I often don't know; chained by vague priorities, faint directions, indistinct hints. And by habits, circumstances and conditions. And much, much-much more.
And then coming home, and the same again — I do not know.
Still; I have to make decisions, today, tomorrow, always. I guess one thing I hate more than making decisions is not to make any.
22 June 2010
07 June 2010
Eat alone!
Never eat alone, said Keith Ferrazzi some years ago and I tried my hardest to do so.
Yet there's exceptions. Two weeks without privacy, at the most unimaginable non-private places of all. Tranquil Himalayas.
Eating with and talking to total strangers every day or rather every few hours at breakfasts, tea stops, lunches, dinners, smoke stops, pot stops and more; to people walking in one's direction or the opposite one, to the ones sitting next to a trail, falling behind, not to forget overtaking ones. All of them. Greeting and yakking about weather, mountains, trails, home, tourism, politics, economy, about any subject one can come up with. When they're bored or when they feel they're having the time of their lives. Whatever reason they can find. Their choice.
Seeing them again and again as trail winds up and then being unable to escape as it rolls down. Up to the point when one wishes to be locked up in London Tower to enjoy solitude.
Then suddenly it is over. Civilization, God bless it with eternal life, brings privacy back. Boarding the plane in Jomsom and landing in Pokhara, it's over in a blink. Or rather in about 17 minutes. There's crowds here — but crowds are good. Crowds mean anonymity. And quiet, if one wishes so.
Sending postcards, browsing through bookstores, reading H2G2, hanging out shopping for useless souvenirs, spending time on one's own. Not to be bothered by anybody; being alone never felt so good.
One learns to appreciate dry subtropical autumn in cafes, restaurants and gardens very quickly. This is the way holidaying means to be!
Hence I'm secretly planning the same in the Big Apple this summer.
Psst, don't tell anybody.
Yet there's exceptions. Two weeks without privacy, at the most unimaginable non-private places of all. Tranquil Himalayas.
Eating with and talking to total strangers every day or rather every few hours at breakfasts, tea stops, lunches, dinners, smoke stops, pot stops and more; to people walking in one's direction or the opposite one, to the ones sitting next to a trail, falling behind, not to forget overtaking ones. All of them. Greeting and yakking about weather, mountains, trails, home, tourism, politics, economy, about any subject one can come up with. When they're bored or when they feel they're having the time of their lives. Whatever reason they can find. Their choice.
Seeing them again and again as trail winds up and then being unable to escape as it rolls down. Up to the point when one wishes to be locked up in London Tower to enjoy solitude.
Then suddenly it is over. Civilization, God bless it with eternal life, brings privacy back. Boarding the plane in Jomsom and landing in Pokhara, it's over in a blink. Or rather in about 17 minutes. There's crowds here — but crowds are good. Crowds mean anonymity. And quiet, if one wishes so.
Sending postcards, browsing through bookstores, reading H2G2, hanging out shopping for useless souvenirs, spending time on one's own. Not to be bothered by anybody; being alone never felt so good.
One learns to appreciate dry subtropical autumn in cafes, restaurants and gardens very quickly. This is the way holidaying means to be!
Hence I'm secretly planning the same in the Big Apple this summer.
Psst, don't tell anybody.
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