Copyright Martin Esposito - All rights reserved
Whether wholeheartedly or not, when acquaintances react with the "lucky you! In sunny Spain again" attitude following my accounts of the working weekend as part of a perfunctory school-run exchange, I don't like to dust it off with an equally overused "well, just business, mainly airports and hotels, you know" spiel. Though technically true of course, I find it in sour grape taste and not a real portrayal of the way I feel. It is surely an exact description, because I do not in fact see or do anything I could not see or do at home. But travelling is not about checking out with your own eyes what you knew existed all along. There is something about being, as ever the essence of these pages of mine. I do not possess the ability to dissect my idea of genius loci for you, but I have found it well summed up in Alain De Botton's The Art of Travel: you move from place to place despite yourself, you being the most cumbersome piece of luggage weighing your own self down. Travelling used to be a luxury, especially in business terms. The name still adorns a Class of its own. In my father's generation's case for example, life back at the office would continue as usual protecting absent staff from deluge on return, the scant communication resources would ensure lots of respectful quiet, and of course the mission was rewarded with a salary over and beyond standard, since the idea of performing away from home was extra-ordinary.
About this blog
A sideways glance at conference interpreting, living bilingual and balancing the composite identity. The poetics of a craft and a repository of past thoughts. (Some links may no longer be active).