Somehow, we had driven deep into an Eastern European country. We traveled down highways and smaller roads until we ended up on a dirt road that led us into a massive forest. It was summer, the temperature was warm, and the sky, glimpsed through the trees, was a deep blue. The campsite we arrived at was full of people who kept staring at us.

Obviously, we were foreigners, or "tourists" as my parents called us. People walked up to our outlandish caravan, mumbling things in a language I couldn’t understand. I saw heads shaking, fingers pointing, and lips moving. After a few hours, the interest died down, and we could focus on getting something to eat.

My mom whipped up some pancakes, and we all dived in. My brother and I were still very young and, like all kids, full of energy and eager to explore. My parents must have imagined us wandering off into the vast woods, getting lost, never to be found again.

So, my dad said loudly, “Don’t go outside the camping grounds!”

“Why not?!” my brother and I asked in unison.

My dad leaned in, as if sharing a secret, and whispered, “Because out there, in the forest, are wild wolves, and they would love to sink their teeth into young boys like you two.”

Having recently seen a cartoon based on Sergei Prokofiev’s composition of 'Peter and the Wolf,' my imagination took over, and terror struck my young heart. We stuck to the perimeter of the camping grounds like flies to glue. The day passed, and dusk settled upon us. We had dinner in our caravan, and my dad drank some beer.

The caravan was outlandish, yes, but it only had enough bedding for four people, and our family had five members. It was decided that I would sleep in a tent nearby. I still remember the light of the full moon, illuminating the dark campsite. I pulled down the zipper and lay down. Exhausted from the day, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

I don’t know what time it was, only that it was still dark, and the full moon was still shining. I woke up to something sniffing at the zipper of the tent door . In the dim moonlight, I saw the outline of a big, bad wolf. Instinctively, I screamed my lungs out. Almost every adult male at the campsite ran to my tent.

As it turned out, the ‘wolf’ was the camping owner’s dog, a German Shepherd. My dad never connected the dots, but I did. Fortunately, the rest of the holiday was spent in high spirits.

Although I am capable of communicating in 7 languages, sometimes I end up in a country of which I don’t speak the language. If I’m lucky, and sit in a restaurant, a waiter or waitress speaks one of the languages I’m able to order something in.

If not, then I’m in trouble, especially when it comes to a menu, presented without pictures. In such cases ordering something become close to playing Russian food roulette, and you don’t want to risk a culinary surprise now, do you?

So, you sit at a clean table, plates and cutlery in place, and you start pointing with your fingers at letters and characters that have no meaning to you on the menu. You are guessing that the first part must be the appetizers or soups, the second part the main meals and the last bit deserts. You place your order by pointing at what must be a word on the menu.

After the waitress has left, you sit back and wonder what will transpire next. Not before long, she comes walking back to your table with a tray in her hand and a bowl on it. That’s when you think to yourself, “Ah, that’s the soup! I guessed right.” She smiles at you when she puts the bowl in front of you. She also says something in Chinese that must have been along the lines of, “Enjoy your meal!”

You stare at the bowl, but something is staring back at you. Eyes. Big brown eyes. You feel queasy. Your stomach does several backward somersaults and you begin to sweat. The waitress smiles at you from a distance. You try to smile back, but that ends up in face-rape. You make a hand gesture toward the lady, one that you hope she understands as that you wanting to pay the bill.

Later, standing in the fresh air outside, you pull out your Lonely Planet book and begin to read. Not before long, and you find out that you have ordered a national delicacy, better know to the Chinese as ‘Yú Yǎn Tāng (鱼眼汤)’, and better known to us westerners as ‘Fish Eye Soup.’

Some days you are lucky, some days not. That is just simply the way it is. Lesson learned.

When I decided to embark on a journey hitchhiking around Europe, I was met with skepticism and concern from my family and friends. They worried about the risks and dangers, cautioning me about potential harm. Despite their warnings, I followed my heart and set off on my adventure.

