At the Parc National des Calanques, south of Marseilles, the four of us trekked through the stony mountainous landscape for about an hour until we arrived at the Mediterranean Sea. Pic/thinkstock

I imagine it is because in the continent I am currently in, where the sun rises by 5 am and sets only after 9 pm, that the days seem longer and more accommodating, that I feel as though I have fallen out of time, or that my conception of it has become more elastic. There must be some logic as to why it is so difficult to account for the vagueness of the memories that were only recently created. I ought to remember more, I was under the assumption that I would, and yet, I find otherwise. I understand now why the best travellers maintained written accounts, why captains of ships kept logs. Above all else, the written word is a form of measure in the absence of others. Having been guilty of not writing enough, not documenting enough, it is other devices I have to rely upon in order to track how much I have journeyed since just the last seven days. My Fitbit suggests I have walked more than two lakh footsteps since I got to Europe. But at this present moment, it has run out of battery and I have no immediate access to electricity. I know I am 6,481 kilometers away from home. I have access to this knowledge because last night, or this morning, when I went to bed at 3 am, I sent my closest friend, and otherwise travel companion, a pin to my location. He responded with a screenshot that reflected a landscape view of the terrain I was currently inhabiting with the figure enumerating the distance between us.