Truth, Fiction & Satori

Roma Termini bustled with an energy reminiscent of railway stations in India. The paint on the graffiti peeled off the walls. People bumped into me and to each other. The road to my hostel smelled like piss and a scooter almost hit me. The cappuccino I spent my last few Euro for the day on was nothing like I imagined. At the hostel, I met an American cyclist and we set about exploring the city together, young tourists in a daze. 

The Colosseum compelled us to imagine what it must have been like when a gladiator walked in to the hypogeum through the tunnels leading up to it, to the roar of the crowd. We walked around, transfixed, by a structure and society that were hard to relate to and yet moved us somehow. Outside, Palatine Hill, offered up a spectacular view of the city, the metropolis managing to look like a chaos of history and modernity.

At St Peter’s Square in the Vatican, people stood around holding up green balloons, handing out brochures glorifying the Pope. On an impulse, we went inside a random church to listen to the priest give an animated sermon in Italian.

We spent an afternoon walking along Via Appia Antica or the Appian Way, the remains of an ancient road connecting Rome to Brindisi in the South. Green pastures lay on either side. A small house called ‘Ave Maria’, creepers intertwined all around its gates, held our gaze, making us think about the lives of its inhabitants.

On returning to the city, we sat on a bridge and discussed our travels as the sun set over the Tiber. The food we consumed on those travels, enforced by a tiny budget that catered for trips over food, consisted mostly of microwaved pizzas and fast foods. The only saving grace was a gelato in Piazza Navona, as people walked around, staring at street artists painted silver to look like fairies.

I was nineteen years old on that trip, and delighted in its visuals and experiences. It didn’t matter that the food lacked taste – it fed my hunger and that was sufficient.

More than eight years later, at a business meeting in a suburb of Rome, I sparked up a group of Italians with the memory of that trip. It was a packed day full of presentations and although it was a working lunch, our clients had put together a delectable feast.

At the end of an exhausting day, I went for a walk through the pines trees, smelling the freshness of the trees.  There was a huge old building with big classical columns and a photographer was taking pictures of two models as the light danced between those columns. I passed a large tennis academy as parents took their kids for lessons. It was a suburban haven.

It started raining and I went to a local pizzeria. It was Valentine’s Day and the place was full of families and couples. The waiters and the owner didn’t speak English. I felt a pang, overcome by nostalgia for my first trip and at being alone after a day and a half packed with activity and people. As I waited for my pizza I saw the chef call some kids up to him and the kids squealing with delight looking at the pizza. Finally, after what seemed like a long time, another waiter brought the pizza to me. I waited for him to leave but he stood by my table, as though waiting for a response. He gestured for me to look at my pizza with a grin, and when I saw it, I laughed, for I realized it was shaped like a heart. ‘Buon appetito, signorina.’ The chef nodded at me from a distance and I nodded back, mouthing the word ‘grazie’. On a different day, in a different place, perhaps I might have responded differently, but in that local pizzeria in that suburb, after a busy day on my second trip to Rome, I was rather pleased.

The next day I met my cousin, and we ran through the futuristic Roma Tiburtina station, to catch a train to Tivoli. We had no expectations from this trip and as the train passed through valleys and forests, we sat back in our seats, chatting and happy to merely look outside.

Tivoli with its old crumbling streets and buildings had an atmosphere that was so slow that it bade us to sit at some broken stairs, full of resolve not to move. There was a cat passing by, no one else in sight, and some old lace clothes moving very softly. Hunger finally took us to a restaurant where a mother and her daughter were finishing lunch. We realized they were the owners and they cooked up a feast. Antipasto, primo, secondo, contorno, dolce, caffe – now this was an Italian meal my friends and colleagues would be proud of.

In between these indulgences, we visited the Hadrian’s Villa, and made the acquaintances of more trees and fat cats.

On our return back to Rome, we took the bus and I was surprised by the poverty on the streets that is evident outside the cities. We were tired after our journey and took a break sitting on a bench in a courtyard of a church. We spent the evening walking around Capitoline Hill.

A few hours before my flight back to London, I had the opportunity to experience another Roman sunset. Bidding farewell to the sun’s fading rays, we walked in to a bookshop.  As I wandered around the bookshop, I found some Montalbanos and Italo Calvinos I wanted to take back with me. The man at the till called to my attention that I still owed him some money. ‘36 EUR not 6, miss’, he was saying. I didn’t have any more cash, and I paid with my card, a luxury I certainly would not have allowed myself on my first trip.

