What a weird story this is. We can put it down to imagination. This one makes me want to visit Monfeld, and look inside the boxes.
Not that I would ever visit Monfeld.
As always if you have any questions, please post below, and I am happy to pass these on.
We never used a travel agency. That was for people who took on bigger holidays than we did. Japan, Barbados, America, that kind of thing.
But that does not stop you from looking at the photos in the window. All those pictures of tropical islands and perfect azure swimming pools. Freezing mountains framed by the Northern Lights. So visible, and yet so far away. All the money and time was an impossible key to the door.
It sounds lame, but that was one of the reasons I went to Monfeld. I wanted to see what it would be like to order a proper holiday.
The first thing I noticed was that hot, zoo smell. Something far too fresh for the cold dust of an abandoned shopping centre. Any signage for the travel agency was long gone, and although the desk was still in place, a line of boxes stood where the chair should have been. All were large and wooden, like something loaded onto a ship in a kids cartoon. A plastic wallet containing faded paper clung to each one.
At first I thought a bird had flown in, and died on top of the boxes. But the dessicated wings were far too big, the feathers far too scarlet. This was like the mummified corpse of the world’s biggest housefly.
The worst part was that the box on the end was open. This revealed what was inside.
You might think it was a human. The face was so battered and grey, like an old exhibit at a museum. But the arms were so so long, the teeth so sharp. And perhaps the chest rose and fell just the tiniest bit.
There were so many other boxes in there. That was the horrible thing.
Perhaps it is better not to travel. Perhaps it is better to stay at home.
