Memories of distant shores

This morning I thought about travelling. I often do, especially when having my breakfast. A juicy grapefruit, that has stored rays of sun, brings forth memories of carefree days in a rental car, in an exchanged home, by the Pacific Ocean. I remembered the fresh date shake I had in the almost unbearable heat of Indio, in the Californian desert. It was made with dates from local palms. And the flies that were all around us, tormenting us, in the almost unbearable heat of the same little town, only years before. And I thought about the flat we borrowed in Cannes, right by the beach promenade, and the rosé wine I went out to get from the nearest wine merchant, wearing my new polkadot skirt, while my husband was making dinner. When showering, I could feel my skin being sore from the sun, the sand on the floor and the smell of my "soap and glory" shower gel.

The unexpected snow that hit us on the mountain before we started our descent into the hottest place on earth (yes, the Libyan record has been falsified since). The almost deserted resort by the almost deserted perfect sandy beach on the small Greek island in the Aegean Sea. I don't think the travel bug will ever leave me. Ever since I grew up in that small town where I let my mind carry me as far as it could at the sight of the tracks leading south from the railway station, I have nurtured the longing for the freedom that a packed bag and a travel ticket always brings.