The Same Island. Two Completely Different Journeys.
A few days ago, we went to buy rye flour.
We needed it for the bread we bake for ourselves and sometimes share with our neighbours.
Not exactly what most people have in mind when they head to Costa Teguise.
Somewhere along the way, while passing another group of buggies kicking up dust across the volcanic landscape, I turned to Andrzej and said:
"Look. The same island. Two completely different journeys."
And we started talking about something that has been on our minds for a while.
There is nothing wrong with spending a holiday by the pool.
There is nothing wrong with a cold beer in a sports bar.
There is nothing wrong with buggy tours, organised excursions or spending a week doing absolutely nothing.
Everyone finds their own way to enjoy a holiday.
But lately we have been wondering why some people visit Lanzarote once and move on, while others arrive once and somehow keep coming back for years.
Last weekend we spent two days in Madrid.
On the first day we walked around Puerta del Sol.
Crowds.
Queues.
Tourist menus.
People everywhere.
The Madrid everyone knows.
The Madrid from postcards.
The Madrid that gets ticked off a list.
The next day we wandered around the Prado district.
And suddenly it felt like a completely different city.
Quiet streets.
Trees.
Local cafés.
Restaurants full of Madrileños.
No crowds.
No rush.
Just people enjoying their day.
The same Madrid.
Two completely different worlds.
Maybe Lanzarote is the same.
Maybe every place is.
Not because one experience is right and another is wrong.
But because every place has layers.
And most of them only reveal themselves slowly.
Often through people.
Looking back, we have realised something unexpected.
When we started this Journal, we thought we would be writing about places.
A village.
A beach.
A restaurant.
A hidden corner of Lanzarote.
But somewhere along the way, the stories started heading in a different direction.
The Tele Club story was never really about a restaurant.
The Guatiza story was never really about a village.
Tarzan was never really about a dog.
And perhaps this story is not really about Lanzarote or Madrid.
They all seem to be chapters of the same story.
A story about curiosity.
About saying yes to an invitation.
About taking a small detour.
About listening when somebody says:
"Don't go there. Go here."
Or:
"Don't order that today."
If Loli had never invited us to dinner all those years ago, we would probably still know Lanzarote.
We would know the beaches.
We would know the viewpoints.
We would know the tourist attractions.
We would know the guidebooks.
But would we know Guatiza?
Would we know the Tele Clubs?
Would we know the neighbours who stop to chat when we are taking bread out of the oven?
Would we be living here today?
Honestly, probably not.
That is the funny thing.
Sometimes life changes because of something that seems completely insignificant at the time.
A conversation.
A recommendation.
A dinner invitation.
A wrong turn.
A chance encounter.
Years later, you realise it changed everything.
Over the last few weeks, while writing these stories, we have realised something else.
We thought we were writing about Lanzarote.
But little by little, the Journal started collecting a story of its own.
A story about people.
About possibility.
About curiosity.
About the unexpected turns that sometimes change everything.
About discovering that there is often far more beneath the surface than we first imagine.
Many years ago, before running my first marathon in Poznań, I saw a piece of graffiti on an old garage wall.
I still remember the words:
"I live for those moments when I take a deep breath and think to myself: please, let this moment last forever."
At the time, I did not think much about it.
Today I understand it differently.
Because those moments rarely happen while rushing from one attraction to the next.
They happen when life slows down.
Around a table.
During a conversation.
On a quiet walk.
Or while standing somewhere, taking a deep breath, and feeling that everything is exactly where it should be.
Maybe that is why some people keep returning to Lanzarote.
Not because they are looking for another attraction.
But because they found something harder to describe.
A feeling.
A rhythm.
A way of seeing.
Maybe the most beautiful places we discover while travelling are not places at all.
Maybe they exist on the other side of a conversation we almost didn't have.
Or a road we almost didn't take.
Or an invitation we almost declined.
The same island.
Two completely different journeys.
And perhaps, somewhere along the way, a chance to discover not only a new place.
But a different version of ourselves.
One we did not know was there.
