the last book.

I want it to be the last book I read before departure. 

It is, you know, in many sense too heavy for me to carry abroad. But I'll bring One Hundred Years of Solitude with me and keep it close so that I could always revisit the little goldfishes, the fluttering yellow butterflies, the melancholic whores and the feverish town of Macondo wherever I go. 

Speaking of Macondo, my imagination of it comes very close to Trinidad in Cuba, which I'm heading to in a few weeks' time. The first instant I saw its pictures online I was certain the town resembled somewhere I knew. And it's Macondo, unmistakably Macondo, which is like a secret hometown of mine that never existed in time.