And, of course, we would look for the treasure. There was always a treasure where we would go camping, a different one every time: one was of the pirates that used to ransack southern Crete. Another was left by the Germans, when they fled at the end of the second world war. Yet another belonged to the Egyptians that had taken over from the Turks. The treasure stories were too detailed and documented to be false: they came with descriptions of the landscape and historical justification. They were linked to landmarks and phenomena specific to our camping spot. They were, definitely, true. And when, tired of unsuccessful expeditions, we would begin to doubt the stories, one of us would  find a golden coin. A real golden coin. A single coin, that was enough to fire up our imagination and restore our faith to the dear man who would take us all camping, tell us great stories and feed us spam and rusks at dusk.

When puberty hit us all hard and strong, my friend’s father stopped taking us to camping trips. We wouldn’t go with him anyway, it was not cool and we hated having to clean up our tents every morning, but I suspect that once hormones told us that there was no real treasure, we were no fun to take camping trips with.

A decade later our teenage angst settled down, and we rediscovered the joys of camping: the sense of freedom, the excitement of the crack of dawn, the unerving buzz of the insects, the tingling feeling of the late night dew, the taste of salt on the skin, the effect of the lack of mattress on posture, the hardening of the soles of the feet. The sense of being alive.

And the taste of spam.

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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:
a big, chaotic family gathering over a table filled with pitas, felafels and finely chopped tomatoes with parsley. Familiar faces speaking in tongues. The muted hot sound of the samovar boiling fouls.  The dear, somewhat cacophonic, melody of greek, french, egyptian and english spoken in the same sentence. The huge colourful ring in different colours, on different old people’s fingers. The same names uttered in different variations, coming from old people’s lips. A middle class greek house, the most improbable of settings for such a multi-ethnic, upper class gathering.

And the smell of garlic and kusbara coming out of hot soup plates filled with a warm, slimy, delicious molokhia.

Molokhia, the prized dish, the humble soup, the excuse for the family to gather around a table. Molokhia, the dark, leafy green that signified that somebody had just came back from home, bringing the latest news, inviting the rest to brush against him, hoping to catch a glimpse of home as others catch a cold. Molokhia, the trigger of memories, the signal to story telling, the gate to another reality, the window to a past both magical and funny. As the plates hover above the heads, decades of family and world history become interwoven, sprinkled with bursts of laughter, sighs, the occasional tear and even more food.

The house is gone; it’s been a while. As the old people died, their rings passed to those surviving, all ending in one person’s drawer. Molokhia is easier to find, fresh, no less, in Athens arab stores and fresh produce markets. And now it crawled into the Wild Traveler’s back yard, in the pot on the stove in the kitchen of the apartment across the light-well of the Wild Traveler’s apartment. To remind him of the memories of the memories of people and homes long gone.

And to wet his appetite for a trip to Egypt.

Decades later, the Wild Traveler is still in awe of his beloved city. Familiar and well known by now, Athens still manages to take the Wild Traveler’s breath away, as every now and then he takes the time to play the tourist at home, visiting the Parthenon on a hot spring day and exploring Plaka and Monastiraki. When snow visits, he hangs outside the Athens Hilton, admiring the rare and elusive sight of the marvelous Runner statue dotted with snowflakes. At Christmas he marvels at the shop windows and city center decorations. In the fall, he strolls from Exarhia to Kolonaki happily jumping universes along the way, having given up the false dichotomy of the route long ago. And when the Wild Traveler returns from one of his travels, it is always the smell of the water, that fresh, metallic smell that comes out of the faucet, along with the distinctive sound of an Athenian six-lane highway passing by his window three blocks away that lulls the weary traveler into slumber, assuring him that he is home.

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.

The road turned to reveal more rocky hills. As fascination turned to boredom, the landscape pulled an ace out of its sleeve: a pine forest growing out of the white rock, tree trunks, bird nests and everything. Apparently the rocks there were the soil’s clever camouflage, a cunning way to cover its fertility, its potential, a disguise designed to avert humans from ripping it apart, plowing and sowing and doing whatever it is they do on fertile grounds.

Tiny droplets of water were dangling from the pine needles, transforming the evergreens into christmas trees. Behind the first couple of rows of trees, the soil was soft, rich and moist, muffling the sound of footsteps of visitors and their guides. The later were repeating the same old story in a variety of languages and were getting  the same old “oh!”s and “really?!”s in return. They knew that their tip would be proportional to the amount of such exclamations so they were doing their best, besides the fact that it was still way early and their herds were half asleep.

At the top of the hill stood the reason all of us had forgone decent breakfast and a chance to spend a proper amount of time in the bathroom: the church. Made up of four stone built basilicas, ornate with floral patterns carved on the arches and pediments, the church stood silent, glowing as the leeches on its walls and poles were enjoying the misty morning air.

Visitors, guides, travelers and tourists all entered from the southern basilica, then turned right to the eastern one. It was that precise moment that the cloud that had been laying low for a quite some time, decided to make its move. Suddenly, the church, the chapel, the baptistery, the cemetery, the people and the trees, all became enveloped in a soft wet matter, humid and sweet, out-worldy. And suddenly the church, the chapel, the baptistery, the cemetery, the people and the trees, all seemed to have been transported to another place and another time: it was no longer Syria, the St. Simeon Citadel, 2008, it was clearly the British Isles, Avalon, back in the day when Avalon would appear on an almost daily basis, to hide a king, toss a sword or allow villagers from the area to pick up its delicious apples. Floating in the cloud, the citadel had lost all ties to the nearby villages, the rocky hills and the seemingly barren valleys and was existing in a plane of its own. Mythical, sacred, the citadel appeared as it was, made of dreams, prayers, hopes and fears.

