Nithin and I

You can curse your fate and fight against destiny, but sometimes, when you least expect it, the divine conspires and offers you a treat or two, tantalizing you to believe in something bigger than yourself again. Synchronicity works its way to provide you the perfect timing to make certain decisions under some pretty doubtful circumstances but alas, to reap the rewards, patience is absolutely vital.

Outside the Apple Store at the Galleria Mall, I am pacing. I look at my watch every now and then and sigh. They are so late, I mutter. I open my book and read the eight page of Napoleon Hill’s Think & Grow Rich, but I couldn’t concentrate. When restlessness kicks in, I close my book, turn and see a familiar figure that I once used to trade travel and writing tips over a couple of milky hot teas.

“Hello,” he says, his face breaking into a big grin. “It’s so weird to see you. But I swear you were much taller before.”

Two and a half years ago, Nithin, an American Couchsurfer, and I were frequently caught engaged in heated pseudo-intellectual debates, under the umbrellas of street food stalls in Kuala Lumpur. He was part of the rising Couchsurfing cult that comprised of my crazy but well-travelled Malaysian friend, Ed, the Dutch who never quite made it to New Zealand ever since he stepped foot in Malaysia, Stef, fun loving Philadelphia, Matt, and yours truly. We met and said our goodbyes at different corners of South East Asia and did it so many times that I really didn’t remember when was it really the ‘last goodbye’. Our friendship has seen us through various misadventures in Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia.

Since then, we have always kept in touch. An email every 6 months was pretty common. Last winter, he expressed desire to travel Europe again and asked me if I would still be in London. I shook my head no since by that time, I was expected back on the ship. And then, his plans fell through. This year, he sent me another email asking the same thing but unfortunately, for the very same reasons, I sadly shook my head no. But interestingly, he later wrote to tell me that his girlfriend and him would be doing a road trip to Miami before his planned trip to Europe. And what do you know, I happen to be on a ship that docks at Fort Lauderdale every weekend, which is just a 45-minutes train ride from Miami!
Who would have thought that of all the places, South Florida is the place where we’d see each other again?

Despite the wind and the cold, it was still a nice afternoon. Nithin introduced me to his very friendly girlfriend, who also seem to share his love for literature and travel. We reminisced about the past, reflected about the present and shared our anticipation for the future. I felt myself talking faster than usually, occasionally stumbling on long words, trying to say as much as possible during our brief time together. It was so heartening to connect with another like-minded, what more with one who’s an old friend of yours.

I love serendipitous encounters like this! I know it was a pre-conceived plan but I definitely didn’t choose to be in Fort Lauderdale to see him and neither did he plan to come to Miami to see me either. He and his girlfriend bought the tickets way before they knew that I was going to be there.

Sometimes, life can be quite sweet after all.

PS-Thanks for the book too, Nithin!

After a quick lunch at the ship’s only buffet restaurant (several people have privileges to eat there, including me) I went out to the external decks at Deck 9 to indulge in the panoramic vista of Ochos Rios, Jamaica. It did not disappoint; in fact, it was staggeringly beautiful. In contrast to the shallow pristine waters and gleaming, white sand, dark green mountains jagged behind them. The roads were fringed by tropical trees with large leaves, providing ample shade for anyone who decide to walk. The beach stretched out miles and miles with waters of varying shades of blue.
I contemplated if I should go out. The ship would only be docking there from 12pm to 6pm and I wasn’t too keen to walk out alone. I could already see clusters of mini busses and taxis that guarded the terminal’s gate like vultures waiting to prey. Yet, I didn’t want to stay indoors and pass up on such a beautiful place. My traveller’s instincts kicked in and urged me to ‘check it’ out. Who knows what kind of adventures I might get into? Other than Bob Marley, the infamous yellow, green and white colour anthem and rum, I don’t know anything else about Jamaica or Jamaicans.
Jamaica is one of the most beautiful and culturally rich islands in the world, according to the brochure that I took before leaving the gangway. The third largest island in the Carribean, it is 146 miles long and 51 miles wide. Ochos Rios is supposedly to be the point where eight rivers converge and one of the most natural attractions around the area is Dunn’s River Falls, where you can climb up and bathe in the cascading waters that falls drop 600 feet over their course.
If I were to have time and a group of people with me, I’d definitely have explored the emerald rain forests and its stunning mountainside ride through gorge filled with incredible giant ferns in Fern Valley. One of the insistent taxi drivers told me that he could take me to the waterfalls for 60 USD. No, thank you, sir.
It was a nice day to walk and my mission was to find a beach where I could sit and relax with a book. I spied one that was only about a mile away so I excitedly walked towards where I thought was the start of St. Ann’s Bay, waving away irritating taxi drivers and cat-calling Jamaican man.
But alas, it turned out that it was a closed beach that was owned by some shopping mall. Shop, chill, swim and relax, says the Island Village billboard. Free admission, it boasted yet I don’t know if I like the idea of walking through endless duty-free shops that all seem to sell the same merchandise for about the same approximate price as everywhere else before I get to the tiny strip of water and sand. The place was done up tastefully with shops built into wooden elevated shacks across the sand but I just wasn’t ready to relax at a commercial paradise.
I decided to continue walk to downtown. At some point, the hoards of tourists seem to fade away….and they are replaced by locals in the most colourful apparel, doing last minute shopping in dingy little shops. Shops are tiny and quaint, arranged in a haphazard manner but spilling over with people. Loud music blared. Between local toy shops, a colonial looking Post Office and bars, there were also Baskin Robbins, Hard Rock Café, Burger King and McDonalds to put tourists at ease.
“Lookie, lookie, miss? You want taxi?” A dark, wizened man in a white flannel shirt asked. He grinned as he snapped his fingers at me.
I shook my head no and he leaned close, “Boy friend? Sexy man, you want?”
Laughing, I walked away into the throngs of people.

