Traveling is to live

Should we stop by that grandfather on the way back? On the right, blue, sitting on the threshold in front of the big knocker door, his hair -white not counting gray-white-white-pale, pensive-looking cobblestones. And let's ask what the problem is. I love to listen to them, to sweeten the city where I am from their lips. Especially if they do not have their own accents, I sit for hours at the bottom of their knees. I just listen. They're like living cultural legends.

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Historic buildings, I stop by watching them. I try to get the smell of what happened, the aging. The museums are also like that for me. Imagine that they came and witnessed all the works from today to today.

Especially the neighborhood markets do not smell of fruit from the beginning of the streets? Bunches of bunches of aunts that aunts the most beautiful plants. I don't have tons of cheeks, hugs and kisses. Isn't he laughing so intently all? It's my last destination; I always want to smell the city before I say goodbye. This is the beginning of new memories for me.

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What are we gonna do at home? I've always been. So are you? Come on, a little bag, get out of the way, who knows, maybe our way crosses on a sidewalk? Together with a photo frame will be remembered will hang the moment. Don't look at me, confused, bewildered!

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