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.
Queenstown’s aluminum roofs shrink to bread boxes, then postcards, as we gain height; at 4,500 feet, it’s a crumb-sized civilization clinging to Lake Wakatipu’s eastern shore…
Hand unsteady from this height – or maybe, influenced by a bottle of London Gin (shared, not entirely self-consumed) – I struggled to frame our view…
How brilliant would the calendar be if we considered every year an achievement to celebrate, and not just an acknowledgement of impending wrinkles?
From behind their wire fences on the fields of Lindisfarne, sheep resemble a hug on four legs. They seem to grow out of the English soil as commonly as hairgrass. […]
Too Mutch For Words 