I haven’t traveled much in my life. Some say I haven’t seen enough for one who wants to be a storyteller. And while I don’t exactly agree, I do regularly ponder the limits of my horizon.
The day before yesterday, I flew to Santiago de Compostela with my parents and a business associate of theirs. My first plane flight ever; I’ve been aboard a helicopter before, but not a plane. I fell asleep before we had even reached full height.
The whole thing was rather… spaintaineous (badum-ts). My dad asked me to come along as an advisor and backup translator about a week ahead of time. I had no important appointments except my beloved Friday martial arts class, so I said yes. And I’m happy I did.
On our first day, we saw the “end of the world” at Fisterra. A lighthouse at the western-most point of the European mainland. It is a remarkable place, beautiful and intimidating at the same time. Awe-inspiring in the truest sense of the word. The wind, the rocks, and the waves of the ocean crashing against them. Raw power, aimless but unrelenting.
Whenever I witness scenery like this, it breaks me out of my solipsistic mindset. I remember that these places exist outside and independent of me. That these waves crash against these rocks 24/7. That the wind will keep blowing even if I turn my back.
It’s the same with the waves of people that flow past us in the streets here. The miracle of flying takes two minutes to get old, but the thought of other places and the people that inhabit them actually existing in my reality still has the potential to baffle me.
After completing the business portion of the trip and wandering through Santiago (where all the doors and street lamps are painted the same soothing shade of Bremen green) for a few hours yesterday, today will conclude our trip.
We don’t know what we’ll do until our flight this evening, and I’m not sure yet what else I’ve learnt from this, but I am positive it will have been worth it. And maybe I’ll take more such trips in the future. But next week, I’ll be back to fighting.