The Art of Travel

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.

Douglas Adams

A couple of weeks ago, I was in Milan. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up there or why, nevertheless, I was jolted awake by the drop of airplane wheels on tarmac and thought “oh s**t. It wasn’t a dream!” It was an impulse decision.

Milan was great. Although, the airport itself seemed to have been designed specifically for a Ryanair flight: as it’s own website states “..the added beauty is that it not only offers accessibility to….Italy but also in several other countries too!” Out of town then. The trip, in fairness, was easy and reasonably priced. Milan itself is a good looking city filled with stunning architecture, mouthwatering shops and people who look like life on the lens is the only way to live. Italians are the best at looking good. They don’t walk, they saunter. They seem to effortlessly exude sex appeal and confidence while not showing the slightest amount of self-consciousness. I love Italy.

So while on my two-day exile, I had time to spend seeking answers. Why am I here? What is my purpose? How much are those shoes?

It all made sense on my journey home. The plane was filled with Italian teenagers, effortlessly wearing pit black sunglasses onboard. The flight was turbulent and messy. There were bad smells, stomach-churning rifts and endless hopeful sales pitches for tea/coffee, perfumes and oversized chocolate bars. The young couple sitting beside me, continuously took photos of the airplane wing, throughout the flight, while I sat at the window seat.

The plane, finally dropped from the sky with a thud. As the door opened, an artic wind blew, rain pelted our faces and I knew... I was home.