“Keep the windows down and keep the radio turned off,” my Grandmother advised me, and I nodded. I knew the avalanche rules too well. I had been traveling down the mountain roads as a passenger with her and other adults for years.
Tag: <span>travel</span>
Last year around this time I was moping around. I missed my best friend, reminisced about her and the good times we had. I thought about other good friends I had lost and all the ones we had left behind when we moved out of state.
I wanted to reach out to the city and the people. I was ready for a girl’s night out, or just some female companionship. I wanted to meet people other than neighbors and people we work for -or with.
They all greeted my Grandmother nicely, paid respect to her and connected through her with a friend, who wasn’t there anymore. I sat quietly beside her and listened to the stories these men had to tell.
I still wake up and wish it all would be just a dream. Much has changed during the last six months. I still laugh a lot and giggle like a little girl, but there is also a sadness in me that you can often see -and hear- when I read or watch the news.
The most of us think about the classic Pesto Genovese, the traditional green pesto from Genoa, made with fresh basil and pine nuts; but there are actually various types of pesto -originating from different regions of Italy using local ingredients. The name pesto comes from the Italian word pestare, meaning crush or pound, as it was originally made with a mortar and pestle.
All day long she sat in her small tower and watched the horizon. She had the harbor log, knew the names and the origins of the ships that arrived that day.
“The genius of apartheid was convincing people who were the overwhelming majority to turn on each other. Apart-hate is what it was. You separate people into groups and make them hate on another so you can run them all.”
Years ago, when I was 18 years old, at a time when cell phones and GPS systems weren’t existing, I drove all by myself from Austria down to the South of Italy. It was just me, my little car and our old farm dog -a security measure my Grandmother had insisted on.
Every time I see train tracks I feel a longing inside me, a yearning that I cannot explain.
A train ride, that’s the only time I know for sure where I am going.
PHOTO PROMPT 
Shaktiki Sharma
Kurt stared outside the window, his nose pressed against the glass. He had spent the last two days on a Greyhound bus, so he could finally meet the person he had fallen in love with.