This trip provided so much contentment, that I began to question my sensibilities as a teenager. I thought back to the calm I felt in that courtyard that afternoon and the view of the city from Capitoline Hill as it spread out in all its splendor. It wasn’t very far from the thrill I had felt on a leafy green walk along the Appia Antica, imagining who lived in that little house called ‘Ave Maria’. We are often quite unforgiving when we dissect our youth. There is no excuse for eating microwaved pizzas when you are in Italy, but I knew that if I was forced to make a choice between a nice meal in a restaurant or a trip to some ruins, my allegiance lay with my nineteen year old self.

There was a package and an envelope on the doorstep of House 82. The envelope was addressed to Mrs Brown. The style of the writing on the envelope was familiar to Maia, one she had come across for the first time some weeks ago in the autumn. The package, which seemed to be a National Geographic magazine, was addressed to her, Maia Brown. She wanted to open both the package and the envelope, but the envelope was for her Mum. Not knowing how to proceed, she sat down on the doorstep.

***

They used to have a National Geographic subscription before but the magazines had stopped arriving soon after Maia’s Dad left the house. Maia wanted to ask her Mum if they could continue getting them for she gained pleasure from looking at pictures of people and places from across the world. But as she began to approach the subject over dinner one evening, she noticed that her Mum began to twirl the spaghetti around her fork with her face looking out of focus, so she changed the topic.

Soon after, Maia made the discovery that the old National Geographic collection in the bookshelf, previously serialized by month and year, dating back to 2005, seemed to be missing several issues. There were specific issues missing which made her suspect that her Mum was either:

She couldn’t ask her Mum about which of these options was correct nor did she want to cause her any pain by showing a desire to read her Dad’s favourite issues (which were also her favourite).

It was almost autumn half term and the birch and oak trees on the street had begun to shed their leaves. Maia’s classmates were all at their Grandparents or in a cabin somewhere in Switzerland or France. Maia’s Grandparents were dead and her Mum had to work every day. There had been a promise of a weekend trip in Kent in some weeks but she didn’t want to get too excited in case the promise could not be kept. 

Maia and her Mum lived in a small block of council flats in South London.  Their building was the only block like that on the street. All the other houses were Victorian houses, most of them at least a hundred years old. Alicia, her friend next door, told her that she heard her Dad telling someone that some of those houses could sell for over a million. Maia had no imagination of how much that was. There were many cats on the street, sometimes foxes too, lots of trees. She didn’t want to live anywhere else.

One of the Victorian houses on the street that she often stopped to stare at was House 89. The house seemed to be inhabited only during some parts of the year – Autumn to Christmas, marked by the fairy lights hung on the hedge. Last year they forgot to switch the lights off when they left so they were on much longer than Christmas. No one knew who lived there. They arrived in the middle of the night and left in the same way at the end of the season.

One afternoon on her way home from school, Maia stopped by the gate of the house. The spruce tree had grown and covered the arch. Hidden behind the spruce tree was a large bookshelf. On the bookshelf, there was a sign that said ‘Free Books, Help Yourself’.  The sign was written in an old style with an ink pen and covered in plastic.   

A flash of yellow caught her eye and she noticed there was a National Geographic magazine from the 90’s. Maia flipped through the pictures.  There was no one around. She decided to take one. But she always felt strange taking these books from the street without paying even if she didn’t have any money. She opened her backpack and took out a little notebook. Tearing a page off, she wrote, ‘Dear Neighbour in House 89, Thank you for this National Geographic. This issue has pictures about the Mayans. We studied about them in Geography class. Yours sincerely, Maia Brown, House 82’. Maia folded the note and placed it below the books. In case her neighbours might miss it, she wrote on top of the note once again in bold capitals, ‘Thank You, Mr/Mrs Neighbour in House 89’. 

The next day, she noticed that the book case was still there and the shelf was full, as though someone added another magazine to fill the gap left by the one Maia took the previous day. She took the magazine and wrote a thank you note again.

This happened a few times until the last day of school before the half term break. As Maia tried to take the magazine out, the bookshelf came crashing down. Maia jumped out of the way and then bent down to pick up all the books and magazines, when she heard a voice.

“Hey, what are you doing over there?”, the voice asked in an American accent.

Maia saw a boy perhaps a year or two younger than her, staring at her from the alley in the garden. He didn’t come up to her to help her or put the shelf back up again. She continued without replying.

“Are you our neighbour?”, he asked

“Yes I am. Do you think you can come and help me with this book shelf please?”

