Travelogue

               

The following happened on a summer day lost in September 1957.  We drive in the direction of the border, which must be somewhere behind the mountains.

There is a lot missing from this trip. Like a road map, a packet of cigarettes, says my friend.

We didn't discuss this trip, we got into the car, I started the engine, we left. That this trip would ever take place, we knew for several years. Like accepting a hangover after a nightly slamming party.

We drive fast and recklessly, “ as if we are fugitives from the law, who for a few days  raided a paymaster”.

We do not exchange words. In the rear-view mirror we see what we leave behind.

Perhaps the feeling of emptiness that has permanently settled in us,  is responsible for this enterprise.

Restless like a chameleon. That is how I described my mental state in a letter to a lady friend. Since the beginning of the summer I slept badly. I often woke up at night. I masturbated to calm myself down. My friend, his hands confidently hold the wheel, stared through his binoculars all the time in those days. Or for the umpteenth time he reread his favourite eighteenth century travel story.

One day, the day before yesterday?, he discovered a way out between the buildings

‘What an invention’, he says smilingly. ‘What do you mean? ‘  ‘The  steering wheel, all that's needed is a steering wheel.’

I wonder if the lifetime of a human is sufficient to pass all the roads, streets and paths that exist in the world.

'Can you say that you have seen the world?'

'Have you ever felt the pain of loneliness so deep, you had to hide away from people. And being alone was the only cure.?'