Somewhere between the third airport lounge and the second missed connection, I stopped believing that faster meant better. Slow travel is not about the destination at all — it is about letting a place unfold at its own pace, one market morning and one wrong turn at a time.
Everything I own for a trip fits into three bags: one for clothes, one for tools, and one that stays mostly empty for whatever the road decides to give me. The empty bag is the most important one. It is where the stories go.
A train window is the oldest cinema in the world. The ticket costs less than the film, the seats are wider, and the plot — rivers, border towns, somebody's laundry strung across a hillside — never repeats itself.
Old travel writing, mostly. The kind written before itineraries could be optimized, when a journey still had room for weather, luck, and long conversations with strangers who turned out not to be strangers at all.