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Published: September 30th 2008
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St Pauls, with tourists.
London is a fast moving place. People from all over the world come here for a slice of this ancient place.
They become part of it and then move on.
The city stands and lets the world swim past, like so many before them. A journey of a thousand miles starts with one footstep? Wrong!
The journey starts long before the plane taxis down the runway with its doors crossed-checked and ready for take off.
Long before the bag is packed, unpacked and repacked lighter.
Long before the credit card details are carefully typed into a flimsy website promising a flight cheaper than anyone else.
Long before maps are poured over, train times figured out or photos of palm trees and blue skies are longed after.
Its starts with a plop of rain on ones head. A squeeze of a body in an already over-packed commuter train.
Or, the end of a relationship.
A year ago when my girlfriend turned round to me and said
"Maybe we shouldn't be together"
And I fought her every day to stay together, as she was fighting to leave, I was fighting as I wanted her to see how much I had tried to sacrifice for her.
She would never go out with someone who would travel for weeks at a time, and so I swallowed that past pleasure.
She would only stay at clean, modern hotels and travel by smart transport. So I junked the chicken buses and funny overnight sleepers and the grubby 1-dollar fleapits where friends are made and stories told.
They would have no part in my travel life from now on.
If we roamed together it would be a carbon copy of the Sunday newspaper 'travel' section - boutique hotels and perfect views and pre-booked elephant rides in upmarket eco-resorts. Discovery was out. Local people carried the bags, never talked to us. 'Getting away' meant getting a set of good photos to show the family and friends.
So the end came, in a slow spiral of weekly arguments and make-up texts, we seperated and this summer had the gloom of winter. Cold, hard frozen ground and grey, mulling clouds of questions and regrets. Quite literally, I threw myself into a dark world of work. A cave of an edit suite devoid of sunlight, lit only by television screens.
Dawn always comes.
Mine started with a trail of unanswered emails and returned phone calls. Two months ago i had chatted with a very posh sounding woman on the phone about how wonderful her project sounded - what an interesting idea and how - yes! - i would love to work on it and how my skills and past experiences were just great for what she needed.
More likely, the posh sounding woman was desperate for an editor, her even-posher boss screaming to "get someone on board now!" and I was eager to break into documentry television, so i whooped up my credentials and whooped up my enthusiasm.
Now this producer had gone cold, a lifeless promise of 8 weeks work, but my mind was warmed up, the enthusiasm still boiling and the old travel urges flowing. Free time ahead!
Winter is coming in London. The wind is getting sharper, the shadows longer as I leave the office. I have promises of work to return to now and my heart is growing warmer.
The dark days of summer are over, and every time i squeeze onto a packed train or feel the plop of rain on my head, I grow warmer even more, knowing that my ticket has been booked, maps have been poured over and traintimes considered.
I am going travlelling again.
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