Shall I write about my travels?
Shall I write about facts? be chronological? Or shall I write my impressions, de-contextualised, and ignore the fact that it will be utterly incomprehensible without further explanations?
Shall I write about these things at all, or will you just hate me anyway for my life here (and especially for the fact I am not all euphoric in it)?
I can't seem to master the art of uncomplicated happiness.
– so I'll stick to the facts, or something of the like, and at that I'll write how I went to Bari.
It all began with the notion that with this climate here I'd better go somewhere South in November, so I decided to go to Cyprus. Then I saw the air fares, and decided to go elsewhere, to look for a nice dance festival. And I found one in Cyprus, and I also found out that if I don't insist on travelling on weekend, I may get an acceptable fare, but then my friend Mari told me she was going to a festival in Bari, where some truly awesome teachers would teach, and where I have another couple of friends living, not to mention which is a place much easier to travel to. So I went. She could not, in the end.
The old town of Bari is as heart-brakingly beautiful as only the port cities of the Mediterranean can be, and seems to have the exact same horrible living conditions. There is also some charm in seeing people in boots and winter coats in 23 degrees and sunshine.
Of course, I spent most my time inside the Mazagat festival, taking 3 dance workshops a day. I swear by the end of each day not only I couldn't lift my feet, but I didn't even know where to find them. I learnt a lot, though, or so I hope. I see thankful and enthusiastic comments on fb and can't bring myself to write one of those, and I wonder why: if it's a difference in personality, if it's because I felt so clumsy at the workshops among so many good dancers (and beautiful women), or simply I was too tired by the end to be enthusiastic about anything. It had been a very long time sine I danced as much and as intensely.
The cool thing about coming back from holidays on Tuesday is that you have a short working week. The not-so-cool thing about spending you holidays in an otherwise fantastic, but so intense festival (especially if you come back on Tuesday) is that you stand no chance at all of getting even near-enough sleep. So here I am now, back to work, back to my flat-hunt – I should get going in a few minutes to see another flat, by the way.
Shall I write (more) about travels? or any of these micro-stories?