Yesterday I visited a concentration camp. Europeans have a strong tendency not to shy away from their past; they make these dark parts of their history known in order to educate for our future.
It reminded me of something my mum said recently, in regards to ANZAC day, that we shouldn’t be celebrating our place in war, but taking a lesson from it. We’re still in wars in the Middle East, that’s not about to change any time soon. That’s why she chooses to implement peace in her life, and myself also.
Yet another tyrant later, and I’m off the track of Europe. That’s an expected habit in my writing.
The cultures are something that still fascinates me, even the differences between city to city. The locals are always a pleasure to meet. In Venice they sit in smaller streets with glasses of local red wine, saying hello to everyone that walks past. In Crete a man sat by me on his moped, smoking a cigar and admiring his boat for twenty minutes before he sailed off. In Munich I asked a man at the beer hall in laderhosen where he was from. He pointed to his seat and said right here. He also thought I may have known his son in Brisbane.
A couple of people on my tour packed up everything at home, and have no idea where they’re going when the tour ends in six days. That kind of lifestyle is starting to appeal to me more and more. I’ve found myself in every city thinking wow, I could miss the bus right now and not even mind in the slightest.
People warned me this might happen.
