The Wanderer

Buenos Aires, The Dance of Melancholy

“Sometimes a city dances with its own shadow.” Evening falls over San Telmo. In a small bar, a bandoneón plays […]

“Sometimes a city speaks through a film that never ends.” The fishing village of Bocadasse, on the edge of Genoa,

“Sometimes the city itself speaks, through a voice you do not expect.” The stones of Cusco lie heavy beneath my

A city of words and songs It is nine in the evening when I step into the pub. Outside, the

I step off the train at an unfamiliar station. The hall is vast, yet empty. A clock ticks above my

The streets breathe an unknown language. I wander without a map, my steps echoing between facades that tell me nothing.

The air smells of salt and distant travel. I walk over a wooden pier, the planks creaking under my feet.

I belong to the people who choose the road less crowded. I’m a wanderer who walks alone, guided by the