In the year of our Lord two thousand and nineteen, a wretched plague known as the coronavirus cast its ominous shadow upon our planet, as if the very fabric of existence had been tangled and the old order of the world transformed. Professions were reshaped, and humankind donned a new attire. The veil that was once called culture was lifted from faces, revealing what lay beneath. Countless jobs were swept away by the winds of destruction, and new occupations emerged. Companies crumbled into ruin, while others rose to prominence, becoming behemoths that seemed destined to reign on their thrones for eternity.
In a world transformed, face-to-face encounters became a rarity, a relic of a bygone era. The virtual realm ascended to the throne of communication, and humankind found themselves conversing from behind the protective shields of their monitors. I, like the rest of humanity, was but a spectator in the face of this sweeping tide. Our human pride and arrogance proved futile. We were not masters of our own destinies, but rather prisoners of fate, and instead of futilely striving against the inevitable tide, we were compelled to focus on adapting to the new realities.
My profession, too, was one of those that, amidst the tumultuous waves of the coronavirus, rose in rebellion against its own destiny. It was a profession that stood in stark contrast to the isolation and silence of quarantine.
Before the ominous specter of the coronavirus cast its shadow over our land and locked the gates of restriction upon its people, I, like a migratory bird, would take flight across the expanse of my homeland. On average, three times a week (and sometimes more), I would embark on journeys to distant and neighboring cities. In each city, a project awaited me, and air travel was my nightly bread.
As a Project Manager and a Design Director, I bore a weighty responsibility. I would rise at the crack of dawn, when darkness still held sway over the land, and the sun sat perched on the horizon, awaiting its cue to ascend. I would then make my way to the airport, where I would board the iron wings of my metallic steed, and soar towards yet another destination. In the city of my arrival, a driver would await my presence, ready to escort me to the site of my mission. And so, throughout the day, I would work shoulder to shoulder with him, immersed in the throes of labor and endeavor. As dusk settled, my faithful driver would return me to the embrace of the airport, where I would once again mount the back of my iron bird, and embark on my homeward flight. Around midnight, weary from a breathless battle against time, I would finally reach my abode. I would bathe myself, and without delay, seek refuge in the sanctuary of my bed.
My slumber, reduced to mere wisps of time, barely three hours in all. The daily marathon commenced once more: airport, flight, another city, an endless repetition. Monotony, in its darkest guise, had cast its shadow over my life. My existence, a subject for dark comedic dramas.
With the sudden advent of Covid-19, my life transformed into an eerie, uncanny stillness. I was experiencing something indescribable, events that found no place in my mind. A sensation of inhabiting an alien planet.
The first few weeks were an orchestra of unadulterated bliss. I had been extricated from the clutches of incessant flights and twenty-hour workdays. A profound tranquility descended upon my being, and I found myself with the opportunity to embrace the simple pleasures of "real life": indulging in literature, watching films, and culinary endeavors.
As a few weeks transpired, a harsh reality unveiled itself before me: I harbored a deep-seated aversion to my work. The monotonous routine had cast a thick shroud over my eyes, concealing this profound repugnance.
I now reveled in the silence of my mobile device. It brought me joy that the jarring sound of its ring had seldom intruded upon my day. I was elated that the number of daily work emails had dwindled from a hundred to a mere six or seven. I felt a sense of contentment that I no longer had to compose endless official letters to government departments and agencies. I had once again taken up my pen and put it to paper, not for organizations and bureaus, but to pen down memories of my youth. And how delightful it was to once again blacken the page.
How curious that we may detest a thing, yet that very thing becomes a veil over our detestation!
Immersed in the repetitive drudgery of my profession, the disgust I held for that monotonous routine lay hidden. Indeed, a thick, black veil is the finest tool for concealing reality!
With pen and camera, I had always found solace in the company of faithful companions. These comrades, each in their own way, assisted me in my solitude – one in weaving melodies of imagination, the other in capturing fleeting moments of existence. While the pen proved a more loyal companion, demanding naught but a trickle of ink and a scrap of paper, photography, that enchanting friend, reveled in an array of tools and equipment that often left my empty pockets yearning.
