Not too small, as then one has to carry two of those, and one has only two hands, one for luggage, one for picking the nose / scratching the ear / holding a trench coat and a copy of FT.
But not too big, because it won’t fit in the car trunk / elephant back and stuff will move around and get wrinkled, and bottles will get pierced by stileto heels and spill their content - that which smells the least pleasant- all over
Genoa came upon the Wild Traveler by accident: it was supposed to be nothing more than a convenient pit stop on the way to his final destination.
It was not.
It is a pin any wild traveler worth its salt must add to his map: it is the most southern part of Europe
It is the perfect place to contemplate on the futility of human existence – it has so many stars it’s scary.
It is the perfect place to contemplate on the stupidity of human existence – it’s beautiful cedar forest is rapidly reduced as campers cut trees, shrubs and branches to built camp fires and create shady niches for their tents.
The Wild Traveler is fond of Chania: that little corner of the Mediterranean, picturesque and vibrant, the home of many Mediterranean peoples has always inspired the Wild Traveler to travel. And to return.
It could be because of the people that were: the innermost essence of all the people that came and left, their hopes and dreams and fears have soaked the city, spicing up its flavour.
Or, it could well be because of the people that are: warm and welcoming, they embrace foreigners, treating them with the best of their land, asking nothing in return.
Or even, still, it may be because of the light: fluid and moist, the Mediterranean light, reflecting on Chania’s masonry transforms into matter, takes impossible shapes and grasps the visitors’ mind, keeping it captive for ever.
It seems that the Wild Traveler will be spending some time in Chania soon….
In early adulthood the Wild Traveler’s main staple was the E in all its forms: in sodas, pizzas and burgers, dressed up in harmless-sounding ingredients or bluntly showing their artificial might, the Es were the Wild Traveler’s best friend – and probably the main reason behind that greenish hue his skin emits at daybreak.
Long, painful therapy, a halfway house and a huge amount of okra were used to save the poor lad from his lifesucking addiction.
But not for long. The Es came back to the Wild Traveler’s life. They came back one day, just like that. Disguised as little green rectangular marks on pieces of paper, the sneaky little bastards got the Wild Traveler hooked on them again.
Now, tortured once again by the Es, the Wild Traveler yearns for E55, the autostrada from Ancona. He dreams of the E80, going through the Riviera. He fantasizes about E15 taking him to Barcelona. He recites their names. He caresses their curves with his fingertips as they run up and down and across pages of road atlases, looks for their namesakes in other countries, spends days researching their tollbooths.
Hooked for life, the Wild Traveler longs for the day the Es will take him to the Land of Never-ending Journeys.
The Wild Traveler likes bugs: Some bugs will survive after the end of history – the real deal, not the pol sci theory – some are nutritious and tasty – not knowing which ones, makes the thrill even bigger – and some have superbug powers, able to carry their weight many times over.
The Wild Traveler is particular to those bugs that smell like home cooked meals when they start to toast on his car engine: veal and mashed potatoes, fried fish or strawberries and whipped cream. The Wild Traveler is not sure which bug smells what, or why they always smell like food and never like old socks left inside imitation leather sneakers, but is grateful for those little creatures whose desire for warmth or accidental path results in a homey tickle in his nostrils.
But of all the bugs in all the world, the Wild Traveler loves those that decorate his car hood and windshield: Those little green, yellow and, occasionally, red splashes of colour bring back memories of forests and valleys, middle-of-nowhere nights and crack of dawn drives. They keep reminding the Wild Traveler what cars were really made for: to be taken out in the open road, to be used as tools of discovery and amazement, to carry dreams and expectations. And, as an added bonus, those tiny remains of Life’s most awesome children, could well be an – alas! lost forever- proof of extraterrestial life.
The Wild Traveler is spending the weekend exploring countries and cultures without leaving his current location:
At the 1st Athina Festival of Cultures, the Wild Traveler will be enjoying sights and sounds from faraway lands, while pondering on the viability of joining the performers as they tour the world, regreting giving up the guitar lessons he took as a young lad and performing mental calculations on the possible income generated from his superhuman ability to read maps.
La Pedrera, Barcelona
For this Wild Traveler, legitimate reasons to grab the first plane to Barcelona include:
-a concert by one of Wild Traveler’s favourite groups
-a concert by any group whatsoever
-escorting a friend who has never been to Barcelona before
-cheap air tickets
-a longing for a clara that lasts more than 30 secs
-the urge to check from time to time whether the tiles on Casa Batlló are fading
