After a weeklong excursion that took me to the foothills of Mount Whitney, through steep roads leading up to the White Mountains, across a blisteringly hot Mojave desert and sleepy California City, and then several delightful coastal towns along the curvy, Pacific coast, I’ve now returned to the intense urban life of Los Angeles.

I am at home nowhere. I am at home everywhere. A nomad. A journeyman without a measurable quest other than to acquire and document visual and emotional experiences wherever the dust settles momentarily. It was here on the west side of this sprawling metropolis, so summarily abbreviated L.A., that the very first chapters of my life’s narrative were written, nearly six decades ago.

I’ve been fortunate to have walked within many of the world’s metropolises, none as seducing nor impenetrable as my hometown, Los Angeles. This is a complex, concrete maze chock full of people, prospects, and promises. A place brimming with hustlers and bustlers, demons, dealers, and deniers. So many draws. So many pitfalls. Yet the flow of those willing to roll the dice and pull the handle here seems endless. Los Angeles is more Vegas than Las Vegas.

Along the city’s broad, expansive boulevards, often lined with soaring, gently swaying palm trees, miles of deep crevasses in the warm, tire-worn asphalt, and gnarly, slithering cracks on the surface of the city’s mostly superfluous sidewalks.

I was born in this unrelentingly evolving city where disconcerted opulence is omnipresent and heart-wrenching impecuniousness is involentarily exhibited twenty-four-seven. I wonder what future archeologists will uncover in the bowels of L.A.’s gaping storm drains and reeking gutters.

I’ve loved and loathed Los Angeles throughout most of my life and cannot help my longing to return to this remarkably alluring place again and again. I am here to see family and friends, to work on the Resurfaced project, and, finally, to fearlessly process and rinse through deep, burdensome emotions carried way too long.

This piece, “Which Switch”, is possibly another subliminal precursor to the Resurfaced project. It’s one of my most popular compositions and I’ve had versions of it printed on paper, aluminum, and acrylic (plexiglass).

Life is about choices, turning on or off switches (or, leaving them alone), and then dealing with the results.

The backstory to the piece is that I was documenting a derelict, industrial factory in Malmö, Sweden, when quite serendipitously a bright turquoise wall appeared with a multitude of bakelite (lightweight plastic) switches fastened to it. As Robert Palmer so aptly phrased it back in the 1980s, the scene was Simply Irresistible.

#whichswitch #myartwork #bakelite #switches #choices #factoryart #kockumsindustrier #malmosweden #photoartist #plexiglassart #powerstation #robertpalmer

Here’s a part of the French seaside town Les Sables d’Olonne off the coast of the Bay of Biscay. Les Sables d’Olonne itself reminds me a little of last winter’s digs in Costa de Caparica, south of the Portuguese capital, Lisbon. Same architectural mismatch (beautiful old residential houses next to horrifically ugly apartment buildings), stunning beaches with a surf-friendly beach break, and an all-around, laid-back, off-season vibe.

This is where our Nantes-Tours-Les Sables d’Olonne guide will conclude and also where my cousin Per’s daughter Charlotte will be married a couple of hours after this sentence was completed.

As a young woman, my aunt Lillemor spent significant time in the Loire Valley and I remember her often reminiscing about all the good food and wine she enjoyed during her visits. While not top-tier, experiencing the region has nevertheless been on my list for a long time.

The image of the castle above, Douves du Château des Ducs à Nantes, was captured early yesterday morning. After a petit déjeuner, Charlotte and I took the midday train to the charming and millennia-old city of Tours.

While the administrative capital of the Loire Valley – a World Heritage Site – is Orléans (New Orleans in Louisiana originally got its name from the French nobleman, the Duke of Orléans), Tours is the region’s largest city and its financial hub.

Today, we’ll be biking around the valley to photograph and film for a forthcoming guide about how to best enjoy the Loire Valley.

