Vol de nuit.

image

With all mysteries gone in our world, every place on earth reachable in just a few hours, the experience of a trip reduced to the choice of our luggage purveyor, Goyard, Louis Vuitton or Mandarina Duck, we cannot call ourselves travelers anymore. On planes, we don’t feel the climate changing, the horizon adapting to the geography, the food getting spicier, architecture and customs turning foreign, and the people altering their features and the style of their clothes, all the things that voyagers like W.Somerset Maugham or Alexander von Humboldt experienced while approaching their distant destination old school style. We just beam ourselves up.

But I do call myself a traveler when I light my scented candle by Guerlain on this late summer’s night, I leave my natural habitat within seconds, it fills the air with foreign woody spices, transporting me to les Indes and I can’t even trust my taste buds anymore, this Rioja seems to have changed its character, it tastes oddly oriental all of a sudden.