Bye bye to swimming under frangipani blossoms, to lounging on batik cushions, to watching firefly reflections in rice paddies, to listening to otherwordly gamelan music drifting across the valley. Bye bye to a place of smiles, of unlocked doors, of omnipresent art, of omnipresent kitsch, of fragrance, of stench, of glimpses of... something.
Hello to eighteen hours in airplanes and twelve hours in airports. Hello to flying across the southern Indian Ocean (transindian? transindic?), passing over a point on the exact opposite side of the globe from Winnipeg (remember the old digging to China joke? It's not China.) Hello to Africa.
Correction and clarification:
Yesterday I accidentally damned Melissa Gilbert. It turns out that she's the beloved former child star of Little House On The Prairie, Diary Of Anne Frank and The Miracle Worker. Whoops. I meant to damn Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love.
And I don't "hate yoga". Far from it. In fact I like to think I do a damn fine tree. Nothing else mind you.
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