Once, when I was sitting on an lakefront walk in Macedonia enduring the tail end of a rakia hangover in the spring cold, an old man hopped the curb from the street to the path on a tiny motorcycle, barely more than a dirt bike, and drove to the end of the public dock. There were two milk crates straddling the rear wheel, covered with plastic sheeting and full of gear: a sleeping bag, a jacket, some empty water bottles. At the end of the dock he pulled out a map. He marked it with a pen, got out his camera and took a picture of the lake. Then he turned around on his bike and took a picture of the lake with his face in the foreground. I tried to imagine what sort of trip he was on. What checkpoint did this stop fulfill? He was old, probably in his seventies. The embankment was empty, save for me watching him on his bike struggling with his camera. He eventually turned his bike around and puttered over to me. I took his picture at the end of dock, him grinning and holding his bike upright in the wind. He thanked me. I wanted to yell as he rode away and tell him how magnificent he was. Back at the hostel I found this quote from Dante in a Paul Theroux book about train lines: "nothing- not fondness for my son, nor piety for my father, nor love for my wife- could dampen my ardor for experiencing the wider world and human vice and courage." My hangover started to subside. The main thing, when you're travelling (or hungover) is always to keep moving.