The thing I like most about traveling

The thing I like most about traveling

It’s how you can become a person who talks to strangers on a whim. No one knows you. No one knows you’re shy. A wallflower. No one knows that yesterday, before you got on the plane, you sat around kicking yourself for being worthless, for not having an original thought in your head. A new environment slices that part of you clean off. And this fresh you, this you in a foreign place with unaccustomed customs and unknown food, with nice locals and cranky locals and locals who can tell straightaway that you, you dear, are no local, this fresh you is a Hoover. A 120-volt, multi-cyclonic, double-brush roller Hoover, and you are sucking up every last crumb you see out of every corner of your eye. That river. Where does it lead? Why are there palm leaf baskets on the ground? Tell me about them. I’ve never heard of that spice before. What is it?

See, ask, learn. 
See, ask, learn. 
See, ask, learn. 

When you travel, that fresh you — the Hoover, sucking up every last crumb you see — delights in everything, and wants for nothing.

On creating, cloning, and writer’s block

On creating, cloning, and writer’s block

A few words on traveling and returning home

A few words on traveling and returning home