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  • The Art of Traveling with Words

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    This was originally published on my old blog BackpackBook (Livro de Mochila), a project that blended literature and travel, sometimes just traveling in my lucid dreams.

    The Art of Travel is basically the original backpacker’s book, maybe even the reason this project ever existed. New stories and places spark new ideas, simple as that.

    I still haven’t found the perfect words to describe certain emotions, maybe because I’m afraid of saying more than what’s already written on the book’s dust jacket. So, let’s switch gears for a moment before I let the book jacket do its thing. Don’t worry, I won’t make a habit of this.

    I stumbled upon this book at a time when traveling was starting to lose its magic. I had that false sense of expertise, like a new driver who hits 100 km/h for the first time and suddenly thinks he’s a Formula 1 pro. I figured past experiences were enough to make me a seasoned traveler, and just like that, trips started feeling more stressful than exciting.

    It took me a while to realize what was off. The first trips were so much more fun, but I was too busy micromanaging logistics, safety, time, costs, all that “practical” stuff, to see what was right in front of me. I had lost sight of what makes traveling special, the people, the cultures, the landscapes, the unexpected moments.

    Before I crashed completely, I found Alain de Botton’s The Art of Travel, lying next to me on the grass at UFSC, the university I never got into but still ended up living next to, more on that later. Like most self-help books, it didn’t exactly tell me anything new, but it reminded me of things I had forgotten. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.

    (Quick aside, back when I was applying to universities, those grassy areas at UFSC were my main motivation for getting in. Spoiler alert, I didn’t. But hey, I still get to enjoy the lawns, just on a slightly delayed student timeline.)

    At times, the book gets lost in its own philosophical rabbit holes, but for the most part, it nails the Livro de Mochila ethos. It helped me understand why my trips weren’t hitting the same anymore and taught me to pay more attention to the little joys along the way.

    “People rarely notice details. De Botton laments the blindness and rush of modern tourists, especially those bragging about covering all of Europe in a week by train. No amount of moving from place to place at 100 km/h will make us stronger, happier or wiser.”

    The Art of Travel, Alain de Botton

    So, if you do find yourself lost on a trip, don’t panic. Some of the best travel moments come from getting lost.

    I could go on, but I don’t want to keep you from planning your next vacation. I’ll let the book jacket take it from here:

    Book Jacket Blurb: Few things are as thrilling as the idea of traveling somewhere far away, to a place with a better climate, more interesting customs and scenery that fuels the imagination. So why do we often feel underwhelmed when we actually get there?

    In The Art of Travel, Alain de Botton, author of The Consolations of Philosophy, takes us on a journey through the highs and lows of traveling. From airports and exotic rugs to the rush of vacations and the existential crisis that comes with mini-bars, this humorous, insightful book explores the hidden motivations, expectations and disappointments of seeing the world.

    To guide us through this, De Botton brings in great thinkers and artists who were inspired by travel in all its forms, Flaubert, Edward Hopper, Baudelaire, Wordsworth, Van Gogh, Ruskin. They’re all here, ready to share their thoughts.

    Forget those travel guides that just tell you what to do. The Art of Travel is more interested in the why, why we crave new places, why we’re often disappointed and how we can actually enjoy the ride.

    “The joy we get from travel might have less to do with the destination itself and more with the mindset we bring. Openness could be considered its key ingredient. We approach new places with humility…”

    The Art of Travel, Alain de Botton

    Traveling with a Book in Your Backpack
    De Botton would love to tag along with you and The Art of Travel:

    • On a window seat, staring out as the plane glides toward the unknown.
    • In a dimly lit hostel room, trying not to wake your bunkmates.
    • Under a tree on a lazy Sunday morning, flipping through pages on the UFSC lawn.

    Wherever you take it, one thing is guaranteed, you’ll come back with a heavier suitcase.

  • The Backpack Book Author

    ,

    This was originally published on my old blog BackpackBook (Livro de Mochila), a project that blended literature and travel, sometimes just traveling in my lucid dreams.

    The Livro de Mochila (Backpack Book) project had been on my mind for a while, a way to share good books and great travels, but it only became real when time started feeling scarce and valuable. I didn’t let the opportunity pass me by. I saddled up.

    I had to. It’s not every day that you function on a few hours of sleep and somehow still manage to stay up late reading blog setup guides on a makeshift workstation in the kitchen. Temporary setup? Maybe. Maybe not.

    It was also a time when my impulse buying was at an all-time high. A lot of good money was spent on books I still haven’t gotten around to reading. Turns out, my ability to buy books is greater than my ability to read them. So, for now, I’m keeping a safe distance from bookstores.

    And the author?

    Not that it really matters, but this post is called “Author,” and so far, I haven’t actually said much on the subject.

    First, a little clarification. Whenever these posts use “we,” it’s really just me, for now. The idea is to give voice to anyone who agrees with what’s being said, even if that number is currently… limited.