For years, consumed by the clamor of earning and spending, I had remained oblivious to the true worth of life's values and norms. And so, I paid scant attention to the lavish demands of my photographic companion.
The exact moment I made the life-altering decision remains lost in the sands of time. Was it 2020? Which month, day, or hour? A decision that could unravel fifteen years of toil in a career that had become my identity. One of those pivotal decisions that typically strike in one's twenties or thirties, and I, at the age of thirty-six, stood on the precipice of a monumental shift. A decision far easier to utter than to embrace. A decision sparked by an enduring passion: writing and photography.
Before diving headfirst into the world of colors and words, I had to settle the fate of my unfinished projects. Their absolute dependence on me prevented a simple farewell letter and a clean break. I had to descend the stairs of commitment one step at a time, bringing to fruition the fruits of years of hard work. This made my separation from work an arduous and exhausting process, mirroring the very nature of the work itself.
In the waning days of winter 2021, with the season transitioning into spring, I borrowed a semi-professional camera from a close friend to embark on a journey into the art of photography. My first subjects were the blossoms in the garden and the shrubs in the courtyard – delicate buds peeking out from under the last winter snow and petals frozen in the harsh chill of early spring.
I would gaze at the images I captured, pouring my thoughts and observations onto paper. I practiced and gained experience, albeit not in a structured manner. It was more about the joy of the process than a purposeful pursuit. For months, I wrote aimlessly and photographed the world around me, accumulating a vast collection of frames and pages that unknowingly chronicled "journeys" in both text and image.
Unbeknownst to me, I had been writing and photographing about journeys all along. My subjects, my words, and my lens had been drawn to the essence of travel, capturing the essence of movement and exploration.
Travel, uninvited and unplanned, had found its way into my life. It was as if a predetermined fate had allotted a significant portion of my existence to wandering this earthly sphere. Each time I returned from a journey, I was already contemplating the next. I was constantly planning my next expedition.
Unlike travel enthusiasts who passionately profess their love for exploration, travel for me was a companion of life's transformations. It was more like a torrential current that swept me along, rather than a choice I made. But now that I had grown accustomed to this uninvited companion, I was beginning to enjoy its company. Whether on foreign voyages or domestic jaunts, every journey held for me the sweet taste of reverie.
The idea for "Roam and Record" took root during a trip to Italy, a project that I now pursue with my own camera after returning my friend's. While my camera is the most affordable Nikon semi-professional model and pales in comparison to my friend's in terms of features and complexity, it is nonetheless my own.
On this website, you will find two categories of posts. The first, "Tales from My Travels," will chronicle my experiences and travel moments. I will narrate my journeys through unfamiliar paths, encounters with people from diverse cultures, and the untold beauty of our vast planet.
The second category, "Exploring Travelogues," will take you on a virtual tour of travel writings and blogs. We will delve into the experiences of others, sometimes discovering new perspectives on unfamiliar destinations and, at other times, finding resonance with our own memories and experiences. These posts will be written by both myself and my wife.
The fate of these writings remains uncertain. I have no idea what tomorrow holds. Perhaps they will be swept away by the winds of oblivion, like countless other ideas before them. Or, perhaps, against all odds, they will serve as a beacon for those eager to explore and discover.
Believing that success is the result of taking small, consistent steps in the right direction, I will continue to tread this path, like a tireless traveler. Small steps, but consistent ones, that may one day lead me and my fellow travelers to our destination. My sole endeavor is to persevere in taking these small steps and to stay on the right path.
In the inception of this website, I have set for myself a single objective: to Roam and Record.
That's it!
I will embark on journeys, capture moments with my camera, and share my experiences with pen and paper. This is all that I will strive for.
I hope to find many companions along this delightful path.
This is the first post that I publish on this website. I wish that years from now, when I look back and read this text once again, I will have no regrets about the path I have chosen for my life. Because at this age, there is not much time left to make up for lost time.
