It is a rare treat for this Wild Traveler, camping. The devilish combination of a finite number of three day weekends (usually reserved for trips to Barcelona) , unwilling companions (the last one this Wild Traveler introduced to the joys of camping committed suicide shortly after) and a nation-wide ban on free camping (resulting in all decent camping spots being either full of cops or, if not so easily accessible, full of campers), has resulted in a sad, sharp reduction of wild camping trips.
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There is something about Friday evenings: the anticipation of weekend treats -or retreats-, the excitement of the upcoming 60+ hours of free time, the joy of vegging out before the TV without worrying about tomorrow’s alarm clock… or maybe it’s just the collective zeitgeist of people feeling relieved they won’t have to think about work for a while.
Whatever the reason, Friday evenings are good. And happy.
Enjoying Friday happiness, this Wild Traveler exited the elevator to his apartment, looking forward to uninterrupted time with his maps. The smell came upon him out of nowhere: molokhia. Sweet, garlic-y, warm, the smell of the delicious egyptian soup crawled into his nostrils, tingling memories long forgotten:
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Uprooted from his birthplace at the tender age of four, the Wild Traveler spent his adolescence dreaming about Athens. Though reasonable and well – documented, his parents’ decision to move house left a scar in the little brat’s soul, a scar tendered by the vague promise of a future return. Over the years Athens assumed a mythical aura in the Wild Traveler’s wild imagination, filled with wondrous places, glittering shops, massive history and streets whose names quickly rose to the status of Downing St and Pennsylvania Av. Stories of the family history, amazing gifts from extended family who lived in Athens, anecdotes and reminiscences, all city magic in the Wild Traveler’s life was emitted from Athens.
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St Symeon, Syria
The early morning rain had cleared the air from the dust that had been lingering on for a while, leaving behind a cool grey canopy protecting the travelers from the rising sun’s rays, almost horizontal at the time. As far as the eye could see, rocky valleys and rocky hills were forming a white rugged landscape, interrupted only by the grey strip of a road, running up and down rocky slopes. At a distance, a fluffy white cloud was resting inside a valley, or maybe waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting land.
As clouds built up in the autumn sky and a sudden cold breeze announces the coming of a storm, this Wild Traveler has an instant flash of Berlin: the crisp smell and sound of a Tiergarten lit with a thousand shades of orange and another thousand shades of green.
The first raindrops wash the dusty athenian sidewalks, always slippery during autumn and the Wild Traveler thinks for a moment he’s in London – he’s suddenly craving for scones, bookstore chains and Muji stationary.
but not in any way that could have a positive connotation:
Not lost in some exotic desert or rain forest.
Nor lost inside the pages of an atlas.
Not even lost in thoughts of travels that were and of travels that will be.
Certainly not lost for words, as words are the Wild Traveler’s craft.
Berlin
Being a Barcelona aficionado (although “hooligan” seems a more appropriate characterisation, considering his obsession with all things Barcelonian), the Wild Traveler never thought he would fall in love with Berlin: a mitteleuropa classic and a north Europe staple, Berlin seemed like an odd fit for a Mediterranean soul. So it was with a reluctant foot that the Wild Traveler begun his journey to the capital of Germany – as reluctant as can a wild traveler be, that is.
It may seem off topic, but it’s not.
The new taxation imposed on some of the citizens of Greece (the Wild Traveler being one of them) directly affects the Wild Traveler’s ability to travel wildly: the extra 1050 euros freelancers and contractors have to pay, equals to a week’s travel in the Middle East or the Maghreb, or even Cuba (give or take a hundred), or a couple of long weekend trips in Barcelona, Berlin or Paris.
The Wild Traveler is not happy.
Politics, marketing and chemical enhancement considerations aside, the Wild Traveler loves the Olympics.
At the sight of all those flags the Wild Traveler has flashes of world map snapshots and a good excuse to bring out the atlases and google the symbolism of banners, colours and national tunes, thus immersing himself in a favourite pastime, whose subtle pleasures can only be surpassed by the “find_a_good_excuse_to_visit_Barcelona” game (played bi-weekly, preferably during the autumn and winter months).
The Wild Traveler met with this elderly gentleman from the Netherlands only briefly, in a small hospitality establishment right by the cretan sea, one of those small holiday apartment buildings that serve last minute arrivals and the odd tourist that took a wrong turn on his way to the resort beaches.