    “We call ourselves,” Diego Dotta. Aspiring traveler, recent reader, and someone still navigating a world that’s unknown to many, but excited about how much there is to explore and respect.

    Personal Goal

    I’ll spare you a long-winded introduction. The whole point of this project is to share and encourage friends to embrace the joys of reading and traveling. If we aren’t friends yet, give it time.

    Carrying the words of my friend Richard, a specialist in parentheses-travel, Faust in my backpack, I can’t help but notice how little time people have for entertainment these days. Livro de Mochila was built for travelers who are shackled by their schedules, giving them a small taste of freedom, even if the next destination is just another day at the office.

    Because in the end, the journey matters more than the destination.

    And if this project doesn’t reach its intended goal? That’s fine too. What matters is the ride.

    See you out there, in the real world, or the virtual one.

  • Urban Trail

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    I never fit the “mountain man” stereotype, yet sprawling malls and mega‑cities don’t light me up either. Maybe that is proof none of us truly belong on this planet. We remodel the place to feel at home, then complain that home still feels off.

    That itch pushes us back toward the wild. We crave a splash of green to rinse out the concrete gray that keeps leaking into our eyes. Fresh air, some simple silence, maybe a quick health reboot. Sounds dreamy, right? So why not hop off the chair and hit a legit nature trail?

    Me – The Trail Tail
    My view

    Great idea, in theory. Trouble is, most folks (me included) stall out at step one. Lack of info, zero experience, or the haunting message from last time: “Dude, hurry up.” I am always dead last, squatting in the mud to photograph a random weed while everyone else is already sipping water at the finish.

    Truth is, I love the journey, not the destination. I don’t really cheer, ‘End of the trail, woohoo.’ The finish line is basically the starting gun for the ride back to regular life. The trip, though, belongs to each of us, brand new every sunrise.

    Anyway, before confirming my rookie status, I peeked at an actual dictionary.

    trail
    noun. a mark or a series of signs or objects left behind by the passage of someone or something.

    People are world champs at leaving traces, especially where we work, fight, or build homes. Since I can’t claim pro status on wilderness routes, why not test drive an urban trail instead? Zoom in on the quiet details, the ones tourists spot while locals sprint past.

    An urban trail, then.

    Sure, the air is not exactly pine‑fresh, and the concrete is still concrete. Yet wandering unfamiliar city blocks can feel oddly soothing. Weekends beg for tiny experiments. Swap the default coffee run for an urban loop. Traffic becomes background noise, obstacles morph into spice. It is all mindset. You are not commuting. You are on an adventure. Bonus: getting lost downtown sometimes reveals more trees than expected.

    Unexpected ‘Beach Party’ in a city far from the ocean – Belo Horizonte, Brazil
    Hidden path somewhere in South America

    That old line rings true. If you can’t beat it, merge with it. Urban growth gets framed as planetary doom, a concrete apocalypse. New towers sprout, streets flood, chaos ensues. Maybe if we study the beast the way we study forests, we can push for smarter decisions.

    I am not inventing anything here, just nudging myself (and whoever is game) to explore the place we already live, or at least tilt our perspective. Perfect for folks allergic to poison ivy, traumatized by spiders, or bored with standard hikes. Bring a camera. The urban jungle is full of cats and rats on the same team.

    Santiago – Chile
    Buenos Aires – Argentina

    If you still prefer dirt under your boots, no hard feelings. Check the mountain of tips my friends at Trilhas & Aventuras share. Infinite routes for every taste.

    I will stick around and occasionally draft urban itineraries. Pedestrian loops designed to uncover the hidden nature inside this stone forest, the angles we miss while rushing to meetings.

    Catch me on some random corner. I will probably still be last in line. 😄

  • Short Story: Sea of Stones

    “In the past Italy was way better,” Diva liked to grumble while stirring her espresso.
    “Back then my money was Italian, not European. What good is cash that works across the continent if I never leave this village?”

    Diva and her husband, Vittorio, live in a small town south of Naples. Both of them are half‑deaf and half‑forgetful. She still believes their youngest kids are at home, a win for any mamma, although they only drop by every other weekend. Accepting that your flock has flown is hard when memory keeps hitting the snooze button.

    She claims to be pushing eighty‑five and has battled insomnia for years. First she tried sleeping in the kids’ old room, convinced it was the smell of her fisherman husband that kept her awake. No luck. She decided bad sleep was just a membership perk of the senior club.

    The town doctor called it “restless leg syndrome” and said there was no cure. Maybe her head was the real issue. That diagnosis bothered her for about two weeks, then she forgot the appointment ever happened.

    During those sleepless nights she roamed the shore in a wool cardigan she knitted decades ago, shuffling over the gritty, pebble‑heavy sand. She would perch on a giant rock, toes in the water, letting the waves rock her feet. Wind traced the lines on her face, water sloshed over her round little toes, and she realized she had spent a lifetime walking into the wind without moving an inch.

