One of the things I enjoy most about traveling is becoming an inhabitant. I hate hotels and I don't ever just want to see the sunny side of a city. I want to see the best and worst (and a lot of the average stuff) that it has to offer. One requirement (other than staying as long as possible) is holding these in my hand:
Keys. My first apt. in Milan was relatively cheap and in a very unromantic part of town.
The first thing you notice about Milan is the graffiti--or rather--the tags.
I thought LA was bad, but 6 vertical feet of the entire city is covered in it. It's what would happen if you taught feral cats how to spell their names AND pee spraypaint. I'm all for graffiti art, but scrawling your name everywhere in your own neighborhood is equivalent to shitting in your pasta bowl. I guess people like the look of their own shit and love even more the taste of it every day.
There were those who knew what they were doing, though:
I was sick. Really sick. Conscious fever dreams during the day and during the night, waking up soaked in sweat. At one point I went to the balcony. I was on the 8th floor if you recall. No, never thought of jumping, but at some point the view turned against me.
That's what the view looked like in 'reality', but to my fevered brain it was a predator waiting to be shot.
Aegri somnia, a sick man's dreams. I'll get into the details later, but this journey for me was to do the things I love, to follow my 'passion', which is more akin to obeying the demands of a corrupt nervous system, but none-the-less, the painting captured a very particular and unfortunate moment right at the beginning.