Then, I suddenly bumped into Fulvio, the Chief Children Animator whom I’ve previously worked alongside with in my previous contract. Boy, was I happy to bump into a familiar face. Fulvio might not be the best friend of earth but we do share a penchant for travelling and exploring together.
“Have you had a Red Stripe yet?” he asked. Nope, what’s that?
Noting my ignorance, he pulled me to a small street bar where smell of fried chicken filled the air. Soon, I found out that this infamous Red Stripe Jamaican lager is clearly not the favourite amongst locals because it was freaking 3USD each! Nonetheless, the air was filled with festivity and I decided not to worry about the price.
As Fulvio bought the first round of beers, we decided to go somewhere else for the next.
We found another open bar at the Taj Mahal shopping area which seemed to be full of people. A seemingly stoned young guy with long dreadlocks offered his table to us. He went away and came back with two bottles of Red Stripe for us. “Drink up! And don’t forget, to fulljoy! You can’t end joy, so you shouldn’t say enjoy…so drink, Merry Christmas and FULLJOY!” Can’t argue with his wisdom so we drank. The sweet lager moistened our throats and minds, as we chatted animatedly. Then, Giuseppe, one of the Receptionists walked past the bar that we were sitting at. I didn’t know him that well but Fulvio seemed to when he shouted and waved to him. I made a hand motion for Giuseppe to join us…as I could see that he was already in doing what we were. In his hand, was a bottle of Red Stripe that’s half-full. After he finished that, we called for another round of beers. Then, two engineers that Fulvio and I recognized walked past. They too joined the merry party.
Just before we left the bar, I noticed a sign that said, “Don’t drink and drive. You may spill your drink.”
The wisdom of Jamaicans have absolutely made my day.

From Safaga to Luxor

I had listened to the ancient whispers of the land,
And watched the sun rose and set upon the sands….
The wind had breathed to me the secrets of life..
As I crossed and wandered through the chambers, monuments and tombs,
I imagined the ancient civilisation that was once at its zenith,
Upon the same rocks and alabaster….

…

I don’t think I’m drop-dead gorgeous but I don’t think I look that bad either. Surely a quasi-cute, single and available twenty-year old something would be able to secure herself a nice, interesting chap-not just for the cuddles and kisses with but also for good company. I don’t need it, am really not desperate but sometimes, it’s nice to spend time with another like-minded from the opposite sex, no?
Okay, fine, I’m a little neurotic, overtly verbose, laughs like a hyena, not smart enough, too tiny and too schoolgirl looking compared to the Mediterranean goddesses of the Front Desk (Reception) onboard but still …..

