In appearance, feet are inelegant and dowdy. Clompy. But here on the stone pathways of some Angkor Wat temple in Cambodia, they humbly ask for recognition. Graceful is their ability to dance, to walk, to wander…
Flying is fantasy, a journey through blue realms and unfathomable heights. Hyped up by another airplane coffee (my third or fourth, I can’t remember) and the pure magic of air travel, I’m already the most excited passenger to take a window seat on flight AA0139…
There’s a narrow second of calm between a wave’s ebb and flow; a brief opportunity to catch your breath or grab at drifting bikini ties. . .
So I focus on the water, watching algae hug the stacks of the entombed USS Arizona. Counting pink dancers – the delicate bob and bow of a thousand frangipani petals – cover the tragic scene in something beautiful . . .
This sense of extreme isolation turned individuals into family tribes. From one to five to twelve friends, assorted nationalities and various tattoos, we found ourselves playing games on the beach. Snorkeling, singing karaoke together. . .
Only Burma sends its ghosts after me, reminding me that even with an eternity to travel, I will never fully appreciate the place it is, nor understand the country it could be.
After three weeks of family vacation, we were bound to hit a grey point. Though no one ever wants to believe the break-in-routine-brightness of a vacation can dim, it’s inevitable.