As I traveled through Belgium, Germany, France, Spain, and Italy, I encountered a beautiful reality that defied the negative expectations people had told me about. Everywhere I went, I met incredible people who welcomed me with open arms. Whether it was in the bustling streets of Paris, the serene countryside of Provence, or the historic alleys of Rome, kindness greeted me at every turn.

Locals became my guides, sharing hidden gems to explore, recommending delicious eateries, and even offering their gardens to set up my simple tent, as safe spots to spend the night. These encounters weren't just pleasant; they were heartwarming. The memories of those moments still warm my heart and linger through my mind on an almost daily basis.

Through these valuable experiences, I learned a treasured lesson about judgment and preconceived notions. Yes, there are risks in the world, but allowing fear to dictate our actions can prevent us from experiencing the beauty and generosity that exist beyond our personal comfort zones.

Traveling taught me that differences in culture and beliefs don't equate to mistreatment. Instead, I was met with respect and kindness, proving that human connection transcends national borders and personal differences.

I'm grateful for following my instincts and not succumbing to the fear-based advice of others. My journey was a testament to the inherent goodness in people and the richness of experiences that await those who choose to embrace the unknown with an open heart.

Some people call me ‘naïve,’ but in my case that’s means it is related to a certain innocence and not naivety or being gullible. I tend to have a positive outlook on life and it shows.

I have a deep love for solo travel, yet upon returning home, I often realize that I haven’t captured as many photos as I’d like. While I diligently preserve images of the people I meet along the way—treasuring them as precious memories or souvenirs—I tend to take fewer photos of other aspects of my journey. Curiously, when I revisit these snapshots later, I find that my memories become more vivid and emotionally charged.

No matter how much I contort myself or adjust angles, my amateur photographs fall far short of the perfection achieved by professional photographers. To remedy this, I’ve adopted the practice of editing my images using various applications. It’s a practical way to safeguard these memories, even if it feels somewhat odd to compensate for the incredible experiences I’ve had. Nowadays, with the proliferation of images and videos accessible online, even the most remote corners of the world are visually within reach.

Interestingly, I’ve developed a deliberate habit: I rarely take pictures, especially when visiting famous landmarks. Instead, I immerse myself in the moment, focusing on what I see, feel, and think. Rather than framing scenes through a camera lens, I absorb the essence of each place.

However, my true keepsakes are the postcards I collect from these destinations. On their backs, I find written explanations of the land, buildings, and local customs. Late at night, while reflecting on the day’s adventures, I sit on the edge of my accommodations’ bed. Sometimes, even a humble local snack box transforms into an original postcard. I write heartfelt messages to myself, capturing the essence of the journey. Yes, it takes time to purchase stamps and mail these postcards, but by the time I return home, they arrive—a tangible reminder of perfect moments.

The composition of these postcards is flawless: the weather, the colors, and the timing align perfectly. On the reverse side, my handwritten thoughts coexist with foreign stamps and postmarks. These little square pieces of paper hold a wealth of memories. Even if I endured a cold, rainy day or got lost in freezing temperatures, the postcards evoke a sense of nostalgia, transporting me back to those remarkable experiences.

In a cozy little village, nestled between rolling hills and whispering rivers, there lived a wise old grandfather named Henry and his curious five-year-old grandson, Tommy. 

One sunny afternoon, while sitting on the porch swing and watching fluffy clouds drift lazily across the sky, Henry turned to Tommy and asked with a twinkle in his eye, "Tommy, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Tommy, who was playing with a toy airplane, looked up thoughtfully and replied, "I don't really know, Grandpa. But I like traveling. Maybe I want to explore the world."

Henry nodded sagely, stroking his long white beard. "Ah, traveling is a wonderful thing, Tommy. It opens your eyes and mind to new places, new people, and new experiences. Of course, you will need  a suitcase, the day you leave our rustic village to travel beyond the blue yonder..."

"But how do I travel, Grandpa?" Tommy asked, tilting his head in confusion. "I don't have a suitcase."

