By now, only one thing remains that I call my passion.
Walking is my hobby.
When I go for a walk, usually only two things are present: the world and me.
Now, let’s go for a walk together. I will show you the world—through my eyes.
Time to put on my shoes!
I’ve been barefoot since this morning. I love being barefoot. Even now, I can feel the cool touch of the ground. I enjoy the way every point of my sole connects with the earth. It feels as though my feet are breathing freely. I am connected to my surroundings.
Yet, now I look forward to putting on my shoes. I sit down on the steps, placing my shoes and socks beside me. I wipe off the soles of my feet. I pull on one sock, then the shoe—keeping my foot suspended in the air the entire time. I love feeling the strength at play in my muscles as I do this. I repeat the process on the other side.
I stand up. I don’t use my hands for support; I don’t hold onto anything. Today, as always, my walk begins with the joy of being able to stand up without the help of my arms. As I rise, I tense my thigh muscles—it’s as if my body and I are greeting each other. “Hello! We’re ready! No questions asked.” Off I go.
I put in my earbuds and start the music. The ritual is nearly complete; I just need to lift my left arm. Three presses on my wristwatch, and I no longer have to keep track of the distance covered myself. I exhale, and I set off. Once again, getting started was easy.
The First Steps
The first steps are nothing out of the ordinary. My joints don’t need to warm up; my muscles don’t ask for any extra time. I set off. The first step is exactly like the last one will be.
The sun burns. There won’t be much shade along my path. I relish the heat that instantly washes over my body. The term “Vitamin D” crosses my mind for a fleeting second, but I brush it away—that’s just a side effect. I love the way the sun burns; that’s enough. I ponder the reason for this for a moment. The best explanation I can come up with is that it’s a message: I am here, under God’s open sky. Be grateful for it today, too! I understand the message. Today, once again, I am grateful that I can walk. I am still capable of it. My body still allows it; nothing is protesting yet. The time for that will come eventually—I think of this for a brief moment—but that’s not a concern for today. I am in the present. I am walking in the present.
The heels of my shoes immediately start kicking up sand. Today, I’m wearing ankle-high socks, so the falling sand finds its way right between my skin and the fabric. It’s a familiar sensation. I don’t need to worry about it causing any trouble; there’s plenty of room for both of us inside that sock.
Thoughts, feelings
I spot a tokay gecko on the road. It can deliver a nasty bite—that’s my first thought. Probably not a good idea to pick it up. But this one won’t bite anymore. It’s dead. I take a picture of it. I reflect on how elegantly and quietly the passing of life reveals itself in this image. This is as far as the gecko got. It stopped here. Forever. How many photos have I taken of such moments of passing over the last year? Should I put together a gallery of them? I brush the thought aside. Others might not see the beauty in this that I see right now. I leave it there. For the moment, it’s still alone—the flies haven’t found it yet.
I walk along the sidewalk. The vehicles are loud. I’ve missed a line of the song. No matter; I’ve heard it a thousand times. I sing it even when I can’t hear it. But I want to hear it, so I start singing the lines. It used to bother me if someone suddenly appeared who might hear me singing. It doesn’t bother me anymore. I trust that I don’t bother them, either. I don’t think it’s disruptive; the vehicles are far louder. I decide to whistle the next few lines instead. I wonder what percentage of my walks I’ve spent whistling. More than 5 percent? More than 10? It doesn’t really matter. A lot. That settles the math.
I’m passing over a drainage channel. The wind is blowing across it. I close my eyes and enjoy the cool air caressing me. Warmth is good, and coolness is good, too. Or rather—what does “good” even mean? I don’t really like that term. Just as warmth is simply what it is, coolness, too, just is. It doesn’t need a label. I’m enjoying it. That’s all. After a few steps, we part ways.
My T-shirt is soaked through; there are only a few dry patches left. I love this feeling. For some reason, it reminds me that I’m alive. The sweat is proof of that. I must be cleansing myself—constantly, since I’m sweating almost all day long. I touch my elbow. It’s been smooth for a year now; back in Europe, it was always rough and dry. I touch the back of my neck—my palm comes away damp. It doesn’t bother me. Could it be that the sweating smoothed out my skin? It doesn’t matter. It’s smooth, and here and now, that’s simply good.
