I have a habit of walking through unfamiliar cities without knowing where I am going.
This sounds more romantic than it is.
Most of the time, it involves taking a wrong turn, refusing to admit it for several streets, and eventually discovering that the interesting building in the distance is considerably less interesting when viewed from a supermarket car park.
Still, I recommend it.
Knowing where you are going changes the way you look at a city.
When there is a destination, everything between here and there becomes distance.
A street is something to cross.
A square is something to walk through.
The person moving slowly in front of you becomes an obstacle with a surprisingly poor understanding of pavement etiquette.
Purpose makes us efficient.
Efficiency is not always useful.
Without a destination, small decisions become strangely important.
Left or right.
Across the bridge or along the river.
The busy street or the narrow one that appears to lead nowhere in particular.
There is no correct answer.
That may be why I like it.
Stories often begin with destinations.
Someone wants something.
Someone needs to reach a place, find a person, understand a question.
This is necessary. A story without direction can wander until even the writer begins looking for an exit.
But I have noticed that some of my favourite moments happen between destinations.
Two people take the wrong street.
A train is missed.
A conversation continues longer than expected because nobody has anywhere urgent to be.
The story briefly forgets where it was going.
And something human appears.
Perhaps this is why I sometimes walk without a destination when I am thinking.
I am not searching for locations.
At least, I tell myself I am not.
I am trying to remember what it feels like when the next decision is small.
A doorway.
A café.
A bench facing the wrong direction.
Most will mean nothing.
Occasionally, one refuses to disappear.
Months later, I will find it in a notebook.
A short description.
A question.
Perhaps only the name of a street.
I may not remember why I wrote it down.
That does not necessarily matter.
Not every journey needs to know what it is becoming while it is happening.
Sometimes you walk first.
The destination can explain itself later.
— D. Vaen