Henry chuckled softly and patted Tommy's knee. "Ah, but you do have a suitcase, Tommy. Right here." He tapped Tommy's forehead gently. "Your brain is like a suitcase, you see."

Tommy's eyes widened with wonder. "Really? But how?"

"Well, think of it this way," Henry explained, leaning in closer. "Just like a suitcase holds all your clothes and essentials for a trip, your brain holds all your thoughts, dreams, and memories. It's always with you, ready to be filled with new things no matter where you go."

"But my brain doesn't have zippers like a suitcase," Tommy pointed out, giggling.

Henry chuckled along with him. "No, it doesn't. But it does something even better. It keeps everything safe and organized inside, like magic. Besides, you never have to pack it and you can bring it along where ever you go. It's that simple!"

Tommy's face lit up with understanding. "So, when I grow up and travel, my brain will help me remember everything, and I can use it at any time?"

"Exactly!" Henry exclaimed, his eyes sparkling with pride. "Your brain is your best companion on any journey. It helps you learn, discover, and make wonderful memories wherever you go."

Tommy beamed, hugging his grandfather tightly. "Thanks, Grandpa! I can't wait to fill my brain-suitcase with adventures!"

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm golden glow over the village, Henry and Tommy sat together, dreaming of all the incredible places they would explore and the stories they would share along the way.

“Chuck Norris！”

I looked in the direction of the man who’d yelled that name out loud.

“Where?” I asked.

The man pointed at me. “You. You are Chuck Norris!”

I shook my head. “No. I’m not!”

The man grabbed me by the shoulder. “Follow me! I’ll show you,” he said, with a big smile plastered all over his face and walked towards a shop. 

“I am a carpenter,” he explained, “and this is my shop.”

We walked toward the back end of it, where there was this huge poster on the wall. On it I could read Chuck’s name and the title of the movie he played in: “INVASION U.S.A.” Which was a bit odd, because we were in Africa.

The man pointed at the poster, then at me. “See. That’s you!”

I had to admit, we did have some similarities. Blond hair, a dark beard and a muscular physique. But I had to be honest. “I’m sorry, we do look a bit alike, but that isn’t me on that poster.”

The man waved his hand through the air. “Oh, come on. You are just being modest. I know you are. I saw that movie many times!”
"No," I replied. "I am being honest!"

In the mean time more and more people came into the shop and I could hear faint whispers stating, “We have Chuck Norris in town!”

Someone pushed a cold bottle of beer in my hand. “Here. It’s on the house, Chuck.”

I tried several times more to explain I wasn’t Chuck Norris, but nobody would have that or believed I was actually telling the truth.

So, for three months, I was ‘famous’ for a bit, and everybody I ran into was very friendly toward me. But to be honest with you, it didn’t sit well with me. When I stepped onto a plane that would fly me back home, I felt relieved, and it was as if a heavy burden dropped off my shoulders once the plane raced down the tarmac and became airborne.

Tenchanichi [lit: ‘Heaven Forgiveness Day’]. In Japan it is one of the luckiest days in the lunar calendar. All in all, there are only a few days like that in a single year. It is said to be the day when a manifold of thousands of gods ascends to heaven, and in heaven's embrace, all is forgiven.*

While those blessed days are traditionally considered favorable for weddings, buying lottery tickets, moving into a new place, making significant decisions, and embarking on new projects, I hold the belief that every day carries its own unique charm. This angle of thought becomes my guiding light, especially during lengthy periods of moral low tide. I also believe that every day is special, and I always feel excited because something amazing could happen at any time, like a really lucky day. The sight of a sign stating, "Today is your lucky day!" outside a lottery ticket office, forces me to walk across the busy street, and go purchase a ticket. It seems I have no other choice, but to do just that.

Standing in a long line in front of the booth, multiple questions pop-up in my mind. “What do the gods think about me wishing I win the lottery? Do they think I am greedy?What should I do when I hit the Jackpot?”

