[click for larger version]
Vee: When at home I have a rosy image of traveling. Ensconced in the frenzy of every-day city life, unable to find a moment for the things that I reallywant to do, I always think, “oh it’ll be nice just to have some time to myself. Even the flight will be bearable because I’ll get to study and catch up on reading”.
What I forget is, the moment I’m away from my Safe Base, my brain enters animal mode. I lose all higher reasoning and cognitive abilities, surviving only on raw instinct and those packets of dried mouse turds the stewardesses dole out.
Staying in an unfamiliar place effectively robs me of all creativity. I had planned to do a lot of writing and drawing here, imagining lovely scenes of early morning sun pouring into the room as I created masterpieces of Photoshop glory, or great flowery prose.
In reality, I have assed out a) this comic, and b) a bevy of blog entries that could have been written by a five year old. The word FUCK and derivatives thereof, appear at least 600 times.
What I’m saying is, it’s not Shakespeare.
It’s not even Chekhov.
Jaime: I once had these ideas about foreign lands – that somehow I’d feel different in them, that the land itself, or its monuments, would be novel or magical enough to be inspiring or provoking.
The truth of it is, one place is pretty much like any other.
Languages change, and so do little things like the shape of toilets and local traffic rules, but people are people everywhere and so is life. The cathedrals and temples start to blend into one another, and a beach is a beach no matter where you are.
The only difference is, in another country I’m living out of a suitcase, I’ve got either jetlag or diarrhea, and I can’t order breakfast without resorting to pantomiming frying an egg to a puzzled waiter.
