I don’t know when my passion for travelling began . I like travelling for the journey itself, this time lost between two realities, between two worlds that live and stir up without you, while my own bubble goes further away. Time won on time, moments when one cannot do anything, but dream.

I travel a lot, for my job and for my pleasure. The plane and the train have lost their magic, they became ordinary tools, no more exciting than a bicycle or a tube train.

But the place where the journey starts, the shrilling and colourful confusion of sounds and paces, the frenzy of a bee-hive that has discovered within itself more than a dozen queens… Be it an airport, with its long modern lobbies, its impersonal announcements where, in one instant, Swindon, Ouagadougou and Warsaw become so close, reconstructing a dreamed geography… Be it a train station, with its banks curved at the end, towards the departures, its huge and dirtied canopy, its pigeons or its sea-gulls perched on blackened metal beams, and the loud-speakers, impossible to understand because of the echo…. Be it a harbour, with its smells, its whistling and humming, its long perspectives encumbered with cranes and containers, which uniformity makes the world even more mysterious… Be it a simple bus stop, three benches, a tarmac road and old faded timetables … the places of departure have kept their powerful magic. When I stay in the same place for too long, I go there, to find again the stirrings of rush hour, feverishness, the piled up luggage, bounty and worn out by long journeys… or, on the contrary, early hour desertion, when only dirty papers remains, and a few forgotten travellers, uncomfortably asleep on coarse benches.

The world is too large to be wholly known. I dream of so many destinations, I dream of staying there, and discovering a different intimacy, I dream of going everywhere, of sharing the hunt of the falcon with the Mongolian nomads, or the last sheiks of Blessed Arabia, of crossing America in a pick-up, of discovering the Great Reef, of wandering in the gardens of England and the moors of Scotland, of spotting buffalos in the polish forest, of gliding in a dinghy in the delta of the Danube, of guessing the ghost of the Golem, of living the white nights and the black days of Saint-Petersburg, fish amber after a winter storm on the Baltic sea… Of following the tracks of the great African migrations, breeze a breath of eternity, at dawn in Masai-Mara… Of leaving Bordeaux on a cargo ship, of beating the strolls of Buenos Aires, and of riding through Patagonia down to Fire Earth….

Dreamed travels.

Lived travels: Madison and Eight avenue, Brooklyn Bridge and all New-York’s fever… The banks of the Saint-Laurent, seeing the whales’ back in Tadoussac… Running 8.000 kilometres through Africa and Namibia, chasing a solar eclipse… Sands of Egypt, orchards of Tunisia… Vilnius, Jerusalem of the North, and Kurian sands, where amber offers itself to men…