“I haven’t had much practice with flirting. Smiling and having a light banter with wicked innuendoes inserted haven’t been much of my current activity despite the fact that the ship is filled to brim with very hot, European men. The Italians especially has such exquisite features, complete with honeyed skins, long eyelashes, dark curls and gleaming champagne-coloured or azure blue eyes.
But, as I don’t speak enough Italian, the only time their eyes crinkled with mirth and amusement is when they’re laughing at me-not with me. My bad command of the Italian language usually summons hack throaty, unstoppable peals of laughter from the male species and I usually end up looking quite stupid-like a confused blonde, caught in action. If that’s not it, it’s usually because they’re not interested in a banter in the first place. Their sense of humour is terrible and they either take things too seriously. If not, they are not listening in the first place or their jokes usually involve putting another person down. What they’re really interested in, is to seduce me with their over-keened eyes, pour more wine into my glass so that when I’m sufficiently drunk, they can bonk me senseless. In some ways it feels like I’m transported back into college, where boys couldn’t hang on to a conversation or couldn’t even surrender to just a good banter, due to urgent, animalistic, raging hormones.

Whatever happened to witty conversation that helps fuel eroticism? Obviously most Italians (onboard of the MV CE) are not introduced to that. Perhaps they don’t need it. All they need to do is look good, offer someone a Colgate smile, batt their eyes (yes, the men), give a wink and then girls would just melt.

The Italian Casanovas

So, they’re usually put off by me or just plain confused, whenever I smile and give them a huge slap on the back, like a fellow mate in a pub, whenever they inch too close or they started to slip in sexual physical innuendos. Yes, they can be very good looking but I can’t stand boredom. In other words, they’re as dull as ditch water. Yawn.

So come one fine Mauritius night, where the usual gang and I were hanging out in Les Enfant Terribles, a less kitschy club compared to Buddha Bar, Roberto, in his drunken stupor said to me: “Ying, I don’t understand, why you don’t have a man? No man on boat good for you?”

Roby and Moreno-my two best friends who couldn’t understand why I like being single onboard

I chided him in my lousy Italian, “Haven’t we been through this before? The men on the ship are not interesting, are bastards and they break my balls! How boring! You understand?”

“Yes, I know. You are our principessa (princess) and you got high standards. No, just for sex, you know. Not be your marito (husband). You cannot find any?”

” Ma, si! They’re so ultimately boring that it won’t even lead to a one night stand! It’s better to sleep than to be with them.”

Roberto nodded sagely, as if he understood. And to change the subject, he decided to get me to buy him some beers and a burger. He said his English is not good enough to order anything. I gave him a murderous look but he gave me a drunken smile and I knew it was hopeless.

So I went to perch at the hamburger stand and tried to order a burger to Roberto but amongst the other tall clubbers, I slipped into oblivion. So, I waited for the crowd to clear. Two Mauritius Chinese boys (yes, they look like college kids) started to speak to me in Creole but I said I’m not local and I’d appreciate it if they could speak to me in English. They asked me about my ‘vacation’ and whether I liked Mauritius. I told them yes but it’s unfortunate that everything is so expensive. One of them told me that we’re probably ripped off but there’s nothing I can do since I don’t speak Creole and can’t pretend that I’m a local. A foreigner who was at another end of the burger stall, who seemed to be eavesdropping, suddenly guffawed to himself. Curious, I shouted over the din, “What are you laughing at?”

“Well, you’re the second person that I hear, who’s speaking American. There’s one at the dance floor but he’s a jerk. But of course, I don’t mean you. Hi, I’m Alex. From Manchester.”

“Right. Is that what you do at burger stands? Listening to people’s conversations?”

“No, but I couldn’t help myself. So what are you doing here? You’re probably here for a night and then you retire back to your luxurious hotel suite after that?” he mocked.

“Kind of. I’m here for a day and then I return back to the ship.” That elicited a surprised look from him.

45 minutes later, we were still talking and teasing another. I soon found out that Alex is half-Italian, half-English and he works with the United Nations in Mauritius. But half of the time, we were just talking shit about being on the ship, pirates and political rebellion, and his job. It was absolutely refreshing to be speaking at a pace that someone else could keep up with, laugh like a hyena again and be cheeky. I don’t know if we were flirting but we definitely had a great conversation, without the help of alcohol. We just went on and on; it was someone had just turned on the taps in our mouths. Just then, my colleagues would come over to pinch my cheeks, sling their hand over my shoulders, and try to butt into our conversation.

