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The countryside outside the window was so beautiful it hurt. Valleys and rivers, farms and villages, people dressed in ways I associated with the nineteenth century and obviously worked the land the way they did then, with horses and hay carts, scythes and plows. Part of the train was Russian, I walked through the carriages in the evening, spellbound by the foreign letters, the foreign smells, the foreign interior, the foreign faces.
Reread for djemaa el fna
lumbering, until we were safely coasting on the inside lane of the motorway, at which point he glanced at me for the first time. Sweden? he said. Norwegen, I said. Ah, Norwegen! he said.
Familiar!
and I decided to sleep on the beach. I wandered along a narrow road through a low forest, here and there the asphalt was covered with sand, and soon dunes rose before me, I walked up them, cast my eyes over the shiny gray sea lying in front of me in the light of the Scandinavian summer night. From a campsite or a cluster of seaside cabins a few hundred meters away came the sound of voices and car engines.
Great
This must have been how the first humans lived before they established communities and started farming, when they just wandered around eating whatever they could find, sleeping wherever felt right, and every day was like the first or the last. The tramp had no house to return to, no house to tie him down, he had no job to attend to, no schedules to keep, if he was tired, well, then he lay down wherever he was. The town was his forest. He was outdoors all the time, his skin was tanned and wrinkled, his hair and clothes filthy.
Description of hobo
it was also the her of the future, the unknown her that awaited me. She was different, something else, and the odd thing was that I also became different and something else when thinking about her. I liked myself better when I thought about her. It was as though thinking about her erased something in me, and that gave me a fresh start or moved me on.
Beautiful
