TALES OF AN ORANGEPEELER
an archive of pleasures, wounds, sublimations
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Sometimes I think I don't want to travel anymore. I just want to stay in one place, and call it home, and know I don't have to say goodbye to it. But then we go away, just up the road, to a village you might as well call There and Nowhere, if not for the grandest sea view in all of Europe just a few kilometers away. In a pub named after ancestors looking for legendary gold by the family farm in the 1920s, songs were sung for pints and stories were told, and John played AC/DC on his fiddle behind the bar, with Michael the mechanic on his guitar. It was a jolly night, and the world expanded in that wee, one-street place, and I wanted to see more and more of a world where there were people like these and places like this one, reminding me of the constancy of one's wonder.