Travel has always been the perfect excuse for not looking at ourselves, to turn your face to the mirror. And I say this with the awareness of having traveled a handful of countries from every corner of the planet, from Alaska to Ushuaia, from South Africa to Iverness, from Australia to the Himalayas.
The first trip was to last 20 hours, but it was extended to 36: first "hill he fell" -as they say in Peru when there is a shift of land-, then he fell another and then came the night, the tropical heat and despair.
In this quiet Massachusetts town I began to understand that the author who has scratched me the most; that has changed me the most, nurtured, unclothed, separated from the ground ("My house in the clouds is quiet", wrote) and dressed again he talked about things that I, now, he had before his eyes.
I had decided to go long ago, without knowing it, when i read moby dick. I told myself: I want to live in Nantucket. I pictured little wooden houses with candles burning away as the wind rolled down narrow streets and fishermen, exhausted, heated around the fire.
The first time he threw the door in my face. The second, whispered a friendly "come in". The third began to caress the piano. Marjorie Elliot doesn't like to be disturbed in her work time, that seems to swell just before each performance.
My journey started cold. I had decided to tour for five weeks 1.600 kilometers through these lands by bicycle, with no company other than a tent, the saddlebags packed with food and four pairs of socks.
Mass tourism sits in beautiful unspoilt spots, reason why the impact of the development of the economic activity is immense in the natural environment. Also in Cuba.
There is a kind of syndrome that always attacks the traveler who sets foot in Cuba and that he will not understand until after a while. It is a virus that, once inoculated, It can only grow to devour us. Too many people suffer from it. I also, and irreparably. And it's called nostalgia.
The La Farola viaduct is the window to the world - a road of unmatched beauty, but quite devious- from Baracoa. And it is the most authentic way to get to the "primate city" from Santiago de Cuba.
Talking about eastern Cuba is talking about colonization (This is where Columbus appeared for the first time), of resistance and independence, economic and cultural development, policy, of revolution and, finally, History. A trip to Santiago feeds all that.
Here, Higuera unlike, the people of Bolivia where Che was murdered and whose claim operates more intensity every 9 October, legend roars between the streets and in the imagination when the visitor hovers between the intricacies of the biography of a universal symbol.
Havana is a cultural universe that is often unknown, although there may be a small obstacle: meet the vast programming activities. Nothing that is not exceeded with interest.
Of course every country has its flaws, but I think you need to talk with temperance, parked hatreds and prejudices stereotypes so used to those we have many articles of opinion and political.
In recent weeks I have done a couple of weekend trips. First I went to Cienfuegos and Trinidad, southward, and then Viñales, west of Havana. In all these places slept in homes, an alternative to hotels. Besides being more economical, and personal, are usually the most affordable option.
The alien is still the focus of attention; a claim, in the end, money to be able to get something. To which I refer is the way we act and integrate without passing the line of respect for the different.
Hemingway lived at the Hotel Ambos Mundos, where, say, began writing For Whom the Bell Tolls. The hotel, Twilight of charm, is located on the main street of the historic center of Havana. Its ground floor is a large living room with high ceilings where today a pianist starts to keys Yellow Submarine.
In this blog today inaugurated from Havana will try to bring adventures, corners, music, curiosities, beaches, books ... All this fits in this space designed to share experiences, walks and impressions.
Today, Bosnia-Herzegovina, tries to shake off the dust from the ashes of history.
Walking the streets of Sarajevo to recall, inevitably, more immediate memories in time.
New Mexico, as well as Arizona, is an arid land, rough, ocher, that of the cowboy and Indian movies: rocks, authentic scenarios of a film by John Ford, in which a Navajo can peer into the abyss.
The asphalt boil at noon. The first rays of sunlight are absorbed by the soil; after a while and can not cope and road burns. Staking the edges, The bulle fe.
And Oklahoma, in the heart of America, where the sun punishes the existence, a businessman, Cyrus Avery, dreamed of a network of interstate highways. That idea went to the American Association of State Highway. Thus born, in 1926, Route 66. This is the chronicle of a trip 3.600 kilometers back of a Harley Davidson. By Diego COBO.