I am standing in the laundromat with a hushed, yet bustling crowd of latina matrons. Our activities ebb and flow with the cycles of our machines—intervals of plain-faced, stare-at-the-wall boredom alternating with interminable stretches of folding shirts and balling socks; apathy in stillness and in motion. The owner, Korean or Chinese, passes through, weaving between the broken-wheeled, weirdly stunted wire carts meant for shuttling our laundry between gaping machines.

“Not many white people come in here.” Apparently the array of nearby condos, a mere block in any direction, do not stimulate business of this kind.

“This neighborhood is changing fast,” I say, appealing to him to share more. “It might be bad for private business owners.”

“Bad for people who rent, good for people who own.”

I don’t ask if he owns the squat, run-down building we are standing in.

Another day in the city I come across an absurd sight: an opulent, U Street condo building newly erected, its street-level windows still frosted and waiting to be infested with the pernicious Mexican restaurant chains and cell phone provider outlets that flourish symbiotically in this habitat. One narrow, glass-paned corner retail unit is already occupied, however, and it is a jarring sight; the high-ceilinged space, a choice slice of fertile ground, is home to a shoe repair shop, strewn with leather and smudged work benches under the recessed bank of florescents twelve feet above.

What an enigma. Shoe repair is hardly a trade in high demand among the District’s new rich, who upgrade from 46- to 50-inch plasma TVs without thinking twice. The art of extending the useful life of our possessions is fading, supplanted by the increasing ease of replacement and accumulation.

This disorienting storefront, like an installation on cognitive dissonance, is brought to me by a quirk in the system. New condos: bad for businesses that rent, good for those that own.

Across the street, the Open Door Church of Philadelphia stands with plastered over windows and a doorway that has been completely blocked by a stack of whitewashed cinderblocks — a tragically ironic contrast to its name. At the base of its walls, leafy creepers shoot through the concrete and hold the façade in a slowly tightening stranglehold. How many more years of proliferation will these opportunist vines need to pull the whole structure back into the earth? I can’t help but think that long before that can happen, the whole lot will be demolished to make way for a new condominium, and a new generation of invasive species will preside over a different sort of urban decay.

Asia is gone to me, snuffed out in a way I anticipated but didn’t fully acknowledge. And I feel a sense of loss. I miss having no preconceived notion of what I will find around the next corner. I miss the signs of life that are unavoidable on the street, in every window. I miss the interactivity that comes from being a curiosity.

I have learned so much on this journey. My first days in India drove home something I had only touched on before: that the world is happening all the time, wherever I am. I had perhaps seen a glimmer of this as a child in New York, while the jungle sounds of the city drifted through the window of my grandparents’ guest bedroom late at night. But in India this hit home in a new way, that the world is impossibly enormous and complex, and it is happening all the time.

Human ingenuity has also been on display to me throughout my travels. The entrepreneurship of zipper fixers and tailors, the diverse range of improvised plumbing, the variety of strategies for preparing and carrying food: chopped and bagged, compartmentalized in aluminum lunchboxes, wrapped in paper or banana leaves.

And oh, the places people go and how! Scooters and motorcycles chopped in every way imaginable. Bicycles as elaborately painted rickshaws in Bangladesh, as flatbed freight movers in India. Three-wheeled vehicles, from glossy Thai tourist tuk-tuks to slow Burmese passenger carts with exposed engines belching smoke. Buses ranging from luxurious Malaysian machines to grizzled behemoths that careen through poorly maintained Bangladeshi highways. In Dhaka, a bus pulls up next to our auto rickshaw and loses a window spontaneously, the glass panel hurling itself suicidally into the street with a clank and a smash. Another one bites the dust.

A constant state of decay. We in the European diaspora fear death so much, and we invest so much energy at all times staving off decay — decay in our refrigerators, our roofs and floorboards, our cars, all our material goods. Not least our bodies, where even when decay is unstoppable and undeniable, we hide it under the guises of hair coloring, make-up, surgery, contact lenses, wigs. For me, I think I have a lot of work to do making friends with decay, coming to grips with it. I am so fortunate to recognize this project at this early time of my life, even if the work in front of me is daunting; I probably have some time to get my story straight before my own decay begins to accelerate, heedless of my fears and discomforts.

