Cyprus blues

This was the trip of my dreams, returning to what I used to refer to as my second home. This time accompaigned by my daughter, which almost immediately brought me down memory lane, to my own childhood, when daddy was based in Famagusta as a pretty highly ranked UN officer in 1968-1969. That was only six years before the Turkish invasion that roped off the expanding, touristic part of the metropol, Varosha, which since 1974 is aghost town. I had then spent 9 months in Cyprus as a tourist representative in 1982, and had been back two more times. But this was the real thing, exploring the north part of the island together with Fredrika. Two weeks of father-daughter bonding, and the pleasure of getting to know different sides of each other. For me, as her dad, it was a rare, but dear, one-on-one opportunity to discover how much a child actually intercepts; those subtle little things that don’t seem important at the time, but later come back to you in the shape of a pree-teen’s notion of her old man. Fredrika was thrilled by the scenery, the snorkeling, the mountains, the old crusaders’ 12th century castles in the Kyrenia mountains, the wild donkeys, the baby sea turtles. We would both love to go back there, and someday we will.