LOSING DAYS... FINDING MINUTES

Travel to someplace far away is not so much a matter of losing life to find it as it is disengaging from “the stuff” of everyday existence, of being, the material and the schedules of home. We know who we are partly by knowing where we are... and with whom we are.   Riding my bicycle from the hill of home out to the exact level of the sea at Ocean Beach of Mission Beach or Pacific Beach doesn’t unhook me from who I was yesterday, from who I essenially am.  The tether that attaches me to home can be as short as the twenty-minute ride down to the Mexican border or as long as the five-and-a-half-hour plane ride to New York or the day-long combination of flights to Marsaille.  

Almost anywhere in San Diego I am not the alien, the stranger.  In Tijuana or in Tarascon I am the other. 

Tarascon... between Marseille and Avignon...