Disorientation Manual

• Ruth Aquinas: Hugo Motta’s first victory
• Nelson Motta: flying togas

Over the years, I have learned to adapt. I knew I had to leave well before the agreed times, anticipating the inevitable gaps. Then cell phones with GPS arrived. The maps adapted to the small screen, the routes became lines of light and I stopped getting lost. “In 200 meters, turn right.” I turn around obediently. “Stay straight for the next 300 meters. » And I am.

My life has become a little less complicated. But also much more boring. The miracle of technology has reduced the possibilities for astonishment. Losing myself was, in those ancient times, an exercise in the art of finding. I remember a little café I went to one winter morning in Amsterdam to warm up after an hour of drifting on the canals; sitting at one of the tables, I met an old Angolan friend. We hugged each other, shouting and laughing, to the scandal of the detained Dutch – and for a few moments I forgot about the cold.

Another time, after getting the wrong address, I went to the wrong party. I was so well received that it wasn’t until two hours later, when I asked about the birthday boy or girl, that I discovered the mistake. I didn’t leave anymore. I stayed there until dawn, listening to stories told to me by intimate strangers, then asking for advice, as if I were some kind of confessor or psychoanalyst.

• Cora Ronaï: Perfect Books Month

From time to time, when I visit a big city, I leave my cell phone at the hotel, choose a book and head off into the unknown with it. Losing myself is my last form of resistance. A brief insurrection against the dictatorship of the short trip and the guaranteed destination. I like to think that by getting lost, I slow the world down a little. I force him to wait for me. I’ll give you work. And, during this time, I restore to myself a certain essential archaism: a slight fear, a keen curiosity, an attention to detail. Everything becomes a signal again. It all comes back to the track. Everything speaks to me.

I carry romance like someone waving a rebel flag. Today’s world is divided between those who, in the streets and squares, hold a book in their hand and those who walk with their heads bent on a cell phone. Those looking at their cell phones – perhaps following a programmed route, “in 200 meters, turn right” – are almost always in a hurry. They don’t have time to talk. Those who own books are, as a rule, more available to share stories.

On public transport, people carrying books greet each other with a knowing smile: they recognize each other. These are people who have time, the most precious form of luxury.

GPS promises destinations; the book offers detours. One wants to take us to the right place; the other, towards all uncertain places. If I get lost enough – methodically, as elegantly as possible – maybe something good will find me. Until there I walk, guided by books and by that absent-minded trick we call chance.