I’m back to civilisation. With a bump. Sitting alone in an empty hostel dorm while outside a rain-soaked Zagreb shivers in the night. The sun has well and truly set on the summer. But what a summer it was.
Once again I’ve managed to procure decent internet in order to upload some musings and I find myself significantly behind. Oh the stories I could tell. The escapades. The gossip. The sex, drugs and rock n roll. Without the rock n roll. Or drugs. Or sex. That last bit isn’t true. I’ve not been an angel. I’ve been a deviant. A philanthropist if you will. Demonstrating a concupiscence not seen since Adam discovered that Eve had tits. A lover not a fighter. Except the times when I’ve been in a fight. All these things and more could I regale to you dear readers; if only I could remember them. It is now but a blur of wonder. A “did that really happen” pondering over another bittersweet gin. All I have to show for it is a winter long hangover and an appointment to an STI clinic.
Somewhere among all this frivolity I’ve managed to turn a year older and blow out 34 candles. Admittedly I didn’t envy whoever was taking the last piece of cake, as a large amount of my spittle rained down across the gooey topping as I attempted to extinguish the final flame with one puff. Nevertheless I prevailed, but forgot to make a wish. Breaking with tradition, I will share with you exactly what I would have aspired for. I would wish for the rest of my days to be filled with as much fun and friendship as I have found over the past seven months – both at The Wild Fig hostel in Zadar, and the Pink Palace in Corfu, and all the places in between. It feels like neither myself, nor anyone I’ve met, has ever stopped laughing. This is a very special thing.
But like all good things, they must come to an end, and at least for now separate paths must be taken. Nothing lasts forever – I know that all too well – and there is a certain sadness that comes from saying goodbyes and leaving people behind. One door closes, but another must surely open. I’m often asked if travel for this length of time just produces failed blooms of ultimately fruitless relationships. No real depth. We’re all ships that pass in the night. Fleeting dances with lost souls and wanderers, endlessly searching for something they will only know when they find it. But you have to ask yourself – if you didn’t travel, you would never have met any of these ebullient spirits in the first place – and I would rather have two days in your presence, than a lifetime of never knowing you at all. To quote Kerouac –
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars”.
And so once again I must tread fearlessly forth to new beginnings and adventures. I hear the call. I strap on the well healed boots, take a last look around my home from home, silently whisper a thank you to an empty room; and in the hazy throes of that glorious summer; I step out onto the beckoning road.
Summertime sadness
I’m back to civilisation. With a bump. Sitting alone in an empty hostel dorm while outside a rain-soaked Zagreb shivers in the night. The sun has well and truly set on the summer. But what a summer it was.
Once again I’ve managed to procure decent internet in order to upload some musings and I find myself significantly behind. Oh the stories I could tell. The escapades. The gossip. The sex, drugs and rock n roll. Without the rock n roll. Or drugs. Or sex. That last bit isn’t true. I’ve not been an angel. I’ve been a deviant. A philanthropist if you will. Demonstrating a concupiscence not seen since Adam discovered that Eve had tits. A lover not a fighter. Except the times when I’ve been in a fight. All these things and more could I regale to you dear readers; if only I could remember them. It is now but a blur of wonder. A “did that really happen” pondering over another bittersweet gin. All I have to show for it is a winter long hangover and an appointment to an STI clinic.
Somewhere among all this frivolity I’ve managed to turn a year older and blow out 34 candles. Admittedly I didn’t envy whoever was taking the last piece of cake, as a large amount of my spittle rained down across the gooey topping as I attempted to extinguish the final flame with one puff. Nevertheless I prevailed, but forgot to make a wish. Breaking with tradition, I will share with you exactly what I would have aspired for. I would wish for the rest of my days to be filled with as much fun and friendship as I have found over the past seven months – both at The Wild Fig hostel in Zadar, and the Pink Palace in Corfu, and all the places in between. It feels like neither myself, nor anyone I’ve met, has ever stopped laughing. This is a very special thing.
But like all good things, they must come to an end, and at least for now separate paths must be taken. Nothing lasts forever – I know that all too well – and there is a certain sadness that comes from saying goodbyes and leaving people behind. One door closes, but another must surely open. I’m often asked if travel for this length of time just produces failed blooms of ultimately fruitless relationships. No real depth. We’re all ships that pass in the night. Fleeting dances with lost souls and wanderers, endlessly searching for something they will only know when they find it. But you have to ask yourself – if you didn’t travel, you would never have met any of these ebullient spirits in the first place – and I would rather have two days in your presence, than a lifetime of never knowing you at all. To quote Kerouac –
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars”.
And so once again I must tread fearlessly forth to new beginnings and adventures. I hear the call. I strap on the well healed boots, take a last look around my home from home, silently whisper a thank you to an empty room; and in the hazy throes of that glorious summer; I step out onto the beckoning road.