Sometimes, between so much analytical and theoric concern, something is missing: we forget the fundamental, our passion for travel. Trapped by words, we lose sight of that continous moving, the jumping between buses, the passing through people and the new surroundings, what deep down fascinates us. The passion for the travel that makes us forget the bad things, that make us tell as a trivial thing the moments of sickness along the route, fleas and bugs bites, the rides in old ramshackle vehicles. We are used to the strange look on people’s faces as we tell these stories, to listening to phrases like “do you travel to suffer?” or things like that.

To think about travel, theorize about it, its motivations and its impact on social environmet in which we move, is necessary. In fact, this blog always intended to do so. But this sedentary effort -deep down, the relational thought comes when we take the time to separate from the continuum of experiences- is only worth it when we combine it with our passion for movement.

We can see our city with tourist’s eyes. But we do it because we’ve trained in other places into that form of seeing the new, the strange, the not quotidian. We know, deep down, that we have to hit the road again, eventually.