The first piece of the map to Elseville was given to me by my mother, almost 30 years ago, when she put me and my sister on a plane to Mykonos where my grandma was going to take care of us for the whole summer.
There was no possible way of knowing that these 90 sun-drenched, oblivious days of unapologetic carelessness and freedom would define my idea of absolute happiness and at the same time be responsible for carrying the unbearable weight of one big and ugly truth for the rest of my life: you don't get to be happy all the time. (Actually, you are entitled to approximately 25 days of stressed, guilt ridden happiness per year.)
I found the last piece of Elseville's map hidden behind infinite scroll downs, boring jobs, internet noise and endless timelines of random opinions. It was my getaway plan to a timeless reality where all my travel memories live, a place where I can access at any time, my way of connecting to a world that's meaningful.
All sounds are sometimes blocked in Elseville. You can breathe in synch with the summer breeze, having the echo of pounding surf as a background while you sense the smell of your grandmother's pie coming from the corner.
Or you can just lose yourself in the crowd, wonder around a bustling, lively city and enjoy a glass of wine from a local bar instead of waiting in the queue to see “unmissable sight-seeings".
But most of all, it's about the anticipation, the excitement and the prospect of discovering something new, like the feeling you get when you wake up in the middle of a long flight and you realise that you are now far away, heading somewhere else where anything could happen.
Welcome to Elseville.