A modest return, & an ambivalent departure

I have too many stories to tell and not enough time. Time, my friends, is the greatest luxury--like sugar in WWII Europe. Or good coffee. There's just never enough.

A lot has happened since October.

I should write about the magical places that captured my imagination but then became commonplace; about the extraordinary men who captured my heart but remained elusive; about the unbelievable adventures that briefly hijacked my life but abandoned it for normality.

But I won't write about any of these things. Not yet, at least.

The past is powerful but the present is now. Tomorrow I will board a plane to India, where stories of new things will dominate these pages. When I return to Paris we can look to the past. But only then.

Now, a different kind of magic awaits.

The only relevant news from the past surrounds the planning--or lack thereof--of this adventure. The trip was supposed to happen differently. It was supposed to start in Delhi, feature the Taj Mahal in Agras and the tombs outside of Hinderabad, and include a sidekick (or maybe I was the sidekick in her story). It was supposed to be highly organized and supported from the School. It was supposed to be perfect.

But I hate “supposed to’ves,” because nothing ever happens like its supposed to.

Attacks made travel unsafe. Illness stole my sidekick/hero. The School failed to work out important details and decided I should bear the burden of its insufficiencies. I'll spare you the details; suffice to say, I’m the lone protagonist, and I spent the last two weeks trying to figure out if this story would unfold at all. In the midst of the craziness, a pit appeared in my stomach that sucked my excitement away.

But I still believe in magic. And, as I recently read in a charming novel, "Only those who believe in magic will ever have a chance to experience it."

Let the experience begin...