Isabelle Eberhardt traveled the deserts of Northern Africa by her self, dressed like a man, indulging in sex, alcohol and drugs, ran of to marry an Algerian soldier and died in a flush flood at the age of 27.
If you love traveling, exploring, discovering the world around you, if you are adventurous at heart, then read this little essay about why we travel.
The Philosophy of Travel: "We need sometimes, to escape into open solitudes, into aimlessness, into the moral holiday of running some pure hazard, in order to sharpen the edge of life, to taste hardship, and to be compelled to work desperately for a moment at no matter what."
"For if every true love affair can feel like a journey to a foreign country, where you can’t quite speak the language, and you don’t know where you’re going, and you’re pulled ever deeper into the inviting darkness, every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair, where you’re left puzzling over who you are and whom you’ve fallen in love with. All the great travel books are love stories, by some reckoning—from the Odyssey and the Aeneid to the Divine Comedy and the New Testament—and all good trips are, like love, about being carried out of yourself and deposited in the midst of terror and wonder."
berlin: business, not as usual
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