However, it soon became time to go back. The taxi driver that we hired was already calling out, reminding us of the time. It was a shame but we had to stop talking. Unfortunately, it’s get contact numbers and in the end, I just casually said that I’ll see him again at the same bar on the 28th Feb. Whether or not he or I will show up will a story for another day.

I’m going to tell you a sob story about our night out in Reunion Island….

Sometimes, I hate it when Roberto gets all negative. He’s one of my closer mates on the ship, one that I’d wine and dine with, one I’d scream curses at unabashedly and not feel guilty about it, one that I’d tell my secrets to and I love him to death but he can be such a downer when it comes to planning outings. It doesn’t help that he’s Italian and that he belongs to my father’s generation. Of course, he’s way better than dad but he still is unable to shake off the wisdom and caution that all mature people possess instinctively.

We were discussing over dinner about our plans to go out in Reunion Island. The problem with having musicians as friends is they can never go out of the ship any earlier than 12.30 am because they have to work until then. According to Fernando, the printer, St Dennis and St Giles have excellent night life. There are rows and rows of bars and pubs to choose from. Sounds fun. But the downside is, it will cost us at least 24 Euros for a two-way cab. Another downside that we anticipated is that maybe there wouldn’t be any taxis at that time of the day. But I fought for optimism and asked the group to be positive. Let’s just meet at a certain time and just go and see what happens. Roberto and Claudio agreed but with utmost reluctance.

At approximately, 12.30 am Giancarlo(GC), the production manager, came by and told me that we should walk out and check out the situation. After all, Moreno only finishes at 1am so that gives us plenty of time to haggle with the cab driver and then go back to pick the rest up. So Giancarlo and I took a walk….a very long walk…to the gates of the ship terminal, just to find out that it’s locked and the place completely desserted. Being Giancarlo, a go-getter and a die-hard party animal, he went into a Think Hard mode. We couldn’t believe our rotten luck. Roberto’s suspicions were confirmed. So how are we going to go back and face them?

Eventually, GC and I walked back to the ship and waited for the guys at the gangway outside. 5 minutes, no Roberto and Company. 15 minutes, no Roberto and Company. 20 minutes later, a trickle of people came out but they’re not Roberto and Company. They are the Engineer Officers and Animators. So not our group. Yet as GC and I got tired of waiting for Robby and gang, we decided that we should go anyway. We were told that there’s another exit but it’s at least 25 minutes walk away. We thought we would try-together.
So the Engineers, the Animators, GC and I attempted the long pilgrimage towards to other Exit. To cut the long story short, when we got to the other Exit, there were no Cabs. We got the Security to get us a cab but a long 30 minutes wait made us turn back to the ship. If that’s not bad luck, I don’t know what is. Thank goodness there’s a pretty cute looking Engineer that I’ve got a schoolgirl crush on, who was part of the company and that it all worthwhile. *giggles

We then went to the Bosum Store where they celebrated the Bosum’s final days before he leaves for Italy. We had some Sangria and danced to some Latin Music.

At 2.30 am, I left the Party and saw Luca, the TV Director, at the corridor. He told me that he climbed over the gates (really huge ones!) and managed to hitch-hike to St Giles– just to find out that every bar there was closed.

Drat.

My colleague and I, hanging out while waiting for a cab

It’s always a night of debauchery when the ship docks for the night in Mauritius. Being deprived as we were, we’d all chip in money to pay for a cab that takes us to a strip of bars and clubs, near Grand Baie Beach. It usually costs us about 10-12 Euros per person, to and fro.

On good nights, blankets of stars would dot the sky. I’ve never seen so many stars before…it seems like every constellation in the galaxy is out there, twinkling and winking, trying to show us our destinies. I usually get a good amount of star gazing as the journey from the port to the club takes about 45 minutes.

The usual hangout joint would be Buddha Bar, a ludicrous club that plays bad electronic music, filled with women dancing on podiums, sleazy man, prostitutes, foreigners, locals and the crew of our ship. Local beers cost about 3 Euros. According to Simon, that bar belongs to some Belgian Flemish dudes. He pointed out the owners to me, two fat white men, sweating profusely in the humidity and heat.

The club isn’t amazing but the crew make do with what they have. Somehow, everyone ends up there and it’s nauseating. On one hand, the familiar feeling of seeing and dancing with the people you know gives you a warm fuzz but on another, you feel like you’re dancing back on the ship, only with a different setting.

