This post is already too long. Cartagena wouldn't hold dear to me if it was just another Spanish inquisition Museum... jotting notes of the place reminded me oh so much of my home, Togo.
Home is when your ailing uncle drained out of his blood, stares you in the eye
bloodshed worried for you.
Your only grief is one that time may heal, yet his life’s purpose is to humbly
be about others.
Home is the joy, the brotherhood, walking in the streets feeling invincible,
well accompanied.
It is that connection, inexplicably unkept but as surprisingly as ever, self
asserted.
Home is the strength of the family in it’s faith, the grotto of the granny, the
crosses on the wall, the similar pra
It is again sort of that time of the year again, where I get to live out of my
bag for 2 weeks, headed to Iceland, Denmark, Sweeden, Norway and Germany.
Instead of a play by play of these oh so well covered nations, I'm inclined more
to just share some of the dearest memories from it.
Taking flight over the glaciers of iceland, where ice, rain, clouds, mountains,
and lakes all blend to create this numbing view. wouldn't de iceland, without of
course a huge touch of a very blue sky in a hot sum
Somedays I yearn for my home, where I come from? perhaps where I belong.
My home in my mind is the place I grew up.
The church bells through the city during lunch time
The Muezzin so zealous, the monring call to pray, sounds like one made in the
middle of the day.
The beach, the sand under my feet, the smell of the draw of the day resting in
baskets waiting to be picked up.
Nothing feels like my home like the two bricks, on the same line spaced out by
measuring your two feet