it could ever be for something easily accessible. however, while i can live without whiskey i could never live without anais mitchell's voice and her storytelling abilities. in my opinion the gift of storytelling is an exceptionally rare one and the real storytellers are hard to find. however, her skills - not only in creating stories but also in telling them in her unique way - are quite unmatched. the reason why this song is one of the songs i love most, even though it is not so much of a storytelling song in a conventional sense but rather a song which creates a setting - an atmosphere - where the listener can insert his own story, is that it reflects the magic quality of her songs. the highest mastery of storytelling is to spark a story in the listener's head, by - in a way - reducing the elaborateness of the art and by keeping the story elusive to encourage the imagination of the listener.

she is a true goddess of storytelling. 

hiking. mountains. [travels]

while i always enjoyed the immense beauty of nature, my friends and i just started to go on hikes together and now embrace this shared joy of ours to the fullest whenever we find to time to do so.
a few photos from our most recent hike near lake lucerne:

tom waits. anywhere i lay my head. [songs]

my head is spinning round
my heart is in my shoes
i went and set the thames on fire
now i must come back down
she's laughing in her sleeve, boy
i can feel it in my bones
but anywhere, anywhere i'm wanna
lay my head, boy, I wanna call my home
when I see that the world is upside down
seems that my pockets were filled up with gold
now the clouds have covered everything o'er
and the wind is blowing cold
well, i don't need anybody
because I learned, i learned to be alone
and i say anywhere, anywhere, anywhere
i lay my head, boy, i will call my home.

this song was a constant companion through many of the more solitary parts of my travels. this is a nomad's song. and when i grow up i wanna be a nomad. seriously.

the loveliest newfie blog. [travels]

a few years back i bought the most beautiful scarf from a lovely lady at some kind of fair-thingy in corner brook and it was just recently that i found the tag and a little business card belonging to it that i sentimentally stored in a little tin can with lots of other bits and pieces as keepsakes from my travels through newfoundland. this little piece of paper led me to the most wonderful blog. newfoundland has a special place in my heart, there is no place on earth i would rather go to than newfoundland and reading this blog always makes me feel like i am still in a way connected to the island and its people.

http://islandsweet.blogspot.ch/2013/12/on-my-drive-up-to-gros-morne-at-end-of.html

photos from my travels in newfoundland:

kleine schreiberei von lange her. [scribblings]

Eine Begegnung

Hinter mir fällt die Tür mit einem lauten Knall ins Schloss. Aufatmend reibe ich meine steifgefrorenen, gefühllosen Hände aneinander und erfreue mich der Tatsache, dass ich an der Wärme bin. Kurze Zeit später geniesse ich, dass diese auch in meine Hände zurückgekehrt ist und schlendere durch die Räume des Kunsthauses; ich gehe einige Schritte, bleibe vor einigen Gemälden stehen und freue mich darüber, dass es mich trotz des Alltagsstress nun doch wieder einmal hierher verschlagen hat. Einige Bilder erscheinen mir bereits wie alte Bekannte, doch nun fesselt ein Bild, welches mir noch nie zuvor aufgefallen ist, meinen Blick. Es ist unscheinbar und klein, hängt versteckt in einer Ecke und im Glas davor spiegelt sich eine Lampe. Hinter dieser Glasscheibe erkenne ich einen Mann; unbeweglich sitzt er da, an eine Steinmauer gelehnt, und erweckt den Anschein, als würde er schlafen... 
Er sass schon seit geraumer Zeit an die Mauer gelehnt da. Allmählich spürte er die spitzen Steine im Rücken. Nicht gerade angenehm, doch half ihm dies, wachsam zu bleiben und die beiden Säcke im Auge zu behalten, die noch bis oben mit Orangen gefüllt waren und die er noch verkaufen musste, damit er über die Runden kam. Die Schweisstropfen liefen ihm von der Stirn über die Schläfen hinunter, kein Luftzug brachte Erleichterung in die Stunden der Mittagshitze. Noch liess sich kein anderer Händler blicken, doch so sicherte er sich seinen Platz unter den kargen Bäumen, welche wenigstens etwas Schatten spendeten. Wenn doch nur endlich Kundschaft kommen würde...

