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  • Writer's picturematilde tomat

01 | 99+

"I dropped a grape in the kitchen and it disappeared.

I couldn’t find it.

I was literally on my knees for 10 min,

looking for this stupid grape.

I have no idea where it went.”

“Were you crying? I mean, it’s just a grape.”

[Seinfeld, S 1 - EP 5] Elaine Benes and Jerry Seinfeld.

There is something about the breaking down of every single Seinfeld episode that is tremendously satisfying. This is my own personal version of being literally on my knees for about 10 min looking for a stupid grape. This is my grape. My circumvoluting - is there such a word? If it isn’t, well it should be…

I have always seen myself, journal and camera at hand, a jute backpack, travelling, testing new flavours, listening to new music, dancing to a beat that wasn’t ancestrally mine. As a travel writer, getting lost to re-found myself, adding layers of words and experiences, breathing cultures and sand from the deep South to spices of the far East and endless grey shades from the cold North and guttural sounds from the warm West, endlessly chasing the sun. I dreamed I would have learned to ride a horse and snorkel in blue seas with ancient turtles, from country to country. I'm missing airport food and travelling, meeting new people, collecting their stories, or having lunch in the middle of a sunflower field.

I feel have been on my knees looking for that metaphorical stupid grape for so long.

This morning I had a vision, though. Whatever that means, I am going to offer it to you:

There is a chair. It’s an old, French, Louis XV kind of armchair. The wood is sweet rosewood, with ornate armrests, and green soft corduroy, so worn-out it almost shines in the sun. This chair is resting on a raft, pieces of wood stuck together, as remnants of a shipwreck. It could be some forgotten islands, somewhere, lands and souls lost at sea. It seems that everything is in shades of blue, from the dark teal of the water surrounding us to the baby blue of the sky. Even the Persian green of the velvet… The sea is gently choppy, the air warm, the sun shining… silence… just that gentle

splash splash splash

of the water lapping on the raft. The chair is rocking, left and right, assessing its balance. Drifting. Behind the chair, far in the distance, an island. Or just “land”. The chair and I, the observer, just there, rocked gently, kept alive by the saltiness of the water. This chair almost as a throne, to be saved and cherished and preserved.

Where are we going?

No idea.

For now, that’s where we are.


And as always: onwards + upwards


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