Somewhere there is a pair of Dutch backpackers who spit their words out in ugly, throat-clearing sounds spiced with English swear words, and I hope their destination is a filthy, uncomfortable place where they might come to their senses and feast on the kindness of strangers no more. For a brief period of days in Costa Rica the back of their sun-bleached heads seemed to be always in front of me, no matter where I went. They spoke of drugs, parties, and the vaginal qualities of recent sexual conquests without regard for volume; it took all of my self-control to let it all roll off me as I walked by on my way to the bathroom at midnight, or waited behind them to get food from the refrigerator in the morning, or any of the myriad random places I found them when I least wanted to.
This is not a pleasant memory that I wish to return to, so instead there are other destinations we should discuss.
Like remembering the wonderful, soft warmth as I ran my fingers over a girl’s thigh en route to her underwear, or
the place where I slept in Africa out in the open, under stars so tremendous and curved that the sky seemed endless, or
the space between preparation and performance, like the last breath before the opening whistle at a soccer game, or
the time on stage between the spotlight and the audience’s applause.
You know what I am speaking of.
It’s a feeling deep down in your stomach of swallowed tickles that spreads into a light, airy happiness after the fact.
This is the destination I am looking for.
I want
the euphoria of the unknown
combined with the comfort of waking and stretching like a cat,
nuzzling its head against your palm on the wooden front porch.