“Why?”

“It’s on the ground and these books are getting dirt on them.”

“What will you give me?”

“Nothing, as it’s your book shelf.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Grandpa’s.”

Maia didn’t look up or say anything.

“Oh alright. I’ll help. What should I do?”

“First help me push up this shelf and then bring all those books and magazines that are strewn about everywhere.”

“What’s ‘strewn’? You guys talk funny here.”

“It means spread out. All those books that have fallen everywhere, please just pick them up and bring them back.”

Maia and the boy managed to get the shelf up; it wasn’t that heavy and they managed to get the shelf standing.

“What were you doing before the shelf fell down?”

“I was writing a thank you note.”

“What for?”

“For this magazine I was about to take from this bookshelf.”

“But Grandpa said they were free.”

“Yes, that’s what’s written here, but I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Grandpa doesn’t care.”

“That’s alright, I still wanted to say thank you.”

“Why don’t you just say thank you to Grandpa then?”

“I would love to do that.”

“Well why don’t ya. But he definitely won’t care. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

The boy opened the door to House 89 and walked in.

“What are you waiting for? Come on inside.”

Maia was standing on the porch, in disbelief that she would finally be able to go inside House 89 and discover who lived there.

Everything inside was green - the carpet on the floor, the walls, the shoe rack, the furniture. On the wall, there were Japanese prints and large pictures of the Earth and how it was formed millions of years ago. On the right of the hall was a living room and someone was sitting on an arm chair, reading a newspaper and drinking tea.

“Hey Grandpa, this girl wants to thank ya, she talks funny though, don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” the boy said out loud.

“What for?”, the someone from the chair replied, the accent sounded more British and less American.

The boy walked to the living room, Maia followed him.

“I am not sure. For some books or something. Hey, neighbour girl, you tell him.”

“Good evening Sir, I’m Maia from House 82.”

“Eh? Oh. Fine.”

“Thank you for the National Geographic Magazines. I really enjoy reading them.” 

“It was you leaving those notes then eh?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Well, why are you taking these old magazines then? No one else seems to want them.”

“I like looking at the pictures of people from all over the world. And my Dad used to like them. He read some of the stories to me sometimes.”

“Where’s your Father now?”

“He left.”

“A divorce eh?”

“I don’t know. Well, I better be going. Thank you once again.”

“Oh. Did I offend you? I’m sorry, I speak without thinking sometimes. I don’t know anything about your Father. I bet he is a nice guy if he likes those magazines though.”

Maia smiled.

“Can we have some hot chocolate, Gramps?” Ralph, who had been sitting at the table, dangling his legs and looking up at the ceiling, spoke up.

 “You get right to the point, don’t you boy? You must get it from your mother. Let’s have some then. Do you want to join us then…er…Maia?”

Ralph and his Grandpa both looked at her with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, alright. My Mum won’t be back home until much later anyway.”

“Mine too,” said Ralph

They both laughed.

“Let’s go to the kitchen then,” said the Grandpa.

The kitchen had a skylight and there was a table in the corner. Ralph ran up to it and sat down. Maia followed him. The Grandpa started making the hot chocolate.

 “You know, I liked your little notes, kid. It was the first time I got thank you notes like that for anything. And I’m almost seventy five so I have been around.”

“Thank you, sir. I have to hide the magazines when I’m home though.”

“Why is that?”

“My Mum will think Dad gave them to me,” Maia mumbled. “Anyway, where are you guys from?”

“We are from Upstate New York.”

“That’s New York State not city.” said Ralph

“I need to have a word with your mother about your manners, boy.”

“What? I have to keep telling people at school this all the time.” said Ralph

“Alright but Maia knows where New York state is, don’t you Maia?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“What does your Mother do?”

“She works in an office. That’s all she ever tells me.”

“My Mom is a famous pianist,” said Ralph.

“That’s nice, do you learn the piano too?” said Maia.

“I’m learning the violin, I guess.”

“Hot chocolate’s ready,” the Grandpa places the mugs on the table.

“It’s delicious, Sir. Thank you.” Maia said, then paused, and finally burst out. “Why do you all always stay only a while? Do you come here from the U.S every year?”

“Well, more or less. I was born here in London. This is my childhood home. But then I moved to the States with my family when our son, Ralph’s father, was twelve. He is an orchestra conductor, you see.  And he got married to a pianist in New York State. So now we come back here from time to time for a season – normally from Fall to Christmas or just for Fall so both can participate in London’s orchestras.”

