The Bug

I am a traveller. I feel it in my bones. It started with an aunt of mine. I suppose she was wealthy enough to be eccentric rather than just crazy. She had one of those square bags that hung from her forearm. It looked heavy. Mostly papers of gawd knows what. She told me once that the 2 things she always carried were her passport and her international card, which I will not advertise here, but fancy ads with polished people advised never to leave home without it. "If I feel sad or fed up, I just go to the airport, take a flight and leave."

Just like in the movies.

She would travel for months, always sent postcards, and would come back with gifts, mostly useless, but they were delivered with the most deliciously made-up stories. My aunt was short, tiny, really; always wore a pantsuit and dress shirt; her minuscule dress shoes had small squared heels, and when she sat and crossed her legs, she liked to dangle the shoe, her short stocking always sagging. She was petite, but could command the entire room, and had a temper to match. She was legendary. Looked like Al Pacino.

The stories mesmerised me. I liked sitting on the carpet, looking up at her, marvelling at her stories and the balancing of the shoe, which defied gravity and never fell. She would tell me stories of how people in France would go around town on their bicycles with a baguette firmly held under their sweaty armpits. She talked about the grid streets of New York, the vapour coming out of the sewers by the side of the street, of London, with tea all day and perfect queues, and of actual legs of ham hanging from the ceiling in Spain.

It was all fascinating to me. I was desperate to go and see those places, eat the food, hear the way people spoke, dressed, moved, thought.

I promised myself, as a little girl, that I would go and travel the world, learn 5 languages, have my own passport at the ready, take off, and just fly away.

And I did. 61 countries visited, and counting. I always imagined the hams hanging from the ceiling were too far-fetched to be true, and to my great surprise, the woman was not lying; in fact, jamón de Jabugo is one of the most delicious things there is. I also got to witness a French person on a bike with a baguette, but didn't see them eat it, so the jury is out on that one.

A little short on the language thing: 2 really fluent, one "meh" level, and two others that can either get me out of or into trouble, depending on the circumstances. But there is still time.

Now that I have relocated to Málaga... North Africa, here I come!