Travel

Travel is exciting. It broadens the mind, refreshes the spirit, opening a new world of experiences. I love the thrill of seeking out new adventures, new experiences and making friends with people from different walks of life. I appreciate all the more, the differences that nonetheless bind us together as fellow travellers for the brief moment that we share in time and space on this blue dot of a planet.

New poems about travel are sparse, so finding this one is a nice surprise, although the original is written in Italian and this is a translation. The poem encourages travel for learning and personal growth, greater understanding and acceptance, and a feeling of connection to the world.

Travel - Viaggiate

Try to travel, otherwise
you may become racist,
and you may end up believing
that your skin is the only one
to be right,
that your language
is the most romantic
and that you were the first
to be the first.

Travel,
because if you don't travel then
your thoughts won’t be strengthened,
won’t get filled with ideas.
Your dreams will be born with fragile legs
and then you end up believing in tv-shows,
and in those who invent enemies
that fit perfectly with your nightmares
to make you live in terror.

Travel,
because travel teaches
to say good morning to everyone
regardless of which sun we come from.

Travel,
because travel teaches
to say goodnight to everyone
regardless of the darkness
that we carry inside.

Travel,
because traveling teaches to resist,
not to depend,
to accept others, not just for who they are
but also for what they can never be.
To know what we are capable of,
to feel part of a family
beyond borders,
beyond traditions and culture.

Traveling teaches us to be beyond.

Travel,
otherwise you end up believing
that you are made only for a panorama
and instead inside you
there are wonderful landscapes
still to visit.
                             Gio Evan - 2019

The processes we go through when planning, packing, and setting off on a journey are all part of the ritual. How many outfits to take, more importantly how many books to cram into tight spaces are all part of the preparation and which even now has not changed.

My first couple of trips as a baby were in a train, on the long annual regular trips “back home” to Vienna. Here I am, stretched on a carriage seat, gnawing on a chicken leg bone as substitute teething ring.

Once my parents had saved up enough to buy their first car, the annual summer trip became an adventure of a different kind. In 1963, a little car was bought with the express intention of taking us all to Poland so that my father could be reunited with his mother and sons in his native country that he had been forced to leave some twenty-five years earlier.

The poor little car with its “three stroke” engine (whatever that means) was completely underpowered for the journey, more so when, once we got there, it was used as a taxi service for all the family, excited that their long-lost son had returned to his homeland.

As we set off, my mother driving, my father settled down on the passenger front seat with his newspapers and library books. His excuse was that driving during the war had shattered his nerves to such an extent that he could no longer drive – although it is beyond my comprehension how that also prevented his capacity to read a map to give directions.

After we ended up going to Dover via St Alban’s, my mother took on the task of the map reading as well, helped by the RAC who provided a series of long pieces of paper directions – the paper equivalent of today’s spoken instructions on the Sat Nav. I find Sat Nav mindlessly boring, and being nagged by the lady with her patient, but ever so irritating tone, to “make a U-turn where possible” adds insult to injury.

Were the RAC directions foolproof? Not when my father was so engrossed in his reading that he missed the signs given in the instructions. His sole contribution seemed to be restricted to the occasional critical remark on some aspect of my mother’s driving, usually to slow down, and not for safety reasons, but to reduce petrol consumption. The inevitable ensued – frustrated, tired, and hot, her temper would justifiably erupt. The ensuing raging would then only be broken when she had to stop the car because the shouting proved too much for my stomach which threated to erupt with a bout of travel sickness. This condition, I am relieved to say, improved with time, coinciding with my taking over map reading duties – from the back seat, of course.

Are we there yet?

I feel sick
Look out of the window

I feel sick
Rest your eyes

I feel sick
Read your book

I feel more sick
Open the window

I feel sick
Here’s a sweet

I feel sick
Can we stop?
You’ll just have to wait

I feel sick
Shhhh
Lie down
I feel better

I feel sick
Are we there yet?
Oh dear

Too late…

…equilibrium reinstated

Yvonne