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Hotel Gülhane Çinar, Sultan Ahmed, Istanbul.

Sunday February 14th  1971

A large room, with a wood-stove and windows looking onto the busy road that winds down the hill to Galata. Eight beds in the room, the one closest to the door occupied by a German. I forget his name. He is thirty-one and has been travelling since he was sixteen, to North Africa, India, Malaya, Japan…. He has had seven girlfriends – French, Spanish, Italian, Yugoslavian, and now English. She is expecting his baby, which will be his sixth child. He is waiting for her to come from England. Then they will go to a village in South India to have the baby. In six months or so they will travel on to Japan.

We talked about the notion of home. For myself, travelling is about going out from a deep reference point, which is a love of home and a sense of belonging there. He has none of that, and seems to be happy in his rootlessness. He takes life day by day, and seems to be at peace. He makes it quite clear to his girlfriends that he has no long-term sense of commitment, and guards his freedom to move on. That’s always clear from the start. 

I think I’m very different. I love travelling, but feel that there is a deeper alternative for a life, to do with commitment, love of place and community. What will happen to the girlfriends – and to all his children? 

Freedom. Our generation is experimenting with many versions.