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The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled
The Furthest Distances I’ve Travelled Like many folk, when first I saddled a rucksack, feeling its weight on my back – the way my spine curved under it like a meridian – I thought: Yes. This is how to live. On the beaten track, the sherpa pass, between Krakow and Zagreb, or the Siberian white cells of scattered airports; it came clear as over a tannoy that in restlessness, in anony mity: was some kind of destiny. So whether it was the scare stories about Larium – the threats of delirium and baldness – that lead me, not to a Western Union wiring money with six words of Lithuanian, but to this post office with a handful of bills or a giro; and why, if I’m stuffing smalls hastily into a holdall, I am less likely to be catching a greyhound from Madison to Milwaukee than to be doing some overdue laundry is really beyond me. However, when, during routine evictions, I discover alien pants, cinema stubs, the throwaway comment – on a post–it – or a tiny stowaway pressed flower amid bottom drawers, I know these are my souvenirs and, from these crushed valentines, this unravelled sports sock, that the furthest distances I’ve travelled have been those between people. And what survives of holidaying briefly in their lives. | |
Leontia Flynn These Days Jonathan Cape, London, 2004 |
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