Plane hits the ground and I can already feel the all night street vendors, the bustling suits, massage parlors, disgruntled shop tenders, beautiful faces, fey boys, Indian touts hawking cheap rooms, over-priced apparel stores, all welcoming me, despising me, ripping me off, imploring, ignoring, telling me I’m Home.
Wasteiner tastes like blood; shop-owner probably German. Mouth still burns from the boiled lobster cakes, cooked again in a thick, reddish brown broth, probably older than time.
Nowhere like Asia. Nowhere that can keep my attention, baffle me, frustrate me, entice me like Asia. It’s good to be home.