When I was younger than I am now, I read a book that changed my mind, my life and my pocket. Well, to tell the truth, I really don’t know if my mind was changed by reading the book or because of the joint I was smoking while I did (laugh track). Don’t take this literally, it’s only a joke; I have never smoked. Anyway, let’s go back to the book. The story was about a young writer, Sal Paradise, who has his life shaken up when he meets a free-spirited man, Dean Moriarty, and starts to travel with him and his girlfriend all around America. As they travel across the country, they encounter a mix of people, each one of whom will impact their journey and their life indelibly. The book, as you will have guessed, was “On the Road”, by Jack Kerouac.
After reading this I began to travel on my own. Travelling was an obsession for me. It became my principal activity in the midst of a jungle of duties, debts and responsabilities (work, university, friends, family). Travelling alone was the main thing in my life, almost my main reason for living. And I did it for a long, long time. I would say without hesitation that I have been doing it all my life … until I got married and my wife started to go on organised tours (laugh track). Later I will talk about the benefits of travelling with a lot of people in crowded coaches, having breakfast in the company of a multitude of hungry people in the hotel, visiting places among a flock of tourists and all that stuff my wife is interested in (laugh track). But, now, let me carry on with my nostalgia.
I know that most people find the word “alone” distressing if it is related to travelling. But for me what is distressing is being or travelling with other people on holiday and long weekends. This makes me anxious. Wondering if people are comfortable or uncomfortable, happy or unhappy, bored or entertained, restless or relaxed makes me nervous. Deciding when to eat, where to go or which activity to do makes me ill. I know what you are thinking about me at this moment. You are probably right. But before judging me, try travelling once without having to consider anyone’s wishes or needs, doing what you really want when you want, lying on a solitary beach experiencing a perfect peace, ordering a cold beer in a hidden bar in a small town, talking to strangers that become friends at the end of the chat. If you can’t enjoy these kind of situations, you probably don’t like travelling, you only like to take a walk, to go for a walk with other people (laugh track).
Travelling alone is a state of mind. You have to be ready to discover something unknown in yourself or in the world, to learn something new about suffering and happiness, to find new expressions of beauty coming from a remote past, to bump into the future when turning the corner in a modern city, to run across the most beautiful woman you have ever seen. It is a state of mind than you get by travelling slowly, feeling free, having cold-water showers, carrying just a little backpack, letting the wind stroke your hair kindly and the sun heat your heart.
And, finally, when you reach the end, you only have one single thing left to do: Write your mother and tell her all you have seen and experienced (laugh track). Why your mother, you will be wondering. Because she has probably been the only one that told you at the beginning of your trip: “write me when you get there” (laugh track). And you do. I always did.
Bart Ptolomy
P.S. You are probably wondering why I have indicated when you have to laugh while you read this story. The reason is simply: given my poor level of English, I am not sure if my jokes will be got or not. This way I show you where the jokes are. So you can laugh if you want to.
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