I get thirsty. There’s a shop every 50 meters—which one should I choose? What should I buy? Water, or soda? Let’s go with soda today. I hadn’t been able to find any for months. Now it’s here. I’ll drink it while I can—who knows if it’ll be hard to find in the next country? I thank the cashier—in their own language. He doesn’t look at me. That’s fine. My smile isn’t just for him; it’s for the world—and for myself. I say, “I’ll take this,” in English. He doesn’t like me. That’s okay. I like him. I hand over the money with both hands. He doesn’t appreciate it. That’s fine, too. My own gesture reminds me of a word—one of the most important words to me: respect. I offer a gesture of acknowledgment, but it—along with my greeting—goes unreciprocated. I no longer have an issue with this; the realization comes instantly. The weight of this one-sided respect, which pressed upon me for a fleeting second, vanishes just as quickly. With my next exhale, I am ready to continue my walk in peace.
My thoughts are interrupted by a taxi pulling up beside me. The driver speaks for a couple of seconds. I bow with a smile—a wai—place my hand over my heart, and say, “Thank you, no.” This refusal has become a reflex. I reflect on the fact that, in truth, my thoughts weren’t really interrupted at all. I continue on my way.
A misting system has been installed on the terrace of the next café. I slow down. And I enjoy the water mist. I toy with the idea of taking off my T-shirt and standing beneath it for a minute. I’ve never done that before. Well, I’m not going to start today. I move past the mist, and a word comes to mind: thank you. Whoever put it here—it was a real treat. My soda is finished. I can already see a trash can on the next corner. I’m certainly not going to toss the bottle on the street along with the rest of the litter. With a sense of pride, I drop it into the bin. I’ve done something, at least. For myself, too.
A butterfly flutters by. I’m always hoping one will land on me. They say they don’t just land on anyone. I think back to yesterday. A beautiful specimen landed right beside my foot. It was dying. Then, it hopped onto my foot and climbed up to my ankle. I waited for it to rest there forever. Instead, it flew away. My heart filled with joy. It’s not the end—not yet, not here. Lost in these memories, I nearly trip face-first over a coconut. The jolt of fright snaps me back to the present. The butterfly from earlier is gone.
In its place, I spot a dog. It’s lying right across the sidewalk. Should I go around it? Step past it? What kind of dog is it, I wonder? The sort that takes offense at someone getting too close, or the kind that couldn’t care less? I walk around it. Just as I do with the people coming the other way. I don’t want to play this “whose is bigger” game anymore. I steer clear of everyone—dogs included. That’s the safest bet. It gives me time to react, just in case one decides to jump up. A couple of steps later, I realize this one belonged to the “I couldn’t care less about you” camp.
How much further should I go? I’m on familiar streets. If I turn here, it’s another “x” kilometers. If I don’t, it’s at least three more. I could also just turn around and head back the way I came. I really love these “I didn’t plan to go anywhere in particular” walks. I’ll keep going; I don’t feel like turning back today. Let’s make today’s route a loop.
It’s slowly getting dark. Time to eat. Rice or noodles? Let’s go with rice. Again. And make it spicy. My T-shirt hasn’t even dried yet, but now it’s going to get completely soaked all over again. Spice draws out moisture differently than sunlight does. The owner of the eatery will probably compliment me again on how well I handle the heat. Maybe he’ll even wipe my forehead for me while I eat? I sit down. It’s a good feeling—knowing that, even after all these kilometers, I don’t actually need to sit down yet.
After dinner, I head home. There are more dogs around now. I change how I navigate, too—sometimes crossing to the other side of the street. It’s the safest approach. There are more tourists, as well; during the day, I was practically the only one on the sidewalk. Occasionally, someone glances my way. Tourists rarely seek out a connection. They don’t realize what we’re missing out on: looking into each other’s eyes and sharing a smile. That’s energy. It’s a pity that we almost always miss out on this kind of exchange.
The owner of the Indian restaurant stops me, of course. I can tell he remembers me—he might not realize it, but he does. Then, as we talk, it comes back to him. It was he who, a year ago, suggested I go to India. We chat for a bit. At the end, we shake hands. Very gently and very quickly—yet in a way that is not at all intrusive—he turns my hand, and his own head, to get a better look. You wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t paying close attention. He wanted to see if he had correctly identified the tattoo on the back of my hand. I see relief in his eyes; he had seen it right. The OM belongs to his language, too. He asks no questions, says nothing about it. He simply places his hand over his heart as a gesture of farewell. The harmony is perfect—for, quite independently of him, I placed my own hand over my heart at that exact same moment.
14 kilometers. I’m almost home. I don’t feel tired—quite the opposite; I feel happy. My body served me well again today. My soul, too, joyfully embraced whatever the journey had in store for me. My mind didn’t rest for a single minute.
And that’s exactly how it should have been today. Simple. Perfect. Just like the thousand times before.
I’m glad you walked with me today. It was a pleasure!
Buy me a coffee?
If you enjoyed this story, you can buy me a coffee. You don’t have to – but it means a lot and I always turn it into a new adventure.
Buy a coffee for Steve
Linktree
Short introduction