Till the world brings me back
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| Santa Justa Train Station, Seville, Spain |
I’m leaving home. It is the 14th of January 2013 when I do so, on a sunny winter’s day in which I wake from a thin night of sleep, spent in between last minute must do’s and all those things I left for the last moment, as usual, amongst them the need to pack my backpack, what I do in a gasp just before departing. I leave home, in a slow farewell in which I give a last glimpse to my room, to my house of all times, to my dogs, who wiggle their tail as usual unaware they will not see me in a long time, finally to my birthplace Loulé, starting point and last stop of the journey I’m about to begin, which some day will bring me back, if God and luck allow, whichever road may take me. Baffled by the lack of sleep and the weight of this moment, I watch the road go past me, and with it all these places where I grew up, which are part of me and which now pass in front of my eyes, as flashes of a past life and of the future memory of this place, memory which will grow thin at the pace I collect new images from around the world. Soon after I’m taken over by sleep, a heavy light sleep which takes me to other distances while not awaken by the twists of road. This is how I make my way to Sevilla, first stop of my journey, city which is one of my first travel destinations of all times and which today is again a starting point, countering this way its role as last stop of my last two big trips. As we enter the train station, the meeting place becomes the place to part, taking me away from my parents instead of bringing them the immense joy they felt the last two times we’ve been here. But if nostalgia starts to embrace us already, it does so in a serene way, enveloped in the certainty and acceptance that life must go this way. As in a painless delivery in which my parents bring me to the world once more, we say goodbye in a last embrace before I make my way down to the platform, from where I throw a last farewell before entering the train that will take me to Barcelona. Marking the start of my lone way back home, which hopefully will be done through the other end of the world, I finally enter the coach, lay down my backpack, sit down, feel the train starting to move, and acknowledge my swift departure. I left home, yet again, till the world brings me back.
Romania Express
The cold night of Barcelona embraces the dark terminal and my bones when, in the distance, I see for the first time my home for the next 24 hours. Judging by the date, a random week day lost in the middle of January, my hope is that the bus comes nearly empty, allowing me a minimum of comfort and a decent sleep during the long journey ahead, which will take me through the roads of France and Italy until Ljubljana, capital of Slovenia and final destination of my trip's second leg. The few people here waiting with me substantiate my hopes, which nonetheless are soon broken by the harsh reality of my worst expectations. When entering the bus I’m faced with a crowded place, packed with all sorts of gear wherever place exists, showing me this will be a long and arduous journey. After a few minutes scuffling the darkness of this seemingly full bus, finally some discontented soul points me to the sit next to him. ‘Window!’, I shout silently while thinking I’m lucky to have a place where I normally can sleep better. But soon enough I’m reminded of the length of my legs, when I squeeze myself in the tight place where I hardly fit. Sitting still, I thank to my neighbor, an apparently ill-disposed man in its 30s or 40s, and who seems to only speak Romanian, being probably just in no mood to entertain me. My will to chat is also minor, especially given the late hour and my sleepiness, so I just sit waiting while I wave goodbye to the friend who accompanied me here, part of a group of travel friends from other journeys and who made sure to welcome me so well in their city. Finally we depart. I look around me, slowly soaking in the Romania Express, name I gave to this bus which, from Madrid, circles around the east coast of the Iberian peninsula, reaching Barcelona from where it continues during uncountable hours before arriving to Romania, trailing this way a long route which serves mostly to transport Romanian emigrants and their families on their way from and back home. It’s so dark I can hardly see a thing, feeling however as if I was traveling in time, some 20 or 30 years back, especially when I spot the ghost of Ceausescu in a nearby seat, occupied by a man with an ancient look and who seems to have been pulled directly from the times of the old communist dictatorship. The other travelers just look weary, maybe due to the long hours of journey, or just worn-out by the tough work life they have far away from home. Cradled in these thoughts I finally cave in to sleep, a difficult sleep repeatedly woken up by the twists and turns of the road, or by my numb legs and buttocks, which once and again compel me to unsuccessfully look for a better sitting position. Despite the discomfort I manage to sleep until dawn, when we stop for breakfast, still in France near Nice, but about to reach the Italian border. Leaving my constricted cockpit, I happily stretch my legs and body in spite of the coldness of the wee hours of the morning. My happiness is short-lived, however, as soon after I get back to my seat and to the torture of having the plastic folds of the seat in front of me crushing against my already sore knees. This torture went on for the rest of the day, spent almost in silence as my neighbor confirmed he spoke little else but Romanian, and the remaining passengers around me were happier in silence, or watching TV where music videos were repeated to infinity, interspersed by Romanian comedy shows which made everyone else laugh but me. Breaking my distress were the various breaks along the journey, in which I could bring back life to my numb body, and the brief instants of sleep, which made the route go by a bit faster. At about 8pm we arrived to Ljubljana, a pleasant surprise as we were not supposed to get there but a couple of hours later. The city welcomed me under a blanket of snow, but the happiness of finally leaving my tight premises made me forget the cold and brought back a smile to my tired face. Under the weight of my backpack I started to make my way in the city, looking again to the Romania Express while thinking of the many travel companions still inside, many of whom started their journeys before me and were maybe only half way done. It’s a tough life that of an emigrant. Soon after the Romania Express departed again, passing by me while I made my way through the wide frozen streets of this city, draped in an orange light which presented and guided me through that which will be my house for the next few days.
Ljubljana, Slovenia, January 2013
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