    Vittorio had spent years fishing the dark Tyrrhenian Sea, the locals’ Gran Triangolo. Diva had never put a toe on a boat and feared the sea’s appetite. Whenever neighbors invited her to sail she waved them off.
    “Maybe one day, not today.”
    Leaving town felt illegal to her. Where you are born is where you clock out, full stop.

    On those midnight walks she noticed her rock had never budged since childhood. Against endless water, that stubborn chunk stayed put. Her routine felt just as fixed, though her legs and mind itched more each night.

    One dawn the horizon turned charcoal and thunder grumbled. Rain was on the way. She remembered an old saying: when it rains the politicians are stealing, better shut the windows on storms and thieves. She started for home, then stopped.

    “I will be like this rock,” she told herself. “Stubborn, solid. If my feet and wrinkles can handle water and wind, rain will have to deal with me.”

    The sky darkened, the sea shifted color, the horizon vanished. A sane person would have bolted. Diva stood her ground. She smelled rain in the thick air as the tide crawled up around the rock. She could still wade back, but she pictured the rock as her first boat and hoped it would not decide to move.

    “If it holds, I hold,” she whispered, knees jittery.

    Eyes shut, she braced for the first drop. Wind cooled the sweat on her back.
    “I am done fighting the wind of my own dreams,” she thought.

    The first drop landed between her lips. Salt. Sea spray. The storm was flexing. One single taste was enough. She peeled off the cardigan, flung it into the waves and yelled, “I will never step into that sea, not today, not tomorrow. It won’t beat me. I will stare it down every day I have left.”

    The sea answered with silence, so she kept ranting.
    “I am an old woman, stubborn and tough like this stone, but I have choices. I choose to stop meeting the sea on this spot. I will chase it wherever it hides. I will use the sun, the rain, and my own dreams as fuel. I do not know the sea’s size and it sure does not know mine.”

    The cloud burst never hit the beach, faded before landfall. One drop had charged her up; imagine a full tempest.

    Her cardigan drifted off on the current. She watched it go, eyes tracking the far edge of the shoreline. She wanted to walk until it disappeared, but her fired‑up dreams had stronger legs than her body.

    Wishing for wings, she remembered Vittorio’s rust‑green Cinquecento parked at home. More rust than green, really. She hustled back, heart thumping.

    Vittorio was up making coffee.
    “I dreamed of you on a tough little boat,” he said.
    “Where are the car keys?” she asked.
    “In the car. Did you forget something?”
    “Yes. Living. I finally lost my fear of the sea. Your dream nailed it, I am going sailing.”

    He beamed. “My stubborn wife, at last.”

    She shot the espresso, stuffed a bag, and headed out.
    “I am the captain of my boat now,” she told him.
    “Need help?” he half‑heard.
    “No. This one is on me.”
    “Lunch is on me then. I will be waiting.”

    She could not promise anything. Unsure where the road would end, she slipped behind the wheel. The little engine coughed to life, thunder on four cylinders. For the first time she felt the wind at her back.

    Health, cash, and time were running low, but she had never stripped off society’s chains with such glee. That day she did not drive far, yet she never lost sight of the water. By week’s end she reached the heel of Italy, lands and seas she had only heard in gossip.

    She met Italians living lives just like hers, yet speaking in accents that felt foreign. They told her about other seas, seas inside seas, and oceans that made her Tyrrhenian look like a kiddie pool.

    Her dreams ballooned. Gran Triangolo shrank. Diva eyed the warm Ionian Sea, the clear Adriatic, hugged most of the Italian coastline, and sensed she was still only skimming the real Mediterranean.

    One night up north her restless legs finally eased, and loneliness slipped in. She turned back for Vittorio’s promised lunch. Always the coast road. At the house she found silence. No coffee smell, no fisherman waiting.

    Facing absence hurt worse than facing surf. At sea she faced herself, something she had dodged her whole life.

    The sky clamped shut. She walked to the beach. The old rock sat exactly where she left it. She climbed up, looked at the sea she swore never to face from that spot, and let herself be as still as the stone. Then, satisfied, she looked inward one last time.

    The rock stayed put, unbothered, exactly as before.

  • Graduation

    I wish I had written more about my experience during college. I felt like I only really saw the value of it at the end. I think I wasn’t mature enough to take it seriously. I joined when I was 17, and now I’m 20, which is still very young. Or maybe I’m a bit delayed in my biological and mental development. :/

    Well, I think the best things I learned were how to work with people, respect different opinions, and build something together. It was quite a challenge.

    Would I do it again? Well, I think it was too long, I wish I had some other life experiences instead, traveling, working in different areas.

    Regarding the design field, while studying, I have never really worked at agencies focused solely on design or advertising. From the beginning, I have always been more interested and excited about the entire range of tech challenges, from design to coding, especially educational and game projects. These started as internships and evolved into full-time jobs.

    All in all, I’m glad I didn’t study Computer Science. Some of my friends did, and from what they’ve shared, I don’t think I would have fit in very well.