So, I am on the verge of finishing this trip, which I see as field training, a diagnostic test on my own limitations and escapes from the world. But it is also more than an experiment or dress rehearsal. The interactions we have had (among ourselves and with the people we have met) have been real; meaning that comes from them is rich and true, and their ethical content cannot be denied. This has become part of my history, a chapter or a whole volume in the narrative of my body and my consciousness. Every present moment I inhabit going forward will forever exist in dialogue with this, as it does with every other experience I have had. My myth of self-improvement will creep through these memories in search of signs of growth, raw fragments to sculpt into a sense of meaning.

Thus, my history is much more than prelude. It is the creation myth that I rewrite daily to support living and acting in every moment, the sole inheritance bequeathed to me from my past selves.

When we finally give in to the energy around us and wave to a group of young boys, ‘Mr. Crowd Control’ seems clearly overwhelmed by the scene that ensues. We are quickly whisked away to the skating ground for an assessment of our cricket batting skills. No time for stage fright! Simon is pitching, I am batting and a crowd of 60+ men and boys couldn’t be more thrilled to witness this spectacle.

The next two hours see us rising in fame and importance. From a mere curiosity, we are soon elevated to celebrity status. At one point we are each surrounded by our own personal group of 30 fans. The next moment, we are introduced to “the English teacher” – two lovely young men who are summitted to the park for the occasion of our appearance. A pink glitter pen in hand, we sign the notebooks of a dozen school boys, a 500 rupee bill belonging to a 50 some year old government teacher and one young man’s arm – fun but borderline ridiculous!

The energy and buzz around us are intoxicating and I am thrilled to ride out this high. Only once do I feel near drowning when teenage testosterone takes over my fans and sends a football slamming into my head. This right after I had to assertively decline requests for an impromptu Bollywood dance performance.

our self-anointed bodyguard in the yellow T-shirt

Amidst all the interaction, the only person thoroughly shaken and confused is the poor security guard, who smiles and head-bobbles kindly to us while sternly reacting to the crowds that form as soon as we are stationary. Finally, after an hour of anxious pacing he comes to terms with the situation and gently ushers us to three seats, introduces us to a city council member, serves tea and, why not, requests an autograph.

*Dibbly Dobbly: a cricket bowler of limited skill

Sabrina and I travel to Patna via bus early the same morning, arriving a few hours before Simon’s scheduled train with seemingly plenty of time to find a decent guesthouse in this friendly city, though polluted with car and auto-rickshaw horns! Ears ringing, we are turned away by fifteen different hotels, with managers informing us that they are ‘full’ or simply do not have a big enough tourist demand to bother with the necessary government paperwork. A slightly pricier option next to the train station finally takes us in. Hindsight, this location proves to be a blessing as we wait for Simon’s ever delayed train.

By 7 p.m (Simon has now been on the train for 18 hours), the estimated delay times for Simon’s train become shorter, so Sabrina and I stick it out and wait at the large, crowded station.

By 8 p.m. a steady stream of people are engaging Sabrina and I in conversation. Our 30 people strong audience includes one young man who has never met foreigners before and as a result has endless questions about our countries. Of course, he and his friends are sharp! They are not asking simple school boy questions about the weather and food, but rather put Sabrina and I to the test with questions like, ‘what do people think of Hitler in Germany?’, ‘why is your country rich and my country poor? and ‘what is the structure (chain of command) of the police force in the US.’

While we enjoy interactions at Patna train station, Simon finds himself being toyed with. Move a kilometer, stop 20 minutes, and no idea what is going on or how much longer this arduous trial will last. Simon tells me later, “I went through every possible emotion…I was angry, wanted to cry and then I would look over at other people and just laugh with them as they trialed every ring-tone on their phones over and over!”

At 10:15 p.m, a young man named Khan, who we had briefly met a few hours earlier, asks me if my name is Simon while giving me his phone. Confused, I explain that my friend’s name is Simon, put the mobile phone to my ear and offer a confused ‘hello’. Over a crackled connection, I hear Simon say “…Ryan?”

Simon, Khan's bother, Khan, Ryan

Happy to connect, we ensure each other that all is well, though still perplexed and later humored to realize that Simon was sitting next to Khan’s brother on the train. The marvel of this coincidence would go amiss for Simon, who sits on the train expecting a rather small Patna train station. Not quite! At 11 p.m, Simon’s train finally pulls into Patna train station. Khan and his cohort of friends share their Massala flavored potato chips and Mango juice with us as we walk to train car number seven just as Simon walks off.

Lying in bed an hour later, we are all laughing about the crazy day. Believing that the day is over, I reach up off my floor mattress to turn off the light. Lying back down, I get a wind of nausea, turn the light back on and rush to throw-up some bad food that I must have eaten that day. While I’m in the bathroom, Simon finds the nerve to comment on this episode as the day’s perfect ending. We all continue to laugh…somehow, even me!

We have been climbing in Railay, Thailand for a good four weeks. As I build strength and endurance and push my limits on harder and harder climbs, I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with the lack of security smaller holds and awkward moves afford me.

I am foolishly dancing around as I repeat the same futile move and have to retreat to my original position. My concentration is completely out the window, all my energy is channeled into “not falling”. I can feel my left arm starting to throb, my fingers are sweaty and loosing their grip.

A tight knot forms in my stomach as I relive the climb that evening, floating on my back in the warm Andaman Sea. I managed to pull off the next move, I didn’t fall but the route defeated me nonetheless. The mere thought of getting back on the sea-cliffs the next day brings tears to my eyes.

I am afraid. The thought takes me by surprise – this fear is completely irrational! I know how to climb and how to climb safely. Ryan is a good belayer. And anyway, more people apparently die from surgical anesthesia than rock climbing.

None of this matters. My stomach is becoming a vortex of fear, dread and misery.

The sea-cliffs are almost overbearing in their beauty and the sunset is stunning. Right here is easily one of the most beautiful places known to man and one of the greatest rock climbing locations in the world. I want to feel the serene surroundings, the beauty, the peace while climbing, all the way into my churning stomach.

I know I have a choice. I can decide to stop climbing or at least to not push myself as hard, but this challenge is one of the things I love about climbing. The intense physical and mental concentration necessary to pull off a hard move is the closest I have been to feeling ‘in the moment’.

So I contemplate another option. I can choose my thoughts. Instead of panic, I can choose confidence, instead of rushing, I can concentrate and move slowly. I can focus on the slim chance of getting injured or confidently string together movements, trusting myself, Ryan and the equipment.

I am very accomplished at plunging myself into panic and self-doubt. It is now time to practice choosing positive thoughts and to put these Elvis shakes back in the grave.

A sign of our recent retreat from intense cross-cultural interaction, we hesitate. Traveling on the fully paved and well trodden tourist highway that connects Halong Bay & Hoi An, Vietnam, Krabi, Thailand and Penang, Malaysia we haven’t felt out of place for a while and are a little out of practice. Stares and many “where are you from” questions weren’t what we had in mind for dinner.

Despite reservations, we succumb to the temptation of free food and self-consciously squeeze through the crowd, trying to blend in as best as possible. We shall never know how our cover was blown but about 90 seconds after we walk into the tent, the microphoned host makes a bee-line for Ryan and asks, “Will you say a few words to the community?”

Shock and horror flash across Ryan’s face but wedged between the announcer, me and a hot curry stand, all escape routes are sealed off and Ryan rises to the occasion. “Ryan Mol, visiting all the way from the USA would like to say a few words!”

Odly enough, this baptism with fire puts us at ease. At least we have now earned our ‘free’ dinner. We organize a few dishes of delicious looking food and a determined elderly gentleman finds us a crowded table piled high with used paper plates. Only minutes later, our host returns with two steaming cups of milk tea. Shortly after, two more cups arrive.

Masjid Keling mosque

After a bit of friendly small talk with three Indian ladies at our table, we are able to establish the occasion for this event – until now we weren’t sure if we had been misled into crashing a wedding party or a graduation open house. As it turns out, this celebration is staged by the Muslim community and its business leaders to celebrate the end of Ramadan with everyone and anyone. “Next month”, one lady says with a twinkle of delight in her eyes, “there will be more free food, when we all celebrate Diwali together.”

Hindu temple in Little India, Georgetown

After a history lesson at the Georgetown museum, there remains no doubt in my mind that this city prides itself in multiculturalism.  Even my Lonely Planet guidebook comments on how balanced the museum represents all members of the community. When I get to the plaque that summarizes the community’s makeup, I struggle a little: “The three ethnic groups with their diverse historical, cultural and religious backgrounds have coexisted in harmony for generations.”

Oversimplification may be one way to describe this part of the exhibit. However, I choose to think of it as the community’s vision, its hope for the future that perhaps snuck its way into interpretations of the past.

As we celebrate the end of Ramadan with people from Chinese, Malay and Indian background and drink tea with Muslims and Hindus, this vision feels like a reality. Indeed one Indian man commented to us about his frustration with a few Muslims around the world spoiling the reputation of the Muslims in Georgetown. Here, in Georgetown is a chance for people from very different backgrounds to get together, to celebrate our differences and affirm our similarities. For what better way to reiterate our common humanity than to collectively overeat at the free buffet?

Chinese temple, Georgetown

I like my travel partner, I mean I’m married to her. Together for nearly ten years – long distance relationship for five, married about three and traveling almost one – life together is an adventure.

Exploring northern Vietnam by motorbike.

As a couple, Sabrina and I have always prided ourselves in maintaining a certain level of individualism within our otherwise happily dependent relationship. Maybe we have been kidding ourselves all along, but any inkling of individualism has certainly gone out the window during this year of travel! This dynamic has arisen in part out of necessity to coexist as two on the road and in part out of desire for comfort, taking refuge in the only part of home away from home.

Our friend Chris joins us in Cambodia as we cycle around ancient Angkor.

We travel with one Ipod Nanno and carry a splitter for the headphone jack. This way we can listen to all the songs together that we hurriedly added to the Ipod the night before our flight to Bangkok back in January. Observing life’s rhythm through countless window panes on buses and trains somehow seems to synchronize with the songs on our Ipod. However, thinking back, it took awhile for Sabrina and me to find our own tune in the noisy orchestra around us. But, eventually we did.

Rojak, a Malaysian mixture of deep-fried everything covered in a thick gravy.

As travel partners for the last 310 days, our schedules are the same. We take the same modes of transport, sleep at the same guest-houses, eat at the same food stands and often times even have to visit the facilities at the same time. This may all sound quite horrible to some, but for me it is a pleasure.

Over time, all travelers develop their own tune or ‘travel rhythm.’ I’m not talking about getting along or even growing together. These are other wonderful byproducts of travel, as two people contemplate the contradictions around them, experience extreme highs and endure lows together.

No, I’m talking about the daily, weekly and monthly chorus of life on the road. A song composed in a way that the needs of one impact and naturally evoke a response from the other. Challenges and rewards follow suit.  Only when Sabrina responds to my unspoken need – through silence, making a decision or asking the right question – does it become a harmonious duet.

Sabrina climbing 'Totem Pole' on Eagle Wall, Tonsai Beach - Krabi, Thailand

Somehow, even when our rhythm changes, we continue to dance to the same song.  When I become comfortable in my surroundings, when I contemplate our next destination and when I dream of life after travel, we remain in step.

Our rhythm slowed the past couple months, contented to remain near Krabi, Thailand for a time, enjoying our shared hobby of rock climbing, reflecting on our recent past and remaining mindful of the present. As we hit the road again, What Moves You? comes full circle. Just over a year after Caleb and Michele began their journey in India, Sabrina and I have chosen to conclude ours in the same place.

A less appetising choice of cuisine.

The best and the worst of travel is often found in the food. I’ve been surprised and put off by a deep-fried baby chicken -beak and all- on my breakfast plate and humored by the delight found by others indulging in offal barbecue. Thai food on the other hand, is a consistent display of food genius, opposite to both the disasters and consistently good, yet mundane.

I wish I could say Thai food prepared anywhere in the world is as good as Thai food prepared in Thailand. But frankly, and having sampled delightful Thai food elsewhere, this just isn’t the case! I am not a chef or a connoisseur of anything really. I’m not even a little chubby. Nonetheless, I share my insights about this magical cuisine.

Red Curry, Green Curry and Pad Thai are certainly staples to relish and visit often while in Thailand, but expanding one’s horizons and sampling other lip smacking delights like Panang or Massaman Curry, spicy meat salads, Tom Yam or Tom Kha soup, papaya salad, not to mention barbecued chicken or seafood with a sumptuous sauce, is a must. Absolutely, Thai sauces make the most undesired ‘mystery meat’ enjoyable!

