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Small sign “France” flied the left side and I turned my head shocked. “We re in France?!” I asked darkness around. That was border. That small sigh was border.

Everytime since new country lied me buy I couldn’t help but feeling confusing.

They were fighting till death for these borders. Each single centimeter here is overfilled with death bodies. Each single centimeter here was a bet till blood, was a ground to own, was a proof, was a belong, was life, was country, was pride, was…

To cancel it like this. Puff. No borders.

My apolitic soul, confused with steel curtain of my country, felt still confused in the world of no borders.

There are 2 things in EuropeI used to shout about crazily, loosing my head and voice. First – that u can open ur eyes in the morning and say – I want to go to Portugal. U buy a ticket or hitch-hike a car and go to Portugal. The same morning. And may be u re never back. Or may be u re back in the evening.

In my flat country it used to be the next way: “my bed is standing next to the window. Every morning I open my eyes and see sky. And every morning it reminds me that I m not a bird”. (who told this beautiful verlibr?)

And second. That delaying borders and moving along – there ARE countries. Here – they speak Italian. They eat Italian food. They are fucking proud about Italian food, Italian history, Italian traditions and Italian sun. (wine, cheese, see, souses in complecte) Move 1 kilometer. They speak French. They speak no more then French. They are fucking proud about French food, French history, French traditions and French sun. (wine, see, sauces in complecte).

Being one big country Europe is still The countrieS.

Around mine I see that countries are trying to forget the soviet past. In Litva they destroy monuments of Russian soldiers. In Kazakhstan the last Russian name of the street was delayed yesterday. That was street in honour of Pushkin.

Road by sea passed me through Spain and France. I entered Italy. Dreaming along Mediterranean sea I was trying to define “the border” word.

We reached Barcelona in 10 hours. In 1959 two young guys who are now Umberto and Luigi, these proffesors and writers, made this way in the car for 22 days. Till Barcelona. There were no roads. But were borders.

People were dying for them.

But people are dying also for less important things.