I find myself staring at the figurine of a beckoning cat on a shelf in the corner of the booth. Its raised paw is thought to invite wealth and good fortune. You might say it has become a symbol of good luck. With a smile, I wondered what it would bring to me.

At last, it was my turn, and I finally stepped forward. A cheerful lady with a broad smile handed me a ticket through a rather small window. In her usual manner, she declared out loud, "I hope you win!" While her intent was kind, I couldn't help but notice she had offered the same words to all the customers who had approached her before me. In reality, I was aware that only one of us would be fortunate enough to win.

Then, additional questions arose. “Maybe one of the gods up there is kind enough to sprinkle some lucky dusts over my head today? Could it happen just this once in my lifetime?”

It seems that Tenchanichi graces almost everyone, but claiming the lottery jackpot isn't part of its bag filled with surprises. I take comfort in the notion that regardless of who wins the lottery, no harm is done. I'm happy with that reality, as I see playing the lottery as a random game, rooted in a mixture of chance and plain old ‘good luck.’ When I buy lottery tickets, I trust in the spiritual forces, assuming that none of the gods harbor any dislike towards me. On this particular Friday, both the divine entities and the lottery lady showered me with their benevolent smiles once again.

*(This is a mix of Japanese beliefs and religious traditions. You can find long lists of specific god names on the Internet, if you want to.) 

I remember distinctly, when I was a 5-year-old boy, that I stood on a beach in southern France, and watched the calm waves caress the moistened sand. It was a dreary day with overcast clouds, and a little bit of wind. I stuck to the edge of the waves, so every now and then the salty water touched my toes. 

Suddenly, a much bigger wave came my way. At one point it was obvious this one was going to reach much further up the beach than all previous ones. Instead of turning around and run for it, I began to run backwards. In my hurry, I tripped and fell. So, in the end, not only my shoes were wet,  but all my clothes as well. This was the North Atlantic Ocean.

My parents bought a house in Spain. It was located on a hill and looked out over the Mediterranean Sea. Needless to say, the view was spectacular and breathtaking. Especially at night, when I was floating around in our private swimming pool. The lights of the village below, with a full moon rising, no clouds and no sounds. Those are memories so clear, that I can still almost smell the ocean water today. I am very thankful for having these wonderful memories.

Many years later, I stood at the edge of the South Atlantic Ocean and stared out over the waves, at a small fishing boat that moved wildly on the strong waves. To me, it looked quite dangerous. First of all, of all the four men onboard, none wore a life jacket. Secondly, I was told that hardly any of the fishermen knew how to swim. Much to my surprise, they kept moving farther and farther away, until they were just a little dot on the horizon. 

When I asked why they did this, they explained to me that big factory fishing ships from the North [Europe], would sail down here [The Gambia] and take out almost all the fish, resulting in the local fishermen having to go out further and further offshore. I was also told, that because of that, the number of fishermen that got drowned, had dramatically risen.

One day, years later, I stared at a tree stump that was about 30 meters into the Gulf of Thailand, and it looked like the remains of a palm tree.  So, I asked one of the locals about why that tree had grown in the sea. He looked at me and smiled, “No, no. That was where the beach was 20 years ago…” And I was shocked because it meant that the sea levels were indeed rising, little by little. 

Although I always enjoy either swimming in, or be close to, the sea, one thing I noticed regardless of where I was, was what was on the beaches. Of course, on a sunny day, there would be lots of people, but that’s not what stood out. What did stand out, was all the garbage, especially plastics.

When I lived on an island in Thailand, in a small resort, I would wake up every morning and clean the beach in front of the resort I was staying at. One day I noticed I had to do it every day, to keep the beach spic and span. I didn’t mind, because it was very peaceful and rewarding work.

So, all in all, we humans have given the seas many names, but due to my experience, they’re all just one. They are all connected, that’s why we should treat the ocean waters with respect. But somehow, most of us simply don’t.

In Japan, January is called Ichigatsu [lit 1st month], but also Mutsuki [lit ‘get together month’]. This means it’s the month when families and relatives get together and reaffirm their family bonds. 

