Currently the deep blue skies soar above me and the winter weather chills my bones, local cuisines vary at a rate of about 5 times a month, once in a while my back hurts because my position is right-angled in a back corner of a car that has achieved a mileage of at least 4000km; currently I have been trying to dodge near-fatal accidents that, mostly, appear to have been directly related to the lack of knowledge about local road rules and signs and, in what is starting to become a large handicap, speaking only English. Nevertheless, the general color of things and that peculiar shade of air manage to be different in almost every country and community so that a brick building in Rotterdam and a brick building in Italy look entirely, worldly different from each other. As such, whenever I predict that my eyes shall tire soon, there will be at least a few days of recuperation, rest and privacy, then, finally, I will not be tempted to roam the area in ever-expanding circles that would gradually lead me out, camera in hand, further and further away from the accommodation, and at such an opportune and blessed moment, I will sit and attempt the tedious task of sorting through mail. And after that, if there is some time, compose a short note on all literary exploits I have so far had.

And so - In Greece, I discovered Mick Jackson in a beautiful wooden home walled with rows and rows of science fiction books, bought mostly at sales and second-hand shops and filled with the long, aged aura of history. In a Zurich squat, I found in a toilet on the third floor, above the soup kitchen, a five-page zine in which was an exposition written by a graphic designer sick of bureaucracy and eager to begin a project that avoids, for once, the itchy tape of rules and law and relies, instead, on initiative and trust. (It worked.)  In Bulgaria, I finally found De Profundis by Oscar Wilde, complete with an introduction; I no longer need to stare at a computer screen if and when I am in the mood for a most bitter, reproachful and yet elegant letter. My delight exceeded me because it was a text that I had always wanted to read and own in a book and to celebrate, we went to the Falafel King. In Belluno, in a bed-and-breakfast tucked away on one of the many rolling green hills of northern Italy, I found a bookshelf in the room under the window, Girl with a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier. In Belgium, I was introduced for the first time to one of the most enigmatic figures in history I have ever come across - Athanasus Kircher. In Vienna, I scoured the shops in the streets surrounding a university, got lost and took the wrong turn enough times to allow the sun to set so that when I finally found a bookshop, I was happy to buy even a text printed for students by the university press. City of Glass by Paul Auster, a small red book that fit easily into whatever little space I had on my backpack, was my happy companion in train rides across Holland and Germany (whenever I was not sleeping or admiring the view with an envious eye). Right now, in Czech, I have discovered a wonderful gem - The Kon-Tiki Expedition by Thor Heyerdahl. I am only at the third chapter but I need to race back and start reading it!