We’ve had an absolutely terrific week in Bad Gastein with plenty of fresh, alpine air, long, health-promoting hikes in breathtaking scenery, and mostly really, really splendid, mostly low-carb dining experiences. From past visits to the country, I knew that Austrian chefs are masterful at classic dishes like Tafelspitz, Käsespätzle, Tiroler Gröstl, and Wiener Schnitzel. So I knew my expectations were going to be easily met as we navigated the restaurant scene in Bad Gastein.

And while often brusque and somewhat intransigent, especially the older generation (i.e. my age), most “Gasteiners” we interacted with in the hospitality industry were kind and friendly enough. I think the language barrier is still a huge culprit. Fortunately, I know a few courteous phrases in German (and some really, really naughty ones, too), and saying a few kind words was usually all it took to warm up the locals. Like everywhere else, younger Austrians live a lot of their lives online, so speaking English is easier and more comforable for them.

There is also a significant amount of immigrants living and working in the Gastein valley. Mostly from bordering countries like Slovenia, Slovakia, and Hungary. We met only a few Swedes working here. This was a bit surprising, considering how popular a destination Bad Gastein is in Sweden. I’m sure there are more seasonal workers from Sweden during the winter.

Just for fun, we summed up our stats from the week’s excursions and came up with the following rundown, at least according to Apple’s Health app:

• Floors climbed: 370, the equivalent of walking up to the top of the Empire State Building more than 3 times or the Turning Torso almost 7 times.

• Distance walked: 92 km/52 miles

It was 42 years ago since I last visited Bad Gastein and the tiny village was my very first experience skiing in the Alps. If I wait another 42 years, I’ll be 101 years old and probably way too timeworn to trek the hills or ride the Gastein valley’s many scenic trails. Certainly not as energetically as we did this past week. But if I do have the privilege of becoming a Centenarian, I wouldn’t mind returning.

Charlotte took the photo above during my walk along Mount Stubnerkogel’s suspension bridge.

Sure, this fluffy couple is as cute as can be. That’s what we thought too, at first. But behind “Billy” and “Bully’s” enchanting curls, there was also unbridled rage and immoderate anger. A murderous meanness that I have never seen any sheep possess. I think Beelzebub himself would have been impressed by their raw anger.

Like many before us, we encountered these curly animals while attempting to peacefully descend down the mountain Graukogel, above Bad Gastein, shortly after lunch today. And it was just seconds after a couple of cyclists rode past us at a crazy fast speed, that we realized how easy it was to end up on Billy and Bully’s “hit list”. Even though the bikes passed us at great speed, the apparently super easily provoked Valais Blacknose sheep were still not far behind them. In fact, Charlotte and I had never seen sheep run so damn fast! And it was when Billy and Bully finally gave up pursuing the speeding two-wheelers, that they seemed to quickly realize that we were at least as interesting as prey, and not just a mere consolation prize.

After loudly bumping heads and horns two or, three times, as if to show off how angry and determined they really were, both Billy and Bully turned their intense, angry attention to our direction and began closing the distance between us. Somewhat tentatively at first, but soon with more determined, fearless steps.

Aware of the slightly bizarre yet precarious situation, and at the same time quite drained after a long day of hiking at fairly high altitudes, we chose to evacuate our path and fall back ten, twelve feet into a dark, deep ravine. Our naive hope was, of course, that the two evil sheep would leave us alone and move on to new barbarities. Instead, first Billy and then Bully began descending upon us, like predators, with the obvious realization that the prey before them was ripe and ready to be felled.

In that situation, we had but two options. Either take our chances with a full frontal confrontation using all available weaponry; sticks, rocks, and, in a worst-case scenario, my hefty camera bag. Or, to admit our defeat and simply climb back up the mountain. After a lightning-quick conference, all the while Billy and Bully approached us in the ravine, we chose the most rational: retreat.

Luckily the sheep quickly picked up a distracting scent and finally left us to our fate. Groaning and puffing, we walked back up the mountain, relieved but sweaty all over.

We warned people who were heading down the path about the angry sheep and we sincerely hope that it did not end badly for them.
I guess I won’t be counting sheep when I have trouble falling asleep …