Marco Polo was my childhood hero.
He was called iL Millione home in Venezia. They all thought he exhaterated when he came home from Cathay.
Whenever I came home from summer vacation, I had come from exotuc places that my class mates only laughed at me about when I told it about what I had seen.
When I got older, did I learn to appreciate the journey, the adventure than the boredom of home.
I am about to fullfill that childhood dream of doing many journeys, and the more things seem to fit more together.
On what seems ancient memories suddenly turn up as from yesterday.
At the age of nineteen celebrating a new years eve in India, watching live local music while eating. Motorcycle rides in Kansas, travellling by ship to Scotland and to Medditterraenan and to something discusting instead of a mear holiday.
I remember my ear ache on my way home from Brazil.
Many years ago, I loved airports. Now, I loath them. After taking endless busrides and train rides in India, or Australia, I have grown to love train rides.
As a kid, you get to see the world from above. Once you get older, you want to see it from the ground as well.
What are the people and landscape look like down there?
I was dying to know.
Now, I am in Ireland. Living and reliving this last adventure, forgetting what I was meant to do, to use those old wisdoms from earlier journeys, and getting over to go on to the next.
Now, another chapter of the story is almost over. And everything seem like a dream. Heads in the clouds, and the wonders of my mind take over and dream of another horizon.
Trying to do the right thing, but sometimes slip at the end…
That’s a part of the fun is it not?
From where, whom and I what I have heard, it’s a part of being human. Not only a journeyman with some ngood and some shitty memories…Just ask any sailorman that have come before me.