Published via Ecency

A sweater from a Bulgarian secondhand shop. The yellow vest that saved my life while cycling to Istanbul. A crochet blanket made by a south Italian granny.

Each of these items would have never been worn by myself again, if I am very honest. I would have still kept them though.

Makes no sense?

Every time I would pick up that red oversized sweater, I would remember the day I picked it up. Strolling through Sofia, Bulgarias capital, after we had survived the busy roads to get in. At the time I decided the time for black hoodies was over, so I was looking for a replacement.
That new secondhand sweater had accompanied me all the way to Istanbul and further. Many times I appreciated wearing that bright red fabric, reflecting my mood and covering my body.

How could I ever get rid of it? Even though I didn’t wear it in a few weeks and would probably less and less in all the days to come.

As I pack my backpack, sorting out what I really need, my yellow vest slides through my hands. You don’t need a yellow vest if you aren’t cycling! Adding to that, those vests are probably the most unattractive pice of “clothing” that exists.

How many times did I look at my reflection, wondering how just a yellow vest could make me look that stupid?

But then I think back of all the busy roads, tunnels and motorways I have been cycling on. Maybe only the fact that I am still alive only depends on me, wearing that piece of yellow and reflective stripes. Can I really get rid of the garment that saved my life? Even though I will probably never wear it again?

On a Saturday morning market in the south of Italy I pull a crochet blanket out of a pile of fabric. Bright coloured thread hocked together in some of the neighbouring villages, by someones grandmother. How could I not appreciate the craft and dedication in this shawl? Even though I would probably never wear it as such. A souvenir for the time I spent here.