I am an atypical traveler. I don’t like checking off goals. I like to get lost in little-trodden streets. I like meeting locals, watching their attitude, the way they dress, the usual activities. I’m not a gourmet, I’m not necessarily looking to taste the local food. I like more to taste the local atmosphere, the way I resonate with the people. And I like the sea. If the place, the city I’m going to has access to the sea, it’s hard to get me away from there. The sea fascinates me. The way the gaze is lost in the sea, unstoppable by any obstacle, the way the waves break on the shore, the way it gently rustles in the morning, and in the evening its noise covers everything, the sunrise or sunset in the waves…
From Istanbul, I don’t really remember Agia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, or even the breathtaking view from the Sapphire Tower. What I remember is the look of a Turk who was standing on the steps of his workshop in the Lamp District of Galata. Unlike the rest of the Turks who swarmed like an anthill, he just sat there doing nothing. I remember the puppy in a little park under a bridge over the Bosphorus who, after letting me take his pictures, moved a few steps away, as if angry that I was taking up his space. I remember the sunset on the Sea of Marmara, surrounded by the warrior cats in the small harbor.
From Holland I don’t really remember the exhibits in the Rijsk Museum or other tourist attractions, I remember the warm smile of the Dutch, their punctuality, the windows without curtains and the fact that everyone spoke English. And I still remember the cold March morning spent in the town with an unpronounceable name on the shore of the North Sea, where everything was in shades of gray: the beach, the sea, the sky, the horizon, the shells…
From the small village in Greece where I spent my vacation I remember the warmth. The warmth of the Aegean Sea, the warmth of the sand and the warmth of the people who greeted me on the street “kalimera!”. I remember dogs as big as me, as friendly as people. I remember the sunrise from behind the mountain that seemed to emerge directly from the sea water.
I am an atypical traveler. I don’t like to see history in museum exhibits. I like to breathe it on the cobbled streets, in the quiet of the neighborhoods, away from the chaos of the areas frequented by tourists, in the eyes of the local people, in the flowers in the parks, in the stones on the beach.
I am an atypical traveler… What will be my new destination?