“Oh. Will you leave again soon then?”

“Yes. We are leaving next week.”

“Oh. Is Fall…autumn?”

The Grandpa laughed, “Yes, that’s how we call it in America.”

“You really talk funny, don’t you, neighbour girl,” said Ralph.

The clock sounded seven gongs and Maia got up to leave.

“I must go now, thank you for everything. It was lovely to meet you.”

“See you around, young lady.”

Ralph walked her to the door and stood at the door till she crossed the street.

“Bye, neighbour girl!”

A few days later, as Maia passed the house, she noticed that Ralph was sitting outside, cross legged.

“Hey Ralph!”

“Hi Maia,” he replied, his voice barely audible.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s Gramps’ birthday today. I just wish I could do something for him.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Yeah right. What can a kid like me do?”

“Hmm, what do you normally do then?” said Maia coming up to him and sitting down next to him on the door step.

“We get dressed and go out for dinner to a restaurant. But we are leaving tomorrow and today my parents have an Orchestra. They won’t be back till late at night. I guess we’ll go for dinner when we are back home. But…Gramps’ birthday is today!”

“Don’t you guys do cakes and cards and things?”

“Well, yeah, we have a cake at the restaurant.”

“Your Mum doesn’t bake one?”

“My parents don’t have time to bake cakes.”

Maia thought about her Mum, staying up late after work every year, to bake her a birthday cake. Sometimes she did that even on normal days.

They were both quiet in thought.

“I know! Let’s bake your Grandpa a cake!”

Ralph looked at her, his eyes wide. “Are you for real?.”

Maia nodded.

“Do you have any money? I have…”, Maia emptied her pockets, “four quid.”

“I have, six! My Mom gave me some pocket money last week. But….I don’t know how to make a cake.”

“I do, we learnt it in school. We just need to be careful using the oven but the one we have is easy to use.”

They went to the shop on the corner of the street and bought flour, eggs, raspberries, chocolate and butter.  The shopkeeper, who knew Maia, threw in some candles for free when he discovered what the children were planning to do. Maia and Ralph ran to Maia’s house and mixed the ingredients for the cake using an old cake tin that Maia’s Mum used. As the cake baked in the oven, they sat on the table.

“Wish we had a card or something,” said Ralph.

“Well, why don’t we make one while the cake bakes?”

“I never made a card before.”

“Wait a moment, I think I have an idea.”

Maia went up to her room and brought back a National Geographic magazine that her Dad had gifted her ages ago for her own collection. It was one of her favourite issues of all time because there was a hand out in it full of pictures of how the Earth was created. Her Dad and she had spent many Sunday afternoons looking at those pictures together. Maia took the handout and looked at it for a long time. Then she started cutting the pictures out.

“Hey, what are you doing? Are you sure you want to do that?” asked Ralph.

Maia started crying.

“Oh no, you are sad! Please don’t cry, neighbour girl.”

“I’m not sad. Your Grandpa’s old magazines made me very happy these last few weeks.”

“I’ll help you then! How can I help you?”

Maia wiped her eyes. “There’s a large paper and some glue over there. Can you please bring it?”

They stuck the pictures of the Earth on the paper and folded it.

“Here, Ralph, here’s a sketch pen, you write your Grandpa a note.”

“What should I write?”

“Whatever you feel like.”

Ralph thought for a while then wrote. “Happy Birthday, Gramps! We didn’t go to a restaurant this year, but I’m glad anyway. I hope you like the cake and this card. I made fun of your book shelf, but thanks to it, we made a new friend. If you need any help, tell me! Love you so much.”

“You sign it too.”

Maia signed the card. The timer sounded, the cake was ready. They put a lid on the cake tin.

“Shall we go then?” said Maia, grinning.

“Yeah! Oh wait, we forgot the candles”. Ralph put the candles in the cake. “But we can’t light them.”

“It’s alright, your Grandpa can help us with that. Let’s go now.”

They walked up to House 89, the door was open. They walked in. The Grandpa was sitting in the living room, on the same armchair from last time, reading a newspaper.

They started singing Happy Birthday.

“Hey, what’s all this?”

“We made you a cake, Gramps! Can you light these candles?”

“You made me a cake? How did you do that?”

“Maia showed me!”

“Oh, hello Maia.”

“Happy Birthday, Sir.”

“This is a surprise, I haven’t had a cake for my birthday in a very long time. Shall we go to the kitchen then? We can light the candles and make some more hot chocolate.”

