What kind of story is it? – Buenos Aires, Argentina

A long time ago, when I first started travelling, I would get asked often what I wrote in my book. I never really knew what to say.

Is it a journal? A planner or book of lists? Is it a diary? Is it a address book? Perhaps a book of poems and reflections? Was it to be an atlas with all these hand drawn maps? Maybe a yearbook with advice and sweet notes from friends who had hijacked my book to leave their mark? Could it be a sketchbook or a doodlepad?

I began to think it was all of these but what I knew for sure was that it was the only thing I cared about losing. I clearly remember a day in New Zealand when I had just discussed this fact with someone the day before I lost it. My heart fell into my feet for the next 20 hours until I found it.

I am sure that one day as I turn through the pages with my nephews, every smear of dirt (from which country?), drop of blood (or ketchup?), spot of sticky jam (from which exotic fruit) or crinkled water (rain, sweat or tears?) spots will spurn a unique memory, a story only I could tell. What state was I in when I wrote so messy that I could barely read it? (was I upset or on a bumpy train) Why was this page ripped apart? (was it turbulence on the plane or the toddler who ran down the street wildly waving my book around) What language is this funny writing and what does it say? (I have yet to translate some of the notes from a few of my foreign friends)

I have completed several volumes, and only a fraction made it into these blogs. I am positive one thing that I will treasure the most about this trip, will be my writing. When I have perused back, I cannot tell you the level of emotion that these pages bring me.

So back to the question: What are you writing? Well, it appears to be a story. But what kind of story?

Certainly adventure, speckled with humor, heartwarming at times, gut wrenching at others. Philosophical, factual, historical, geographical. Poetic and dramatic and boringly logical and calculating at times. A book of languages and customs and observations on life in all parts of the world.

To be perfectly honest, I barely remember writing this stuff because the whole purpose was to get it out of my head and on to paper so as to make room for fresh memories. Anyone who has met me will vouch for my miniscule memory bank. So its like one big filing cabinet just waiting for me to pluck a moment for reflection.

How much time did I spend sitting on a rock, mountain, field of grass, sandy beach or city park wondering just WHAT I was doing? How many times did I myself, wonder what this book was about? Well, I am beginning to believe that I have found my answer. I think it may be a story about love.

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