(xix) a book with a passport

I began the trip reading a book from a charity shop in Yeadon, England. Angela's Ashes, beautiful depiction of a difficult childhood in Ireland. I then bought 'Land below the wind' which tells of Sandakan, Borneo before the war, through the eyes of an intrepid American resident and her English husband.

Both books consume the reader directly in locality. The sights, smells, laughter and pungent air jumping from the page to embrace the audience.

As I type on my IPad, the irony of what I say is not lost. On trips I always seek to trade books, enjoying the roulette of inheriting another traveller's choice. Except, no one is willing to exchange 'Angela's Ashes' for their kindle / tablet / e-reader. And honestly, I do not wish to trade either.

The book swaps available in hostels were populated solely by German language books. No bookstores exist to buy new.

My joy on finding a dog-eared copy of 'The girl with the Dragon Tattoo' was tangible. The book has been well loved, passing through hands of many languages, and lands of many people. The cover is missing - I like to think she enjoyed one trip so much she stayed behind. A smile came to my lips as I remember seeking the Lembeh Sea Dragon in Mabul's waters.

I finally found my dragon.

*****

Books have history. Scribbled notes important to a reader, highlighted text that hits the heart. Perhaps the name of a hostel, or contact details for a new acquaintance.

My fear is that in ten years, buying actual books will become a collector's niche such as record collecting is today. A chore of love; enjoyed by the few who value authenticity over convenience.

'Angela's Ashes' now has her own passport. A note from the reader. I record where she joined my trip and the point she departed. I document the book I trade her in for. I hope someone of similar sentiment will continue adding location stamps as she travels the world. I note the blog details alongside...who knows, one day I may get a message to tell me where she travels.

(i) Flip flop freedom

Such relief to discard work boots for a few weeks of flip flop freedom. One, rigid and restrained. Practical. Necessary. Occasionally smart. The other carefree, well travelled, allowing air to the bones and breathing space to the sole.

The boots left in the junk room where flip flops hibernate through winter months. Poor boots, they deserve a holiday too.

The trip starts in fine fettle. A few beers with good friends before boarding the coach. Sleep beers to heavy the eyelids. Surprisingly nice coach for England. Seats to myself to wrap my oversized frame into. Crash pad booked for a night or two in Brunei. No other plans, see what the weeks throw at me. Reading's a must, and writing too. Must write.

I settle in my seat and turn a few pages. Angela's Ashes. A first novel - autobiographical. They all are. Busy week at work. Glad to be away. Love my team, but can't help feel I've overstayed my welcome. Time for fields new, a fresh start. I turn the same page three times. I feel a westerly wind blowing on my return. A challenge, a renewal. Page 5 still. I rest my book and wait for the cogs to slow down. Hope Grandad's ok. It's been a tough week for the folks too. Hate that aspect of going away. Part of me hopes everything has changed on my return. But not Grandad. No change there please. Brain overload. Borrowed iPod time. No idea what music's on it. Shuffle will do...