Mein Blick fällt auf das Schild, welches neben dem Bild befestigt ist: Der Orangenverkäufer in Marokko, kann ich darauf lesen. Marokko. Mein Ferienziel. Ich richte meinen Blick auf die Umgebung und beginne zu träumen. Strand, Meer, Hitze... Ja, Hitze. Endlich wieder einmal richtig schwitzen, bis einem der Schweiss in Bächen hinunter fliesst. Ich stelle mir einen Markt vor, tauche hinein in all die fremdartigen Geräusche und Gerüche. Ich empfinde einen würzigen Geschmack, glaube eine Orange auf meinen Lippen zu spüren. Die Sonne erwärmt mein Gesicht und zaubert ein Lächeln auf meinen Mund... 
Er sah eine Bewegung, sein Körper spannte sich an, sein wachsamer Blick folgte einer kleinen Gestalt, welche einige Meter entfernt die Strasse entlang ging und langsam auf ihn zukam. Sie war eigenartig gekleidet, ganz anders als es üblich ist, ihre zierliche Gestalt war eingehüllt in schwarze, viel zu warme Kleidungsstücke...

Plötzlich gehe ich eine notdürftig gepflasterte Strasse entlang, meine Kleidung ist unpassend, schon nach einigen Schritten strömt mir der Schweiss aus allen Poren. Vor mir entdecke ich den Orangenverkäufer; er ist in weisses Leinen gekleidet und trägt einen tiefblauen Turban der in weichen Falten sein braungebranntes Gesicht umrahmt. Seine harten Gesichtszüge und die tiefen Falten zeigen, dass er schon viel erlebt hat und sicher kein einfaches Leben hatte, doch seine dunkeln Augen treffen mich unerwartet; sie besitzen eine unglaubliche Sanftheit...

Die kleine fremde Frau sah ihm direkt in die Augen. Staunend nahm er ihre leuchtend grünen Augen wahr, die einen so eigenartigen Kontrast zu den schwarzen Haaren bildeten. Zärtlich berührte er ihre Wange, die so fein, so sanft wie Seide war...

Er streicht mir mit seiner aufgesprungenen, an harte Arbeit gewöhnten Hand über meine Wange, da nehme ich seine Hand in meine und betrachte sie. Da spüre ich wie mich jemand anrempelt, und höre von weitem ein gemurmeltes: „Entschuldigung“

Als ich wieder aufblicke sehe ich wieder das Bild vor mir. Ich taumele einen Schritt zurück, als hätte mich jemand geschlagen. Als ich mich gefasst habe, bemerke ich bestürzt, dass sich unter meinen Achselhöhlen Schweissflecken gebildet haben. Verwirrt mache ich mich auf den Heimweg und als ich in die Kälte hinaustrete, brennt meine Wange immer noch an dieser Stelle, an der er mich berührt hat...

alin coen. wolken. [songs]

komm mit mir mit, wir geh'n irgendwo hin und dann, schauen wir hoch und seh'n uns die wolken  an. ich nehme dich bei der hand und ziehe dich hinter mir her, ich frage mich, warum fällt es so schwer; ich glaube, du willst nicht mehr. ist dein wesen für alle so schwer zu lesen? wenn ich's nicht verstehen kann, wie fühlt sich's für dich denn an? wenn du dann gehst, schau ich dir nach, schau wie das ende verdreht, was der anfang versprach. das wetter wird wieder wolkig bis heiter. die wolken zieh'n weiter.

there are songs that make their way right into your heart and this sure is one of them. it could not be shorter, quieter, or more reduced but just her voice and the way she paints a picture with this little tune is unique.

iraqi kurdistan. [travels]

there are always expectations when you set out on a new path and they are rarely ever fulfilled because travels never quite turn out the way you anticipate them. however, never before were the expectations as vague as when we set out from erbil towards the northern part of iraq. yet this uncertainty of not knowing what to expect might just be the reason, why this region captured my heart the way it did. since leaving it behind i spent many hours thinking about the mountains, the green valleys, and, most of all, the people i met. 
photos will never be able to capture the inherent natural beauty we are surrounded with, however, it just might give you a little glimpse into the iraq i discovered and learnt to love. 
a few impressions: