35,000 feet up and 2000 miles from home I feel vulnerable to disconnection.

That’s the beginning of it. It, of course, is that traveler’s feeling. Once you’re on the road it becomes your companion. It’s what keeps you strong and sane. Survival instincts perhaps. “I don’t have anything beneath me, now I must fight for myself without family or state.”

While it may be lonely, it’s certainly the cure for the organic-only, -reading, inwardly self-pitying westerner these days. Perhaps it’s always been. Go Picasso! Go Hemingway! Thailand Ho!?

This is what it’s all about though really. This is why I’m here, and it must have registered for you at some point to be reading this (that is if you’re part of the interested few, family and friends outstanding). Of course this entry will be lost with all the rest and it will have no chance to shine, not because it’s less, it’s actually more – it’s just all been sooo done.

Moving on…