Bicycle Travel to TurkeyTomorrow morning I shall begin riding to Turkey.No, not to Turkey; I suppose I should say that I am riding towards Turkey. I do not really know where I will end up.I feel as if I am putting myself down in the center of a spinning compass: I have no idea which [...]
Bicycle Travel to Turkey
Tomorrow morning I shall begin riding to Turkey.
No, not to Turkey; I suppose I should say that I am riding towards Turkey. I do not really know where I will end up.
I feel as if I am putting myself down in the center of a spinning compass: I have no idea which way the arrow is going to point when it all settles. I like the way this feels. Tomorrow I shall wake up, stretch my arms up into the sun shine coming in through the window, and smile into the thought that I don’t know where I am going.
I like traveling with Mira because she looks at maps, places, and things for me. Her job is to look at the maps, my job is to come up with stupid ideas. I like to bobble and bubble my way through the ebbs and flows of life. I do not look for what is looming behind the next corner because I simply do not care.
Who cares? Really.
I listen to tourist talk and I get the feeling that they have memorized every damn proper noun possible in any given area. I can hardly remember the name of the town I was just in, let alone having an instant recall list of places, things, and things to visit available for immediate recall. No, I do not wish to assault the next unfortunate fellow who happens to fall victim to my small talk with a barage of place names. Yes, I look like a total friggin idiot when talking to tourists.
I like bicycle travel because it blends place names into a gentle slurry of composite thought.
“Where did you travel from today?”
“I don’t know, it was the place with the high silos, the rolling hills, and the potato chip factory.”
I have come to realize the fact that I travel towards directions, not places. I am beginning to care less and less about places, stops, and those pesky little dots that break up the beautiful wavy lines on a rugged old map. I love the paths of the world; I love how they lead to and from the tops of mountains to the burned up and bled dry dust of deserts. All paths lead into and away from each other.
It seems to me, as I stand here at this juncture, that our world is nothing other a grand ensemble of continuously and infinitely connected Paths.
But I know that the real path is myself.
I travel very much inside the box.
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