The trouble with travel
I’ve always found it hard to write about my travel experiences.
I find that the typical reportage style strips away the essential flavours, while too rich a description doesn’t go down very well (food analogy ftw). I also find it hard to string my memories into a narrative. If I am to communicate my experience, then I’d much rather it be personal and memorable, rather than factual.
So what I’d like to write about the rainy day when I peeped out of a window at the Uffizi Palace in Florence- is just that I found the river Arno churning and tossing like it was straight out of Moby Dick;
or about the time we had a musical show down with a bunch of Tamilians on a hot and sweaty trip to Pondicherry- that Honey Singh isn’t the best choice of music for the East Coast Road.
For me, these tiny snippets are the things that make my memories important and relevant. The silly things I did and felt and imagined matter so much more than the facts and figures.
So if I feel the need to return to Sattaal, it isn’t because of the camp I stayed at-It’s because of the terror of the haunted lake that I must overcome;
or that the reason I’d choose Orchha over McLeodGanj any day is that the Madhya Pradesh government put commendable thought and effort into their TV advertisement– and that deserves a chance.
Try as I may, words can’t ever do these thoughts justice; Twitter accepts very few words and WordPress asks for too many.