He was in his mid thirties. Life held him back, no better, he held life back.Raised in a very nice family, no fundamental ruptures, not a violent father nor a dysfunctional mother. He had a great deal of friends, good friends where he went to the market place with on Saturdays or Sundays. Quiet and reserved, at times loud and dominant in thinking and dancing. This had no doubt to do with his character. After a few years of strolling down main street, working from nine to five he decided it was time for something else. Not a grand gesture considering his emotional state. Nevertheless a decision out of necessity. As a true flâneur thinking, wondering thoughts, visions of a different life, he acknowledged that this decision was not made lightly.One day he read a book about a place on a mountain, a grand hotel, a view on mountains, a beautiful lake. Atmosphere was pending, happiness close by. The sun came trough the big windows wich had magnificent views on the mountaintops on the other side of the lake. No, this wasn't only the book he was reading, memories came back. A grand hotel, family breakfast and brunch. Eyes looking, faces apparently happy. And eating off course. A tour trough the hotel, a beautiful walk trough the park, a warm bed and a room with a view. Was this home? No it wasn't, it was Switzerland. Far from 'home'. It just felt like home, the breeze of the mountains, the quietness of the lake, the silent hotel where time had stood still. The family engaged in quiet rumors, most of the time, about themselves. He felt happy. Time as a non-existing matter, time as superfluous on his being. A grand clock tiking in the main restaurant hall. A place well located. Purpose of the gathering was eminent, the true reason never conveilled.
When on a journey man never knows, but there is a reason he is not at ease. Something is always eminent, something is always pending. Perhaps the loss of the memory that is already there when he just arrived. Everything will come to an end. This feeling can only be negotiated by one thing. A point of reference, a point of reference to 'home'. A point that will mark: you will come back home someday. Often it is a small object or thing that makes him feel at home. A beer he recognizes, a smell that throws him back to mother's kitchen, a remark of a someone passing.
Sometimes it is a big thing, like a landmark witch he recognizes as his home or gives a feeling of home. At least he identifies himself with this object. The reason why is unknown. But it gives the feeling and the illusion of comfort and happiness.
Is this why he decided to embark on this journey? Perhaps. He himself had other ambitions. Traveling for him had a certain goal. To discover something of your own that helps you to give back the memory of your own past. A past lost, but not 'lost'. So he decided to go on the journey and look for something lost. A feeling of history, a feeling of happiness, a feeling he never had been able to grasp, a feeling of the past that was now eminent to discover. A pilgrimage to a place unworthy of calling so. For him it was worthy so he went ....
The journey took him to a place in the sun.