A wanderlust affair

3:17 AM. I have been on the road for more than 26 hours now. As I look out the window, searching for a clue of where I could possibly be, I tell myself I should not complain about the numbness in my limbs. I should not even think of muttering a single word about the two oversized ping-pong balls standing behind my eyelids’ heavy drapes. Instead, I should be grateful for being in this bus drenched in somnolence and dubious smells, since until now it has been a loyal accomplice to my adventure.
The man beside me seems emerged in a deep sleep. Out of the corner of my eye I observe his dark, thick hair and chocolaty skin. He is wearing a beige t-shirt and pale green capris. I push myself against my thick winter coat, which makes for quite a decent pillow, and start considering that bringing it along might not have been the brightest idea. The east of the continent is freezing at this time of the year. Before leaving it, I did not imagine other places could be otherwise. As I let myself fall deeper into the chair, I try to envision my destination: a sun-drenched place, where life goes on unhurriedly, people smile incessantly and food tastes better. Sooner than I think, I fall asleep on the song of my travel companion’s snores.
5:47 AM. The bus has stopped. With sluggish motions, I put on my coat and descend, as the crisp morning air wakes up all my senses. I collect my light purple, “perfect-plane-weight” 23-kilos luggage: a plain box on four wheels, which holds inside almost my entire life. In spite of what seemed an infinitely long journey, I am not entirely certain how I got to this place. I feel as if I was teleported in this small town colonized by Spanish words, sounds and smells. Sure, there have been a plane and a couple of buses involved, with many border-checks and magnificent nature show-offs in between. But only a few weeks ago I was walking among others on the beaten path of life, when I suddenly decided to turn on a smaller lane and disappear when nobody was looking. And now I am here, hundreds of kilometers away, uncertain of what will follow next, but confident it will only make me want to advance further on this path.
Assaulted by the smell of freshly - brewed coffee, I reach towards a small nearby café. Thanking to myself for having watched all those south-American soap-operas as a child, I order a ‘café con leche’ and a ‘pincho’ and pick a table next to the window. Through the glass, a new sun strokes my grateful eyes.