To appreciate what I am talking about, here is a brief list of the generally fresh and unique ingredients that mix together to create perfection. Curry paste, palm sugar, coconut milk, cilantro, LOTS OF CHILLIES, peanuts, lime, garlic, ginger, lemongrass, tamarind, fish sauce, veggies, choice of meat...and I hate to say it, fish paste!

And oh yes, let me not forget the selection of table condiments: Sugar, Peanuts, Salt, chilli flakes, chopped fresh chillies, fish sauce with chillies and vinegar with chillies.

The ingredients alone are enough to intrigue the pallet, though the magic is created by the amount and intensity of the chosen ingredients. Dishes are strong and full of flavor, just enough to set off a firework show in my mouth. I taste chillies, cilantro and fresh coconut milk independently of each other, superseded by the grand finale that tickles my tongue as they mix together.

Entire cloves of garlic, chunks of ginger the size of my thumbnail and stalks of lemongrass may find themselves thrown into the pot of a Thai soup or curry. The novice may try to eat these larger items and find them overbearing and eventually push them aside as a nuisance.

But eventually, having harnessed the knowledge that eating these extraordinary pieces of root and stalk is not the point at all, one begins to revere them as the source that generates flavor to extraordinary depths and gratification. Peanuts compliment many dishes and somehow the repulsive smelling fish-paste is a necessary evil that adds to the dish only if the right dollop is added.  Rice or noodles of course serve as the great flavor carriers.

Satisfied customers

I do miss Western fare and unfortunately most Asian attempts at making it miss the same subtleties as Western attempts to satisfy the Asian palate. However, all things being equal, I now believe the treasure of the food world is found in the restaurants and amongst the street vendors of Thailand.

“Do you guys think it’s a bad omen that we are starting our trek on Friday the 13th?”, asks BJ with a grin. Well prepared with our sneakers and Everest worthy thermal blankets, we embark on a three day hike out of the Nujiang Valley.A few days earlier, Ryan and I met up with BJ, a college friend of mine and decided to join him on his two day journey up one of China’s most remote river valleys. Walking out of the valley being the only alternative to backtracking, we splurge on essential gear and candy rations and hit the trail. The weather is beautiful as we set out and the thought of physically bridging two river valleys that are not connected by a road this far north, is inspiring.After eight hours of walking through beautiful alpine scenery and magical forests, we arrive amidst summer pastures of Tibetan herders. We share the accommodation of generous hosts and peacefully nestle into our blankets, as a pleasant Friday the 13th draws to an uneventful close.The squealing of a dozen hungry pigs ushers in Ryan’s birthday, as they slurp up breakfast in their sty beneath our sleeping quarters. I unfold myself from the herdsman scented wool blanket, gently stretch my aching muscles and happily anticipate a shorter day. So far we made good progress and once today’s 14,000+ feet (4,200m) pass is conquered, we will settle in for an early night and birthday celebrations.At four o’clock, having walked six hours, we stop at a hut, pleased to reach our final destination. Preoccupied by my empty stomach, I pay little attention to the discussion that ensues between our guides and the occupants of our supposed resting place. BJ’s tense face helps me focus, as he relays to us that both roads out of  Sujon, the end point for our hike, will be closed for seven days starting tomorrow. If we do not want to wait seven days we have to reach the town tonight. “How far is it?” I don’t really want to know the answer. “A four hour walk” is the devastating reply.Tired and hungry we set off, first walking briskly and then falling into a steady trot, as dusk descends upon us. We make our way across slippery gravel fields, ominous landslides and through dense bushes until eventually, our path disappears completely.

It starts raining as we approach the small, vineyard outlined village of Sujon, our destination. Our hope of escaping this albeit picturesque dead-end, slowly dissolves. BJ musters his last reserves and with angelic patience navigates through what seems like hours of polite Chinese chatter, while our host calls every driver in town. As night falls and the rain increases, what little remains of our hope is swept away by the mighty Mekong – no one is willing to navigate the river valley in these dangerous conditions.

As we find ourselves wedged into a minivan the next morning, I can’t believe our good fortune. Thanks to a local government official wanting to inspect the progress of construction, the road remains open one more day and we manage our narrow escape. My happiness is short lived, however. As we jolt along a one way gravel track, perilously etched into the hill, it slowly turns to dread and stops just short of panic. The passing maneuvers are harrowing and I conceive of ever more elaborate ways to escape my seemingly inevitable death by drowning in the Mekong, 150 feet (50m) below. Thankfully, it is always the oncoming traffic’s wheels that skirt the deadly precipice.

