Memory lane in my hojskole

You've got to arrive early to Stansted airport should you wanted to get a luxurious 3-unrailed-seat and have a semi-quality night sleep. I observe passing travelers like predators desperately hunting for at least smth that comfort touristos would call a torture or a nightmare. I was a fortunate one to get a two seater with a chair in front to stretch my legs. I better didn't want to use toilet facilities as this would be immediately taken by tired and desperate air migrants.

The cheapest latte, and I am drifting off down the Silkeborg hojskole memory lane: canoeing in the sunlit lake, typical morning assembly with an-alien-looking noisy translation system for foreign bunch of Euroclassers, the classic lounging corners for drowsy students, Little Prince wall, sunset tapestry in the big hall, hooks for the mugs, morning assembly songs; the vintage hojskole-like prorgramme with live music parties; a night in an ex-photography-dark-room with secretly borrowed mattresses, and a lot of wicked memories from my Euroclass year.

It's been good to reflect the impact of the place which gave me a good kick to my life. Summing up the conscious meanings is the least thing I can do. Courage to start off new things, a newborn passion for outdoor activities, a number of crazy team building games, tolerance and lifelong friendships.

passing trains and thoughts

Latte and passing trains... I always cherished the sound of the wheels hitting the rails. No other vehicle noise has made that snug impression so far. I am amidst of my mini baltic-to-happen voyages this week. It's good to have a chance only sip my milky drink and have my rollocoasty thoughts calm down a tiny bit.

Tomorrow after so much time I'll come back to Silkeborg Hojskole. Even though I didn't think to do any more traveling before I hit the Big Road, Laurens' kind approach and the temptation to meet lovely people who undergone similar experiences lured me into the fast decision. Hence a bit of hectic traveling, but I keep on hearing 'its you Eva'.

Who am I then after all. People call me snail or turtle, always with the 'packed house' on my shoulders as Im ready to travel. Why can I not stay in one place like a lot of people do? Why are some people nomads and some settlers? Do I need in any way feel guilty of being a different persona?

A quick coffee-and-croissant conversation with my always-beloved-and respected aunty Egle revealed our differences in priorities. They always had a dream to have his business flourished which brings financial stability and that freedom. Which in fact I already own it. Freedom happened to be my second name for a little while. And yes, I am not that settled down person like my sister and cousins, who already formed the families and raising future generations. If that is my way, I possibly need to wait.

'Why traveling?' Ruta's question surely makes sense. Will I gain any better or wiser? Why I need to thumb a hitch for miles in order to understand something that Coelho has already concluded in his novel: the tru treasure is where I am and what I have within me. I perhaps won't become any happier, but my wisdom will grow.

I believe some precious people are scared of death that might approach the un-careful traveler. The article in 'I and psychology' about people's indifference and avoidance of loss of life only supports that idea. I guess we should be prepared for anything, but hope for the best. I suppose Stefano's death has put a lot of things in different perspective. I guess him and my sis Patricia have become my angels who will surely guard us on our way.

My next post will perhaps cover of practical and less melancholic features. I do believe though that spending time of respecting my own feelings and giving them a good vent, will help me have a better focus and perspective onto serious organisational things.