The cardamom coffee warmed the insides of tourists, visitors, travelers and their guides. Blinking one last time to get rid of the last of Sandman’s traces, the crowd found itself once again in the foot of a middle eastern hill, in a middle eastern coffeehouse. Stretching and yawning, some looked a bit puzzled. Attributing the haze in their heads to last night’s arak consumption, tourists, visitors, travelers and their guides soon boarded their buses and took off to visit Aleppo, happy that the sun had already come out.

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.

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.

Neither lost in the misty forest roads of the Alps or any other mountainous formation that is misty.

And definitely not lost in the latest episodes of Lost.

No.

The Wild Traveler has lost himself somewhere between the mundane and the trivial obligations of everyday life.

Something he had never any intention of doing. Something he had promised it would never happen. Something he thought he was immune to.

Looking at Everyday Life laughing at his face right now, the Wild Traveler cannot help but feel a bit humiliated.

And a bit sad.

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.

The penetrating cold that welcomed the Wild Traveler and his party that February – later to be described as the coldest in years- forced the happy travelers to hit the shops for thermals, ponchos and snow gear. Looking ridiculously ridiculous and spending the best part of an hour dressing and undressing when entering and leaving closed spaces, the frozen four toured the obvious sites, ate the obvious wursts washing them down with the obvious berliner, and bought the obvious ampelmann paraphernalia.

But it was something else that caused the Wild Traveler to spend a series of long weekends over the next year (a series so populated, the Wild Traveler had to invent a secret identity as a stern businessperson, so as to appease the suspicions of customs officers on the lookout for traffickers). Something that cannot be described: it was novelty with the definite, regal aura of history, it was history being happily comfortable in structure and thoughts hours old. It was a sense of having lived for ever there where everything seemed amazingly fresh and new. It was a tickling of the gut born out of excitement and historical weight. It was something the Wild Traveler brought there and took with him. It felt like home though it was alien. It was something the Wild Traveler’s soul carried around for years and longed for at the same time.

Whatever that was, it made the Wild Traveler go back. Again and again. It also made him wonder how many more unlikely places are there to take his breath away. And if there is time to fall in love with all of them.

And then he wondered if all cities starting with B are his kind of cities.

And then took a trip to Brussels…

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.

The new tax laws also provide for the bully-like settlement of peraiosis, an ingenious greek device, also applicable to freelancers and contractors only: for a fixed sum, the IRS promises not to audit one’s books – unless they do audit them, of course. In essence, the peraiosis system presupposes that all freelancers and contractors are defrauding the state, so it asks for a sum to exempt them from regular audits. Conveniently enough the system does not cover for special audits, so in essence it is a very expensive “might-get-out-of-jail” card.

The current peraiosis charge is – if the Wild Traveler remembers correctly – 2400 euros, which translates to a year’s worth of wild travels.

The Wild Traveler is not happy at all.

This recent tax surge has made the Wild Traveler wonder about the pros and cons of citizenship, of belonging to a state and submitting oneself to its sovereignty. A hasty Internet search though yielded no viable alternative, as, it turns out, stateless people face serious passport and therefore boarder crossing issues.

The Wild Traveler will keep looking for a way out. And a way in. And a way to protect his hard-earned cash from incompetent vultures whose only skill is to earn more votes than other incompetent vultures.

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 constant stream of athletes’ pictures makes the Wild Traveler wonder on the human species, whose variety and diversity never seizes to amaze him. The Games themselves are an excellent reminder that one can excel, irrespectively of age, size, colour and built, as long as one chooses his game wisely: out-of-proportion shoulders are an asset if one finds oneself in a pool and petite sizes thrive on the gymnastics mats.

Fully aware of the political, marketing and chemical enhancement aspects of the whole thing, the Wild Traveler insists in finding the winners’ celebrations and reactions during the medal ceremonies deeply moving: behind all that goes through their minds, the Wild Traveler thinks he can detect – maybe with the aid of his innate naivity – a glimpse of that simple, primal and oh!-so-refreshing satisfaction one experienced as a child while playing with peers and winning.

And without forgeting the political, marketing and chemical enhancement issues, the Wild Traveler is a sucker for the IOC “The best of Us – Heroes“ video – his rather simplistic personality feeling inspired by the “woman who jumps the highest” who proves that “no obstacle is great enough”.

As the Wild Traveler was leaving the building that had no doubt seen better days, Mr Henk was entering. He introduced himself in greek, straightening his posture and putting his heels together, making a slight, yet distinguished bow and extending his hand in a firm, reassuring handshake. He explained that he was renting a room there for a few months and that he was pleased to meet the Wild Traveler. And he retired to his humble quarters.

The Wild Traveler first thought was “that’s how I am going to be when I grow old”.

And it was a pleasing thought. For Mr Henk, although clearly past retirement age, had enough of “it” in him – whatever “it” may be – to be on the long haul, solo, away from home, friends and family. And because he had an aura the Wild Traveler thought long lost: the aura of a traveler, not a tourist or a visitor. And finally because this brief encounter made the Wild Traveler think of times past, where travelers were few, travels were long and traveling included colourful stickers on trunks, small pensions with guests that were almost residents, steam boats and steam trains, carriages and porters and, in short, all the enchanting things now only found in Agatha Cristie’s exotic mysteries.