Field Notes No. 2: 10 days
10 days
Sometimes, when you embark on 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 become completely different from what you had expected.
Day 1: Above the sea
The afternoon on the ferry deck, somewhere between Greece and Italy, was like a lost dream. I slept under the open sky, enveloped 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 it was almost impossible to pinpoint its location. Sleep came suddenly, as if it were long overdue. It was my first deep sleep in months, and when I woke up, I wasn't quite sure where I was. Kilometer 6,048 of my journey, somewhere along the Albanian coast, between a few countries.
Day 2: Heat in Bari
Bari was hot. A stifling heat that seeped through every crack and made my thoughts heavy. The city was full of stories slumbering within its ancient walls, but I didn't have the patience to listen to them. Even the bones of Saint Nicholas, resting there, couldn't hold my attention for long. I drove on, wanting to escape the scorching breath of Apulia, all the way to Pescara.
Day 3: Silence in Pescara
In Pescara, I found a small place by the sea, a guesthouse barely bigger than a hiding place. The room was cramped, with a small balcony overlooking a railway track. There, among the pine trees, I read and let time slip away. The wind carried the sound of the sea to me, mixed with the chirping of 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 chatted about this and that when my phone started beeping. Login attempts from London. When I checked, my Instagram account was gone. Someone in Vietnam had taken it over. I put the phone aside and went back to my evening. The whole thing hadn't really sunk in yet. But when I checked again late that night, a little kitten from my old photo gallery was staring back at me. It was as if someone had opened the door to a room that hadn't been mine for a long time, and I was looking in from the outside.
Day 4: Motorcycles and lost accounts
Bologna and Monza captivated me with their motorcycles and museums, but in the back of my mind, the thought of my lost account gnawed at me. 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 working with a model. For the first time, anger welled up inside me, but it wasn't hot and fast, rather 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 lingered, like a pebble in my shoe.
Day 5: The border and the end
After brunch on Lake Lugano, I crossed the border into Germany. Kilometer 7,100 of my journey. I stopped at a gas station, drank a coffee, and knew that the trip was, in a way, over. The last 300 kilometers were just a formality. But then came more login attempts, again from London. This time it was my Facebook account that had been hacked. Within minutes, it too was gone. I drove on, relieved of everything except fatigue, and when I arrived home, I didn't think about the trip anymore, not about 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 and white, preserved forever. There was also a long interview. It was a quiet joy, almost imperceptible, yet profound. For the first time, I held my own images in printed form in my hands. In that moment, the lost meaning of social media vanished. It was as if I had found something real, something that couldn't be so easily stolen.
Day 7: Arzbach and the people
Two days after my return, I drove to Arzbach, a small village in the woods. I've never been one for large crowds, but that evening I felt unexpectedly at ease. A photography meet-up, a gathering of people who shared my passion. It wasn't the networking that attracted me, but the conversations. Old friends and new acquaintances, conversations about travel, about life in Turkey and in Weimar. Night fell slowly, and five minutes before midnight, I retired to my room 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 succumbed to sleep.
Days 8 to 10: Recapture and realization
The next few days brought a surprising turn of events. A colleague offered her help. A contact at Meta would look into the problem and help me get my account back. And a short time later, I received an email with instructions, which I followed, and gradually I managed to regain control of my Instagram account. The moment I saw my own picture back on my profile was satisfying, but not triumphant. It was as if I had gotten back a lost object that had lost its value, but still belonged to me.
But it wasn't just the return of the account that mattered. It was the realization that these social media platforms, which I had often dismissed as superficial and meaningless, actually represented 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, a deep sense of peace remained within me. More than just a succession of kilometers, it was a decongestion of time. Less about what happened every hour. Meeting people and places I hadn't even planned to encounter. Being not only in the here and now, but also in the before and the after. Connecting these three times. Because they belong together.
I set off because I wanted to document the trip photographically. I took fewer than 10 pictures.