On one New Year's Day, when I was five years old, I went to greet relatives with my parents. It was customary to sit around the table with people you had become so familiar with, and others, who also had gathered there, like neighbors. It took place at my mother's parents' house. The next day, January 2nd, all my father's relatives gathered at our home, as the house was more spacious than those of other family members. 

Each new day, another someone brought their entire family, so there was literally a huge party going on, for over a week. As the year comes to an end, food and alcohol are prepared daily for a group of about twenty people. A cheerful shop owner delivered a dozen bottles of hard liquor. Large cooking pots and pans buzz around like busy bees.

My mother woke up early every morning to prepare for these eloquent banquets. Rural alcohol enthusiasts gathered to drink and sing at a private karaoke machine, in a backroom of our house. Serving meals and filling alcoholic beverages into cups became part of my ‘work’ during that time. As time progressed, people no longer held back, and raised their voices as if quarrels were about to break out. Some people started to cry or became upset for no apparent reason (those happenings were  like watching a theater play unfold before my very eyes), and the overall mood suddenly turned sour.

Looking at a woman with tears in her eyes, locked up in a car outside the house, made me wonder what had happened to this adult. All this was way beyond my grasp of life as such a young kid. I had spent several days feeling uncomfortable, interacting with grown-ups that I didn’t understand and that were too busy with themselves to care about me. 

I patiently waited for the unpredictable turmoil to die down. And when it did, my parents ended up talking about what happened this time around, explaining that certain persons had said the exact same things the previous year. All that made me feel anxious and worried, wondering whether such gatherings were actually normal in the adult world. 

However, now that I live far away from home, in another city, I no longer spend New Year's holidays with a large number of people, and, in a way, I feel released to be freed from all those traditional obligations.

Alas, human beings are strange creatures. This is because, as I’ve come to think now, all that ruckus back then must have been because the men and women expressed their true feelings, supported by the crutches that alcohol provided. 

So, I’ve come to the conclusion that in order to be close to one another, relationships have to be deep-felt and honest. Nowadays, such troublesome relationships are no longer around me. That annual fuss and chaos have turned into nostalgic and fading memories. Still, those recollections make me smile when I realize myself to be on the other side of that same world, today. 

Carpe Diem!

There were no busses. There were no taxis. They did have vans though. Vans would stop at regular stops along the road, but you also could flag one down, and it stopped right at your feet. 

Did I mention the temperature outside was 50C./122F.? Man, I had a hard time trying to stay dry, as simply blinking your eyes triggered an avalanche of sweat down the brows above them.

Then a woman stepped next to me. She looked back down the road, just like I did, in the hope to spot a van. She was large. Very large. Like with me, sweat dripped down her nose in abundance. Although, unlike me, she wiped them away with and elegant swipe of her hand and a tiny, colorful towel.

Despite the hotness that had draped itself around my shoulders, I could feel heat radiating from her body. It didn't take long for a van to show up. After I had  crammed myself in between the woman and a man with two chickens on his lap, on the backseat of the van, the nude skin of my right arm touched the equally naked skin of the woman.

I was right about heat radiating from her body, as it now burned straight into mine. Of course, she didn't do it on purpose, but still, I had no way to escape it and therefore prepared myself of enduring it for the entire ride. 

Once the vehicle left the suburbs  of Banjul, the capital city of The Gambia, the houses made way for a rather barren, African landscape. I saw a group of men digging a ditch along the road. They were singing a loud song, while they swung their pickaxes high into the air, before landing them with thuds so loud, I could hear them inside the van, as it passed by.

When we were about to cross a bridge over the river Gambia, I spotted some beautiful, classical African round huts, with thatched roofs on them, right along the riverbank. The sight made me bark out loud, "Wow! Those huts are so neat. I want to stay in one of them!"

This was the cue for the woman to turn her head toward me and look at me with a startled look on her face. She then open her mouth, leaned even more in and whispered, "Those are the huts we send people to..., to die..."