Traveling is timeless. Not only “from the dawn of time…” and all that, but more because you lose all sense of time while doing it. Maybe not so much on a long drive, but when dodge-duck-dip-dive-and-dodging your way airplane-style through Mountain Time and Central Time and Eastern Time and God Only Knows What Time, there is a distinct feeling of purgatory.
And despite the post-reformation era we live in, indulgence-sellers hawk their George Clooney GQs, neck pillows, and overpriced drink-wares at you, in order to help pave the way through these liminal lands of travel.
And despite the post-reformation era we live in, indulgence-sellers hawk their George Clooney GQs, neck pillows, and overpriced drink-wares at you, in order to help pave the way through these liminal lands of travel.
For me, it was a 21-hour day of wayfaring: Chesterton to Chicago by Prius; Chicago to Philadelphia by a fortunate early flight; Philadelphia to Madrid overnight; and—it was cheaper this way, I swear—an hour hop from Madrid to Seville. With all that bouncing around, all I needed was a caduceus and a pair of winged sandals and I would have been indistinguishable from Hermes (the Greek patron saint of travelers, as well as the classic liminal figure).
However, I am happy to bid my farewell to Hermes (particularly as he is also known as the protector of thieves and I'm staying in a hostel) and welcome my new home for the next month. Seville is an adorable cobblestone town, with inedible-orange groves along the cobblestone streets and tiendas haphazardly sunk into the larger buildings lining them. My hostel is tucked away down one such side-street and remains to be explored.
Perhaps after a nap, that is.
No comments:
Post a Comment