On the road again

It doesn't begin at the sea.

Not where the waves break or the sun sets.

It begins outside the door, at dawn, between the smell of coffee and the last lists in your head.

When the trunk finally closes.

When you double-check whether the car's navigation system is faster than Google Maps.

When you take a deep breath and know: Now it's time.

Düsseldorf.

Not at eight o'clock, of course, as boastfully announced the night before.

But at least it's still in the morning.

I wait until the last door closes.

A brief silence.

Then I turn up the music.

To the sun, to freedom – it's great that you're here.

With Janis, Judith, Jona, and me.

Jona is our crazy little Cocker Spaniel.

She's still moping, turning in circles, peering curiously out the window,

but as soon as the car starts moving, she lies down.

The gentle hum of the engine and the playlist lull her to sleep, as always.

The first milestone has been achieved.

EL CACTUS

The station wagon is packed to the roof.

Suitcases, bags, wetsuits, stuff, books that we might open – but most importantly: the playlist.

A decade of road trips condensed into a few hours of music.

Streaming service on shuffle, but with attitude.

Between Earth, Wind and Fire and Angus & Julia Stone, memories flicker.

Songs that smell of wind.

Of freedom.

Of arriving in the in-between.

We've been setting off for over twelve years.

Every year heading south.

And yet every exit feels new.

Every traffic jam, every tunnel, every fleeting sign on the sidelines takes on new meaning.

Belgium zips past us like an interlude – unspectacular, but necessary.

Then in France, the first breaks, and a first smile.

The light changes.

We reach Tours towards evening.

The streets are still warm from the day, the city lies quiet, as if it had been waiting for us.

We sit outside, sinking into the chairs as if into a familiar memory.

The Bordeaux is strong, the food simple and perfect.

We hardly talk.

Not because there's nothing to say.

But because everything has been said.

We're on our way.

And that's enough.

The next morning, I wake up in La Rochelle before the alarm goes off.

The sky is light blue with soft edges.

In the distance, a market vendor calls out his wares.

We pack up and stroll into a small weekly market.

Nothing special.

And yet, exactly that.

Olives in brown clay bowls, goat cheese that smells of meadows.

An older woman gives us a smile, without knowing why.

We buy bread that's still warm.

Drink coffee in a small bistro.

Out of nowhere—okay, we'd been texting for days, but it still felt like a coincidence—we met friends.

They were in their motorhome, on their way back from Spain.

Two minutes later, and we would have missed each other.

But like that—a quick hug, a quick laugh, a few photos,

and everyone moved on down their own path.

Car again.

Drive again.

And slowly everything changes.

The landscape becomes flatter, drier.

The light loses its French gold and becomes Spanish clarity.

The horizon becomes broader, emptier—and at the same time full of meaning.

Border crossing.

A place no one calls a travel destination.

And yet it is magical.

Because it changes everything.

Spain.

The further we drive, the more we lose time and space.

Steppe to the left and right, a few olive trees, the buzzing of cicadas, nothing lasting—and therein lies the miracle.

Because everything is fleeting.

And we're right in the middle of it.

Towards evening, Salamanca.

Golden city of sandstone and music.

And we arrive in the middle of the festival.

As if we had planned it that way—but we hadn't.

At the beginning of September, the old town is buzzing. Guitars in the alleys, tapas on plates, children running between dancers, older men drinking red wine from plastic cups.

It smells of summer, smoke, life.

We eat, we drink, we laugh.

And at some point, we simply dance along.

Later that night—somewhere on a bench—I think about how this place is taken for granted by others.

How many people live here, day after day, year after year,

and don't consider any of it special.

Just like sometimes I can't see my city anymore.

But I—I will remember.

This light.

This sound.

This one moment.

Because traveling doesn't always have to be somewhere else.

It means seeing anew.

Feeling.

Wondering.

And tomorrow?

We'll continue.

Towards the coast, towards the waves, towards the south.

But that's another story.

“Wherever you go becomes a part of you somehow.”

– Anita Desai

Salamanca am nächsten Morgen