Traveling through a photo “album” is another travel, and another new pleasure, in which you take yourself, and those who were with you, again, and this time loaded with memories of amazement, knowledge, laughter, and situations with their joy and sadness, the rituals of travel that have changed with the years of life, is the journey of photos in trips. Which extended over a lifetime, exceeding a hundred capitals, exceeding two hundred cities, and dozens of islands, and we make mistakes in counting and forget the number, and every time we cry out: Is there a new country, a city that we do not know, or an island from whose sword and rock we can take refuge? Is there a place that surprises us all at once?
They are tickets for land, sea, and air… and travel bags, and the best thing a traveler always and forever lacks. They are the day of distances and the fatigue of the foot. They are the night when the night bird unites with tears and grief, and what love leaves in the soul. The night bird has its sincerity, and when it is wrapped in a veil, and they are few things. Of the many things that I encountered on the edge of consciousness and in cities, they are readings, contemplations, and many expensive things that the traveler’s bag always carries… They are true stories in their entirety, decorated and beautified by the imagination of the lover of travels and countries, from time to time, especially when history has an opinion, and geography has an opinion, It includes the people he encountered, both similar and different, and the behavior of people he did not know, and perhaps he met them suddenly, or they passed by on his path by chance, or they were driven by the winds of travel and travel, and they were travel companions, whether long or short.. For some of them, the farewell wave was the end of their time, some of them remained. In my head and memory, I saw some of them in the vicissitudes of time, and some of them I remember as soon as I reached their cities, and they are the first thing I want to see and check on, and the question precedes me: Is he still in his place? Did the world sweep him away? Others' letters kept arriving in my cold mail. Among them is the old rose seller in Paris, who kept wishing that he would never see war again, because he had lived it enough, and that vagabond, with his sincere passion for its streets, and his evening bottle, who was conciliatory to people and places, the cute thief who was astonished by the ghutra and the headband, and the soft, beautiful fingers that could be closed on your neck.
How did I ride with a friend in the Turkish police car to join the official convoy car, and what did the people gathered in that crowded market think of gossip and curiosity, until you almost heard the phrase: “Two thieves from a strange place”!
How did I catch happiness in the Madrid night once, and wished it would last an eternity, and what Granada did to the soul, and why every time I entered it, I felt that never-ending historical orphan, “Sarajevo” and its magic, and its commandment: Come back here… whenever you want love. “Vienna” and its mornings that resemble the mornings of cities, then are different, and many things… some of them are blurry memories, and others are hard on the memory, bringing to it the brilliance of joy and the smell of rain… and tomorrow we will continue.
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