The never-ending walk

Let me take you on a journey, far beyond the shiny travel pictures, deep into the emotions of life as traveller.

Like so many times these past days, she set an early wake-up call to go for a nice, early morning walk.

She loves these walks. They have been important companions ever since her childhood and they continue to come along wherever she goes in the world.

She would go out, no matter where she was living and no matter the weather. When she was a kid, neighbours would tell her mother, how surprised they were that she was always smiling when she passed their house, even if it was raining. Later, when she moved to Asia, she would stubbornly keep this beloved exercise. The weather there was so unpredictable. More than once she would walk out with her sunglasses when she should rather have taken an umbrella or the other way round. The streets there were not made for pedestrians. If she was lucky, there would be something that could be considered as pavement, but usually, it would be full of cracks and huge open holes, that would uncover what lay below — the dirty and smelling sewage systems of the cities. These walks would often leave her soaked in sweat, which was not really surprising. Asians try to avoid walking in this hot and humid weather at any cost — not her, though.

They keep her busy; active when she is bored; allow her thoughts to roam freely when she feels sad or lonely. She always tells herself that the reason to go out is to discover something new.

See something new — explore a new part of town — visit a new place,

but in reality, most of the time, these walks are lonely, just her — walking alongside her inner thoughts.

She actually does not remember if these walks ever resulted in anything truly exciting. Sure they would see new things and places. Sometimes, pleasant, unexpected situations would come up — like when they were strolling around a park in Santiago de Chile a few years ago.

The park was full of people. The atmosphere was buzzing with peaceful energy. They had just wanted to sit down, to immerse with the ambiance and pretend to be part of it — just for a moment. An elderly couple sat down next to them and engaged them in a chitter-chatter, which ended in a discussion about football- of course, Chileanens were crazy about it. After moving around all these years, it did not surprise them anymore how much people knew about European football. Even in the remotest villages in Myanmar, villagers could name all players of their home team.

They tried to follow the conversation as best as they could. Considering that they were not yet used to the heavy Chilean accent, they managed pretty well. On their way back home, they had this proud feeling of having had a decent conversation in Spanish and having been part of the merry ongoings in the park, instead of just being spectators.

But these were exceptions usually they remain just by themselves — she and her thoughts on a lonely walk.

She is proud to be considered an independent woman, who follows her own adventurous path. And yet here she is again: lying under her warm blanket; giving in to this all so familiar feeling that had kept her inside for so many times already: a sense of repetition, boredom, emptiness. What difference would it make anyway? Weren’t they always the same in the end?

She loves these walks, but she also resents them.

Instead of enjoying the crisp and sunny day, she takes to her phone — such an easy distraction. The entertaining world of others passes by at any speed she wants, just with a swipe of her hand. News from her friends, stories from around the world appear with just the movement of her finger. So much more is happening on the screen of her phone than on the grey streets outside. The time passes so quickly a few minutes easily turn into an hour until a feeling of oversaturation sets in like she ate too many sweets. She remembers when she was a kid when she knew all too well that eating the whole bag of Haribos would make her tummy wince but yet could not resist.

Her eyes wander around the room. They move from the bright blue sky and the sunrays, that shine through the window and colour her blanket in a golden light, to the nightstand. Something turquoise catches her attention — Her ‘Happy Book’!

She bought it a few years ago when she had again one of these moods, just a few months after moving anew. The novelty of a new place and the excitement that always comes with it eventually starts fading. On one of these days, she had bought this bright and colourful book and a sparkling green pen along with it.

Lying in her room now, she takes the book. The fabric of the book feels soft and warm against her fingers when she opens it:

The first pages are full of a beautiful green script. Her regular handwriting is awful; her first-grade teacher would relentlessly complain about it. If she made an effort, it could look neat, but most of the time, she simply does not care if others could read her words, not so for this book. She wants it to be beautiful — not for others, but herself!

Holding the book in her hand, she is leafing through the first pages:

• Going by bike to work
• Cooking healthy food
• The owner of my favourite coffee shop exactly remembers how I like my coffee

The list goes on — It is not really a diary, just a collection of happy moments.

Too often she is trying to chase a big new adventure and forgets that in reality, it is the little things that make her happy. This book is her reminder that travelling and living in all these exotic countries is not about big excitements that would too quickly burn away, nor about these bright, colourful pictures that she always sends home, but to discover and embrace the small pleasures that make life so unique.

She reads on:

• Listening to live music
• Laughing the whole evening with friends
• Going out for a walk

She sighs and grins: Here they are again. No matter how much she resents them, she loves them, she needs them. She flips open the blanket and with the same movement brushes away her melancholy, steps out of bed, and gets ready. Before she leaves the house, she goes back to her bedroom, to fetch one of those masks that you have to wear every time you go out these days. Something lying on the floor catches her attention: The turquoise book; it must have fallen to the ground when she carelessly tossed it back to the nightstand. It lays open:

‘The world belongs to the brave ones’

The words are staring at her — the grin turns into a big smile. Laughing to herself, she grabs the book. This time she puts it back on the nightstand caringly.

Even though the mask is hiding her mouth, you can still see the smile in her eyes, as she closes the main door and steps out, towards another adventure to discover the small things that make her life so colourful.