I'm sitting now in a charming historic restaurant. Creamy clay walls make up the boxy shape of the building and round wooden beaming pierces the walls supporting wood panelled ceilings. I sip a glass of refreshing ice water while a surging heat permeates through the window beside me, battling against the air conditioned coolness inside. Outside a cascade of low mountains thrust up proudly from the arid landscape and slope gracefully back down to the gentle wave of hills below, dotted with the hardened and spiny vegetation of the desert.
Ice cream has been served to me; a house-made berry sorbet and creamy vanilla. The bright bite of the sorbet compliments the smooth, rich vanilla and sends oh-god-yes joy through me.
I savour every bite.
I can't help but soak this in. I feel like the stones and land and shimmering heat are being absorbed into my body. The newness, the unique beauty, the change from my norm, forces me into relaxed meditation.
There's a hunger inside me that is not easily sated. Travel... travel smothers that appetite with a richness beyond words. It is my bread and butter. My ambrosia. A tonic for the malady of mundane life.
While I am here... there... away...
I am cured.