When the car dashed out at the corner, a vast and stretchy country road, lined with rows of birches, unrolled before us. Our destination was located miles away in an empty land, where the Russian natural landscapes looked their best and the cuckoo birds had left their beautiful love songs, echoing and hovering, infinitely soothing this recovered autumn.
The sky here in Kaluga is so azure and low, with the floating clouds drawing close to the ground as if to kiss his departing lover. The lush forests afar by the river exhales fresh air for people, who rise so early in the morning to behold the wonder of the day-and-night alternation.
In his book "The Art of Travel", Alain de Botton, illuminated that deep inside one's subconsciousness, they are always so eager to travel. Not so much as to travel, but to leave the hometown, to throw themselves into a completely new and strange world, where they are completely isolated unknown existence to others, which may be the very primitive motive for people's traveling activities. After all, it's work written by a western writer, yet for me, a traditional Chinese, the feeling of homesickness, mixed with the intense autumn chillness, cruelly struck me from time to time. Unlike the usual aloofness, deeming myself as a vagrant, a roaming soul, now all these betrayed me only to unveil a fragile nude being, suffering the indifference and loneliness about me.