Travel notes

Living off a suitcase. Washing your clothes in other people's houses always leaves a foreign smell on them, as if they belonged to someone else. And because I am no longer sleeping in my own bed, I forget what it's like to be me. I turn into a stranger to myself. I say and do things like in a dream. I think I might wake up any moment and find myself back in my London bed.

Someone once said "partire e' un po' morire", which can be translated as "to leave (for a journey) is to let a little part of you die". The English language is usually much more concise than the Italian one, but not in this case...

So here are some thoughts, observations and images I collected over the last 10 days...

Palermo. Silent airport. Large artichokes. Concrete high-rises. Palm trees. More concrete high-rises. The clean tiles of a new apartment. The old market behind the prison. A young Sri Lankan boy carrying a heavy pot up a flight of staircases. Drunken dirving on a 1962 Vespa. The faraway sound of ships.


Roccalbegna. Tree planting. Drilling and fixing. Portrait of a Lady and 2046. Red wine. Indonesian furniture.


Rome. Solitude. The sounds and smells of the courtyard. A man and a woman arguing about nothing. Pans sizzling at mid-day. Endless websites on countries I have never seen: Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia... The claustrophobic offices of my current employer. Cigarettes and sweat. Two girls, smiling as I stumble back at 2 am, hand me a white paper tissue. Do they think I am crying?


Dublin. Idle walks along crowded harbours. Oysters and tabasco sorbet! Open plan kitchens relentlessly churning out perfect dishes. Slightly provincial gay clubs. Cuddling under a duvet. Talking about the dark clouds at the horizon.