Flashes

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.

The sun breaks above the clouds, lighting up a colourful bedspread that for a second seems to be in a morocan tend.

At a distance someone is listening to Manu Chao’s “Me llaman calle”, and the Wild Traveler’s eyes see the Ramblas.

Opening the refrigirator, the cold, stale smell of things that have long died in there combined with the fresh mint bought only yesterday, instantly transports the Wild Traveler to a hotel room with a bad a/c in Trinidad, Cuba.

For the rest of the day sensory stimuli of all kinds keep on punching the Wild Traveler, taking him places for only fractions of a second each time, leaving him yearning for more.

At the end of the day the Wild Traveler stands still, disoriented, exhausted. Afraid to smell, listen or taste, he finds a moment’s peace under the bed covers (not smelling anything travel-y), only to realise that his senses are resisting his literal inertia and are plotting a revolution that would either kill him or make him plan a trip asap.

And he feels grateful his senses have a mind of their own.