10 days
10 days
Sometimes, when you start a journey, you think you know where it will lead. But then things happen that you couldn't have foreseen. They quietly slip in between the planned stages, and when you look back at the end, the journey has turned out to be completely different from what you expected.
Day 1: Above the sea
The afternoon on the deck of the ferry, somewhere between Greece and Italy, was like a lost dream. I slept in the open air, wrapped in a blanket of wind, the sound of the sea and the hum of the engines. The sky was blue and empty, and the sun was so bright that you couldn't really locate it. Sleep came suddenly, as if it was long overdue. It was the first deep sleep I'd had in months, and when I woke up I couldn't remember exactly where I was. Kilometer 6,048 on my journey, somewhere along the Albanian coast, between a few countries.
Day 2: Heat in Bari
Bari was hot. An oppressive heat that pushed through every crack and made it difficult to think. The city was full of stories that lay dormant within its ancient walls, but I didn't have the patience to listen to them. Even the bones of St. Nicholas resting here couldn't hold me back for long. I drove on, wanting to escape the hot breath of Puglia, as far as Pescara.
Day 3: Silence in Pescara
In Pescara I found a small place by the sea, a guesthouse, hardly bigger than a hideaway. The room was cramped, with a small balcony overlooking a railroad track. There, among the pine trees, I read and let time pass. The wind carried the sound of the sea to me, mixed with the chirping of the cicadas, and every 30 minutes a train broke the silence, only to restore it again. In the evening, an old friend came to visit. We were talking about this and that when my cell phone started ringing. Registration attempts from London. When I checked, my Instagram account had disappeared. Someone from Vietnam had taken it over. I put the phone aside and carried on with the evening. The matter had not yet entered my thoughts. But when I looked again late at night, a little kitten was looking at me from my former picture gallery. It was as if someone had opened the door to a room that was no longer mine and I looked in from outside.
Day 4: Motorcycles and lost accounts
Bologna and Monza captivated me with their motorcycles and museums, but the thought of the lost account nagged at the back of my mind. In a small luxury hotel in Monza, opposite the old Villa Reale, I saw the video. The new owner of my Instagram account had posted it, a photographer who worked with a model. For the first time, anger rose up in me, but it wasn't hot and fast, it was cold and slow. It was as if this person had stolen something from me, not just a few pictures, but a part of my identity. I tried to focus on other things, but the thought remained, like a stone in my shoe.
Day 5: The border and the end
After a brunch on Lake Lugano, I crossed the border into Germany. Kilometer 7,100 of my journey. I stopped at a petrol station, had a coffee and knew that, in a way, the journey was over. The last 300 kilometers were just a formality. But then came another attempt to register, again from London. This time it was my Facebook account that was hacked. Within a few minutes, it too was lost. I drove on, drained of everything but fatigue, and when I arrived home, I didn't think about the trip or the lost accounts. I showered and went to sleep as if nothing had happened.
Day 6: Unexpected joy
The next morning I discovered the new issue of *Swan Fineart Magazine*. It had been delivered during my trip. My photographs were printed in it, black on white, captured forever. A long interview too. It was a quiet joy, almost imperceptible, but profound. For the first time, I held my own pictures in my hands in printed form. In that moment, the lost social media lost its meaning. It was as if I had found something real that couldn't be stolen so easily.
Day 7: Arzbach and the people
Two days after my return, I drove to Arzbach, a small village in the forest. I was never one for big crowds, but that evening I felt unexpectedly at ease. A photography meet-up, a gathering of people who were interested in the same thing I was. It wasn't the networking that attracted me, but the conversations. Old friends and new acquaintances, conversations about traveling, about life in Turkey and in Weimar. The night slowly descended and five minutes before midnight I retired to drift off into a peaceful sleep. It was the eve of my birthday and I was greeted by a strange cat who eyed me suspiciously before we both gave in to sleep.
Day 8 to 10: Reconquest and realization
The next few days brought a surprising turnaround. A colleague offered her help. A contact at Meta would take a look at the problem and help me get my account back. A short time later, I received an email with instructions that I followed and gradually managed to get my Instagram account back. The moment I saw my own picture back on my profile was satisfying, but not triumphant. It was like getting back a lost object that had lost value but still belonged to me.
But it wasn't just the return of the account that mattered. It was the realization that this social media, which I had often dismissed as superficial and meaningless, was actually a connection to real people. People who cared about me, who wanted to support me, even if it was just by clicking 'report' or 'share'.
At the end of these 10 days, which marked the end of my almost 5-week journey, I was left with a deep sense of calm. More than just a succession of kilometers, it was an equalization of time. Less happened per hour. People and places, some of which I hadn't even planned to get to know. Not to be in the here and now, but also in the before and after. To connect the three times with each other. Because they belong together.
I set off because I wanted to document the journey photographically. I took less than 10 pictures.