In the kitchen, they sang happy birthday when the Grandpa blew all the candles. Then Ralph handed his Gramps the card.

The Grandpa read the card in silence, then looked up at Maia and Ralph, and read the card again.  He didn’t say anything for a while. When he spoke, he finally said, “Children, thank you.”

“I wish we weren’t going tomorrow,” said Ralph.

“You will just have to come back again next year, won’t you?” said Maia. “And then you can tell me about all the cakes you baked, now you know how to do it.”

They sat at the table, all together, eating a big slice of the raspberry cake, sipping hot chocolate, the card placed right in the middle.

***

It had been a few weeks since Ralph and his Grandpa left for America. Now Maia sat at the doorstep, with the package and the envelope in her hands.

“Maia, darling, what are you doing outside? Aren’t you cold?”

“Hi Mum.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I was just waiting for you! Welcome home!”

“Thank you, my dear. What’s that you are holding?”

“I think our neighbours from House 89 sent us something.”

“Really? The Campbells? I thought they live in America.”

“Yes, but they were here over the Autumn.”

“Oh that’s right, they come by for a few months, don’t they. Hang on, the envelope is addressed to me? And is that a National Geographic magazine? How curious.”

Maia’s Mum opened the envelope. There was a letter inside. She read it and smiled.

“What does it say?”

Maia’s Mum hugged Maia, holding her very close.

“I’m so proud of you, my darling. Just so proud.”

“Thanks Mum. But what does it say?”

“Here, you read it.”

Maia opened the note. It was from the Grandpa.

“Dear Mrs Brown,

We haven’t met before but I had the wonderful chance of meeting with your daughter, Maia, some weeks ago. I had some old National Geographic Magazines that I left on the street, and she took some but always left a thank you note. My grandson, Ralph and I enjoyed her company very much. My son and daughter in law work long hours and I fear Ralph feels lonely when we are in London, but just meeting your daughter, even if it was only a few times, seems to have given him energy and changed him in some way; it certainly changed me. The kids even made me a cake and card for my seventy-fifth birthday, a joy I haven’t experienced since my wife passed away over five years ago. I signed Maia up for a monthly National Geographic magazine subscription. She seemed to enjoy reading these magazines and I thought it fitting, given the form of her birthday card for me. I hope you don’t mind. I would love to meet with you the next time we are in town, likely next year.

Best wishes, your part time neighbour,

Henry Campbell, House 89”

Maia folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

“So I can read the National Geographics then? Won’t you be sad?”

Maia’s Mum looked at her. “Of course you can, you silly child. Why would I be sad?”

“It’s just that…”

“We have to move forward, Maia. Also, don’t think I didn’t notice all those old magazines you were bringing to the house from the street.”

They laughed.

“By the way, what was in this card you made Mr Campbell?”

“Oh, just some old pictures of the Earth. I thought he might like them.”

A first time visitor to London may be entranced by it; a reaction befitting a city that over its two thousand years of history, has been researched, dissected, served as a muse, so many times, that the visitor likely brought a lens and perspective to view the city with.

After a year in London, that visitor who evolved to a resident may be perplexed by its rules. Everything free has been explored and there is no money to be hedonistic like everyone else, for the money has been spent on rent and transport. This despair may be dispelled by the friendships and connections forged in that year gone. However, realization may dawn on that visitor-resident, that there are five airports in this city, over three hundred railways stations, all serving as studies in how people come and go, treating London as though it came with a personalized use by date. Unlike the freedom that came with being just a visitor, the daily life of a young working resident may seem ruthless. Everyone is in a rush, the tube stinks of puke, the shower is leaking, there are too many hipster joints and everyone seems to reek of success. Respite may be found on the weekends, in becoming a tourist again, but that calm disappears on Sunday night, with the prospect of another week of a big city’s realities.

After some years of living here and getting accustomed to those ‘London’ ways, that resident may be overwhelmed by the city’s perpetual opportunities to indulge oneself. Feel like trying some Georgian cuisine? Drink a Turkish coffee whilst listening to some Hungarian Electronic Jazz? Enjoy a foreign film in an Embassy? Meet people from countries you didn’t know existed? Practise a new language? Enjoy the world’s best culture for less than a tenner? Visit the New Tate and experience contemporary modern art in real-time as the building oversees some high rise curtain less apartments and the inmates present themselves to public scrutiny? Don’t know what you feel like? A pub and beer lie in wait at the end of every street. You could get some brunch the next day and visit the Buddhist monastery for some meditation to make some mind space for new hedonistic ventures.