Camilla, the children animator and I in Buddha Bar

I’ve seen lecherous men eyeing me quizzically, trying to guess if I was a prostitute, a local or a foreigner. My ‘exotic’ Oriental looks, combined with my black top and white shorts, confused them. My company of friends tells them I’m a foreigner but me hanging out with the old dudes (some of my friends are pretty old) may give them the idea that they’re my sugar daddies or something like that.

That night, everyone, including the crew, would try to score. It doesn’t matter if they’d come with their partners or lonely and desperate- after large quantities of beer, everyone’s single and available. It’s a night where no one will remember the next morning, so might as well indulge your inner most desires. It’ll all be forgotten when you step into the confines of the ship. Such liberty gives me a flutter in my stomach, knowing that you can get away with anything but I usually stay out of trouble. I do go around, searching for a piece of decent conversation but no one wants to talk. Men just wants to leer and grope. For that, I return to my group of male friends where I’m their teacher, best friend and princess-and hence, am protected and safe. But when my friends get too drunk and want some piece of action (with someone else!), I’d cross over to the food vendors opposite the road and get myself a nice hotdog or hot kebab. I’d sit on one of the stools, by the dusty road, and chomp on my food contentedly. At 3 am, such snacks are heaven sent!

This too, will pass.

Finally, after a month long of being stuck in a situation that I lack courage to change, nature took its course, and removed the thorn that had pierced me. Of course, if I were stronger and more mindful about my situation, I could have easily removed the thorn myself. After all, life situations only become problems when your mind makes it so. Your ego personalizes it and your sense of self is reinforced through the pain and misery of it.

“There is no salvation in time. You cannot be free in the future. Presence is the key to freedom, so you can only be free now.”

I can’t believe I’ve waited this long for the thorn to be removed. I’ve had good advice from those who cared, that I should take the responsibility to make myself happy but instead, I rather suffer in grief, unease and anxiety.

Anyway, the past is the past. The past can no longer hurt me, unless I let it. I am now feeling much better. In fact, I perennially feel a sense of calm and presence. There are of course some events and people that ruffle me but I let it go. I try not to hold on to it.

***

I finally dared to sign up for the excursions offered on my ship. I don’t know why I never wanted to do it, since it’s free for crew. Besides, I’ve always been complaining about having too much free time. So on one random day, I decided to sign up for it and one of them took place today. It was a hiking cum swimming excursion in Nosy Sakatia, Madagascar.

At this point of writing, I’m still reeling from the excitement and admiration at one of nature’s finest landscapes….but a month ago, I took it for granted that Madagascar was like every other country. This must be the disease that plagues everyone working onboard. We assume that since we’ve managed to get ourselves to these countries for free, we don’t have to get all excited about the places we go to. We complain about the lack of internet access and the lack of convenience, the heat and the humidity, the poverty and the aggressiveness of the citizens and a whole lot more. Yet when I was on the excursion on my own (with other passengers), it felt so different.

For the first time I felt, HELL, I’M IN MADAGASCAR! The sparkling green waters are just as magical as the ones in Seychelles. The villages, sparse, small yet incomparably lovely, reminded me of the shacks in Myanmar. People don’t have much yet they find somehow find a way to live their lives in dignity. The Malagasy tour guide, Herve, was merely a young chap who’s still doing his third year in university. He’s paid 15 Euros for every excursion that he goes on. He spoke English with a heavy Creole accent but his intensity, patience and humourous way of delivering information won us over. We spoke a bit while we were relaxing on the beach.

He thought highly about my job and said wistfully that he too wished that he could travel like I do. It’s his dream to go to a university in Europe and then continue to work there. He frowned a little when he heard that I’ve been away from Malaysia for quite sometime.

“Don’t you miss home? Don’t you want to see your family?” he asked.

Such questions are far too common and people are usually puzzled when I just shrug in response. How am I supposed to answer such a question? How can I tell them that I feel ambivalent? Home, my heart would scoff, where is it, anyway? My family is not my anchor, like everybody else. I’m not sure if its due to my mom’s demise or that my dad remarried but since 18, I no longer felt that I could rely on the family entity. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing but respect and love for them yet I feel no sense of attachment. I don’t know if this is normal but I don’t feel like I’ve to live with them in order to prove that I’m a filial daughter. I know that they can take care of themselves perfectly and vice-versa. My dad, like every other dad, is probably worrying sick about me traversing the world yet he has a life that he gets on with…and probably understands by now that I do too.

