I had no respect for books when I was little.
I particularly enjoyed tormenting huge encyclopaedias and atlases. They came in large format and had interesting pictures and good quality paper that respondent well to my crayon and felt-tip pen improvements.
I remember one atlas in particular. It looked very old, I guess it must have been my mum’s. It wasn’t that big but when you opened the green worn fabric cover, you could unfold each map further. Every map presented a different region of the world, rendered in beautiful pastel shades, with names of rivers, mountain ranges and cities written in Cyrillic. I had no idea how to read them but it didn’t stop me from enjoying tracing the lines on the glossy paper with my finger. I wished I could go to these mysterious pastel realms one day, but I didn’t know anyone who did such things. Going abroad was what people on tv did.
Fast forward 20 years and the world is at my fingertips. And I can trace my fingers across the glossy pages of maps and travel guides, not to imagine but to prepare for another trip.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t travel much or often. And this is not a blog with tips for your trips. The gods below know I’m a rather anxious and grumpy traveller. I rarely feel that awe-striking isntagrammable bliss capable of influencing future generations or at least yoga pants sales.
Usually alcohol is needed to make me – to quote one of my favourite people in the world – “chill the fuck out”. However, oddly, writing also works. Even thinking about writing works. So, I’ve developed a weird habit of trying to experience my travels as if I was narrating them to myself. Or to imaginary readers.
As I result, what I remember from my trips and what I think I experienced in the places I’ve been to is actually a result of what my fingertips recorded, either during the trips, or sometimes weeks, months, or even years later.
This blog is a result of the privilege of having the world at my fingertips and the paranoia that if I don’t wrestle these experiences down and flatten them on a white surface, the memories will oxidise in my head.
El.
Fingertrips 