As a walker friendly city, London offers free classes in reading the signs of modern society - those bankers made a lot of money except that one in the corner of the bar that looks like he lost out, that couple that was distant but is now close, that couple that seems close but is at the brink of a break up, that ‘minted’ mum who is thinking about shopping at designer shops in Chelsea, that teenager just got fired today, that homeless man is waiting for the girl inside the café to bring out the thrash.

People at times dress the same and expose their secrets by it – the women who wear sneakers have high heels in their bags, the men who wear sneakers have been running and haven’t had a shower. For a city that allows so much freedom of expression and choice, there is curiosity in the comfort its residents seem to take in consuming like each other.

Six years later, that resident may be fortunate enough to learn how to break the shackles off those realities and see London anew, every day. There is no dearth of experiences or enjoyment, even in daily life, with or without money. The seasons change visibly in the city’s parks and squares, a hill round the corner offers views on transforming skylines, the annual ‘Open House’ event even offers the opportunities to delve into how the city works - how it avoids floods with the Thames Barrier, how an area recycles majority of its waste, how the rich and successful meet at secret societies, examples of research groups that reconstruct entire cathedrals on software because they wanted to see what it would look like.

From inside the kitchen, a timer sounded. The bread was ready. It was time for tea in the garden, this time with the keys so they could go inside afterwards.

 

Something is starting to take shape.  It’s a breeze that wafts through your mind. It’s cold and then it’s hot. It rises and then it falls. It rises, then it dies, then it lives again. 

Perhaps you are on the sofa, nursing a cup of coffee, or lying in bed, reading. The clock ticks behind you. The sound of a second as it leaves to join your past, becomes more apparent. You remind yourself that time is a concept defined by humans for the most part. You recall something you heard in a documentary about how we can never experience the ‘absolute present’ - even the sun’s rays are eight minutes old by the time they reach us.

Right now, however, you are enjoying a moment of inertia and nothing can disturb you from this state of oblivion.

Or so you thought. You feel something moving in your mind. The nudge or breeze or whatever it was, is back. You give in and listen to what it has to say.

It is a spark. This spark has brought with it an outline, a sketch of some plan. As the outline begins to fade, you recognize it. It’s not the spark that demands that you change your life. The one that visits with perseverance wherever you are, asking you to change your career or your hobbies or your lifestyle or the people you spend your time with. That spark takes time to ignite and you interpret it with deliberation.

This one, has a shorter lifespan. It makes its entry with an energy that is unrivalled. Its demands are simple. Get out, and do something new. Or something old. Experience the freedom of spontaneity. It feels familiar and yet unknown.

Despite being precious about your inertia, this spark is managing to convince you to go outside. It’s also telling you to try and convince those around you. You begin to pass on that energy to the others in the room who may have been nursing a coffee in the past.

It’s not always a success, but this time, your spark has the power to influence, and you manage to articulate it in a way that is tangible.

When you are all outside, exploring some expanse of nature or urban life, the expectations are low, for your spark was a draft, ready to be edited and molded by the artists who perceived it.

So it doesn’t matter that it’s raining, or that it’s windy, or that you are talking about trivialities. The sea, the river, the little museum, a narrow road in the middle of a village, a crumbling temple, a tree from centuries ago, the street food in a crowded city square, conversation with a stranger, a water tower in the suburbs, ice cream at the stroke of midnight, looking for seals, secret gardens, climbing a stone pillar in a farm, last minute strolls before your train - pleasures abound. You are surprised by everything because you set out with no such expectation. 

This draft-spark overpowers the most elaborate of travel plans. It forces you to be agile. And when you have made of it what you wished to, it manages to stick in your memory with a sort of vividness that is unobtainable from organized planning. This memory is so strong that it can be channeled at any time, into a normal day.

For on that odd day that you feel a lack of spirit, and you can’t see that other more persistent spark that initiates bigger changes in your life, you think about this smaller one instead. The one that spoke to you in the past and made you see things anew without any reason. From this, you gain the strength and the courage to craft an adventure from nothing. You walk or run instead of taking the bus or you look outside the window instead of reading that book that you always read or you get lost on purpose. It is but an acquaintance of that spark from your memories, and yet somehow, it contributes in replenishing your spirit.  

*********************************************************************************

These trips came out of submitting to that spark of spontaneity - Bangalore, Étretat, Bandipur, Yercaud, Isle of Arran, Denkanikottai, Brockley, Devon (India, France, England, Scotland)