London welcomed me in the usual grey skies terms and overwhelming fashion I was expecting. You get in and then out of the tube and you’re immediately part of this crowd of slow tourists and stressed out businessmen, a general mass of working class bodies, plus the fashion oriented creatures, and the immigrants, and the hipsters, and the homeless, and whatnot; the soundtrack being this babylon of an endless series of accents and languages, and cars and sirens and trains and honks and construction works and live instruments and advertisment and friendly voices who tell you to mind the gap, watch your possessions or that, actually, you have just arrived to your destination. This is the epithome of the Western fast-faster-the fastest type of pace (European style) but then there’s also this contrasting feeling of steadiness and solemny exuding from every monument, every corner, every stone. So much History concentrated in just one city.
Last summer I felt that some time by myself was an urgent necessity: somewhere sunny where I could rest, read my book, swim, and go for some exploration walks. That’s exactly what I did. I flew to Malaga, on the southern coast of Spain, where I rested, read, swam, and explored. I find it vital to just stop from time to time, and set the contemplation mode on. You know, just be. Although I quite often go on dates with myself in the city (for coffee, movies, or even eating out), I must say that I don’t travel alone as often as I sometimes think I should. But I love it, and when I do it, I feel like I reborn.