Reflections after my journey through Québec, june 2017, part I
I could start with so many things, still there was one going back and forth in my mind all along the walks and the bus rides, following me through the streets and the hike trails. Some places open up your heart or soul, other just your mind.
Maybe, that is why I didn’t feel attached to Québec in any way, knowing I’d appreciate my return to Paris after the third week, despite the beauty and the experience. I was an observer only, and not much more than that. A listener, perhaps, a reader, a questioner. My heart and soul stayed home somehow, waiting for me in the little room, not far from La République. That is why I felt a void, that is why my mind stepped forward. (Whereas in Chile, it was quite silent.) It noticed things, noted them, in asking or concluding, yet always lacking profound sentiments.
So, I’m not sure anymore we always travel with our souls, that is upon the place to take it away, to sweep it off our feet, to steal the pieces of our hearts.
There is an entry in my diary: ”Perhaps I should be more torn apart? No, I don’t believe that.” As if I had to be in some intense emotional time myself to feel a place intensely… Because, I more often than not lacked the real excitement, even in the enjoyable moments, those fizzles in my stomach that launch me on my quest each day, to explore and see, to search and appreciate, and asked myself: ”How do you face this kind of feelings when you travel? Can you blame the destination? I don’t believe that.” (Again.)
I don’t believe in boredom of whichever destination, especially not one as diverse as Québec. Familiar it seemed, yes, in so many aspects, but in so many more it wasn’t. And even if… Familiar is not empty. Where’s the answer then?
I should know by now, travel doesn’t just fill us up, it reflects our void, the void we always take with us and which at home we don’t necessarily have the time to face. I should expect only to hold me up a mirror, to throw right back at me what I radiate out. Rare are the places that push through, that transform the void into a omni-embracing nothingness which equals everything-ness, and where the void becomes a certain calm and not an itching vacuum, a killing kind of hole.
There was one, though, even in Québec, that simple hiking trail, that magnificent bay, just a stone throw out of Tadoussac.