"Wherever you go, there you are."
I would have liked to quote a bit from A.R. Ammons' "Cascadilla Falls," that poem about a creek in Ithaca, NY in which he ruminates on the constant velocities of the cosmos and how even though he might be just standing at the side of a scenic creek below college town weighing a testicular stone in his artistic hands, he and we all are headed inexorably somewhere (towards death? You bet!), but it's probably still packed in the boxes I haven't gotten to since moving, which is itself a kind of travel. (Incidentally, Cascadilla in this case rhymes with Magilla Gorilla, a pronunciation with irked my Texan friend Martin.)
Everyone seems to like travel these days. You read it in personal ads and hear it in interviews with gameshow contestants, every waiter is waiting to save enough bread to head for the water. Is this because no one's happy with where they are? Is that what brings YOU here?
Every day is a journey, even when we feel we're standing still, trapped by routines of our own contrivance. Recorded here are tales of two travels which might as well have been written by someone else b/c it's been so long since I was the person who lived them. What was I thinking when I took these pictures and wrote these notes? What was I trying to preserve and for whom?
P<1K - Prague in a Thousand Words or
This city has been a media darling in the 1990's, possibly because visiting journalists can get good and drunk and laid in an environment that looks and feels a lot like Disney Land. I know I liked it, but that's because I spent the better parts of my days getting drunk and laid.
This title is ironic, taken from a hilarious series of postcards sold on the sidewalk of an out-of-season-resort-town mercado, each one depicting an aspect of traditional Spanish custom which is manifested only in postcards and the clouded reminiscences of nostalgic oldtimers.