***

Latest Report: The ship was unable to dock at Tamatave, Madagascar due to the rising rebellion that’s going on in the capital city. Instead, we’ll have an additional day in Mauritius. I guess our itinerary has brought us endless intrigue and excitement-from pirates to political rebellion, I wonder what’s next.

It was another sunny day in Mombasa and as usual, outside the port, it’s bustling with peddlers selling their wares and taxi drivers shouting out deals to take you around the city or to the beach. I look at the entire scene with anticipation, hoping to embark on another adventure but alas, warned by my colleagues, it’s too dangerous to go out alone.

The last time when I went out with my musician friends, they found a young local girl who could speak Italian fluently. Dressed in bright garish red spaghetti strapped top, she could easily be mistaken as a prostitute but she wasn’t. She offered to take the 4 of us in one car to the closest beach and my Italian friends weren’t to say no to add layers of tan to their already dark olive skins. However, instead of the public beach, she took us to a private beach resort and told us that we can enjoy the beach in front of it. The beach was a disappointment as it was filled with algae and shallow waters. After swimming in the pristine beaches of Seychelles, every other beach fails in comparison. We spent that afternoon by drinking lots of beer and eating sandwiches at the beach resort’s pool.

Today, my friends chose to use the ship’s pool instead of going out. They said it’s not worth it. As for me, I still long to explore the fringes of Mombasa but there’s no one to share a cab or to take a walk with. The African sun blazed above as I sip my freshly squeezed orange juice by the pool, in my uniform and watch my colleagues prance around in their bathing costumes. Just the silliness of it all confounds me. The fact that we’re in Mombasa, Kenya has no relevance to them. All they want is to be a tourist, drink margaritas, and suntan. No, they’re not all that bad but still, nothing can convince them to take the road less taken. What about learning about the way Kenyans live, their daily routines, what makes them tick? Instead, they’re afraid, they can’t be bothered, and they’re dispassionate.

Yet another uninteresting day. Pffftttt.

I had never felt so frightened, desperate and frustrated in my life.

After I updated my blog in an Internet café in Barcelona, I went out to find my way back. As previously shown by a waiter who served me in a café, I walked the path that I thought would lead me out of La Ramblas and into the pier. But as I kept walking, I felt like I was walking into the heart of Barcelona instead of out of it. More markets, artists and shops littered along sight, tempting me with their dazzling display of Spanish goodies and artwork but all I could think at that time was how the fuck do I get out of here.

I was supposed to be back by 6pm and it was already 5. I know the meeting point wasn’t too far away but one wrong turn could lead me into nowhere. My heart pounded and my thoughts thud furiously. Think, think, think. I had no contact number, nothing. If I get back late, the ship will leave without me and I’ll automatically be disembarked. Being trapped in a foreign country without a passport and losing my job are both prospects that I didn’t look forward to.
Eventually, I turned to the closest person next to me and started to ask for directions. I may take pride in my poor Italian but I am a complete retard in Spanish. I tried to tell him that I was looking for the port but he only got more confused. And then, I remembered I took some pictures when I first got out of the shuttle bus. It was of a really interesting and probably important monument nearby. I showed the picture to him and his eyes flickered with recognition. He pointed to the opposite side of La Ramblas and told me to walked till the end of it.

I was aghast. La Rambla is freaking a few kilometers long…. I’d probably be late by the time I arrive at where I wanted to go. Nonetheless, left with no other choice, I walked. Kept walking. And I had to have faith in this guy’s directions. He had to be right.
Apparently, he was also going the same way. After a long walk, he assured me that it was the right way and I should just keep going until I see the monument.

10 minutes later, I arrived. My head cleared with glorious thoughts. As I walked closer towards the meeting point, I can see several company’s shuttle busses on one side of the road, waiting to take both the crew and passengers back into the ship terminal.

That was close!

Note to self: never to go off wandering if you’re prone to getting lost.
It’s not worth it.

Spent most of my time wandering along and around La Rambla..every alley seem to reveal something a little more….markets, galleries, architecture studios, museums…art spaces….a real beautiful place. Thick fog hung in the air…and the sunlight streaming through, it does look truly magical.

Have to find my way back now…am convinced that I’m quite lost.

Until then….tomorrow is Ajaccio or something like that. No idea where.

Lots of love,
Ying

PS-Musty, will get back to writing some profound answers to your very interesting questions….