the first travel was done, with no map. Was the deepest and was not in a land.

I will never forget that afternoon of ninety-something . When I first watched the process of creation of the nest of a dove. Behind the window of an eleventh floor, in a public hospital. In those days there were no toys. Just evenings with the smelling of formaldehyde, sick people and electric beds . And below, the strain of tiny people passing from one side to another. Mornings ending in nights, and evenings without TV .

Boredom led me to the simple. Boredom led me imagine the disgruntled winds, and those over landscapes that were flown by those beings. The doves of the magicians. I thought about the expedition, that undertook of the pigeons when they left their babies starving in front of me . And then I ruminate about the journey of these pseudo mammals by the wind, on the margins of my city that stained in a fictional map behind the dirty window of that building .

In those years I learned about patience and solitude, to stay away and in, in a single act . The act of inventing horizons beyond the confines of a room. And was there, where I undertake my first journey of life .

At that time, my father was a medical resident in a hospital in Mexico, and my grandparents use to took me there to see him clandestinely.

I realized that what begins as a surfeit inventiveness can materialize gradually in a prologue, in an action.

I have traveled the world so many times. I have outlined the margins of Mongolia with my fingers on the maps, and dragged the index to reach Portugal. The stories of the literature have sharpened my curiosity.

Even the unexpected arrives. I never foresaw my walk through the streets of La Paz, and the indigenous universe behind my eyes . The broken pavement , and the colonial buildings as fossils, on those steep streets where every evening tourists enliven the myth of Sisyphus. The snow-covered hills and the fields of quinoa. Those hard and expressionless faces, the untimely carnivals in February. I walked La Paz without path, and came across markets , bridges, gazebos, a jail, and electrical wires that were woven from post to post like cobwebs .

I came to a place called Murillo plaza and I sat on a step. There they were. With almost mechanical movements. Being feeding by corn, releasing an impulsive flight after the kids were running around, emanating that air.The chase of a pigeon. And I was in Bolivia, suddenly thinking about that afternoon of ninety -something