After six long hours, two of which were stationary behind a stalled truck, we finally arrive in Deqin, seldom so relieved to stay and rest somewhere for a few days. Alas, Friday the 13th has other plans. Also under construction, the road between Deqin and Zhongdian (Shangri-La) will be closed for five days. We have to leave now.Words fail me in the attempt to describe the next nine hours. Torn up beyond recognition, the road resembles a Jeep Wrangler test track. Whiplash inducing roller coasters pale in comparison to our ride across ravines, ditches and manhole size mud puddles. At a few points, where dirt track turns into paved windy mountain road, thick fog cloaks all but the five meters immediately in front of the van. This is of no concern to our driver. He keeps awake on Red Bull and continues seemingly oblivious to the 1000 feet drop off to our right – leaving BJ a pale chain smoker in the passenger seat and me a nervous wreck in the back.Hours of running down mountains, contemplating my certain death and being furiously jostled around in a demolition derby, take their toll. When a particularly memorable ditch propels me off my seat, I finally loose it. I give up, succumb to the utter ridiculousness of the last 28 hours and break out into hysterical laughter.It must not be our time to die, for we eventually arrive at 2 am unscathed in Zhongdian. When I finally rest my head upon a pillow, safe and sound, I decide that it may be worth postponing my return visit to this stunning landscape until Chinese bullet trains find their way out west!

Still, her decision to quit was very difficult and in my opinion incredibly brave. SF’s job at the bank of China was a once in a a life time opportunity, secured in no small part through her parent’s careful networking. The family’s decision to join the communist party of China, if only in name, was an unspoken prerequisite. In accordance was her parents’ shock as she decided to quit, in kind, her colleagues’ and boss’s reaction. Her reasons made little sense to anyone.

Ethical dining. Picture of menu in an expat cafe in Kunming, China.

As her story unfolds, so does my realization that simply being a middle-class member of the Western workforce, I belong to an exceedingly small and privileged global elite. The concept of regulated working hours and the understanding and respect for personal time away from work are in China not even granted in prestigious jobs. Listening to SF, my ability to choose a career seems fortuitous, almost a luxury. The opportunity to pause it is almost embarrassing.

And what about the majority of workers in the world – those who earn barely enough to ensure survival?

“More than 10,000 garment workers from eight factories [in Cambodia] went on strike yesterday to demand a further increase to the newly announced $5 rise to the monthly minimum wage [...] the minimum wage is set to rise by $5 to $61 in October.”(1)

A few of China's 200 million migrant workers building a road in western China. At night they return to their temporary shelter alongside the road, where some of them live with their children - until the road is finished.

I swallow hard as I hand over the money for an afternoon ice coffee, as I pay a Cambodian garment worker’s daily wage for a refreshing drink. I realize how insignificant $2 are to me and am aghast at how little $2 can actually buy: 1 ice coffee in an A/C cafe or 1 plate of fried rice or 1 thirty minute rickshaw ride. No matter how hard I try to adjust the worth of these $2 for local cost of living, it is not enough. Yet I meet someone to whom even this arrangement must seem fortunate.

Stranded in rural Cambodia this mechanic fixes our flat tire for $0.45, labor and materials included.

Ryan and I go for a cheap street side dinner one evening in Cambodia. As I push aside my nearly finished plate, a young boy comes out of nowhere, swiftly grabs my plate and hurriedly shovels down the four remaining spoonfuls of rice. This visual of poverty crudely breaks through the boundary of my comfort zone and leaves me feeling raw and powerless. In his life, there will be no career choice, no employment benefits and very likely not even an inadequate minimum wage. Wanting to fill the void in my heart as much as that in his stomach, I offer to buy him his own meal.

The colors of poverty. Percentage of world population living on less than $2 per day.

“We have no human rights in China”, concludes SF, exasperated and exhausted. Echoes of the multitudes resound in my head: China’s 200 million migrant workers, 10,000 garment workers in Cambodia, a boy searching for food in Phnom Penh. Faces flood my brain. Universal in theory, human rights, including workers rights, remain a prerogative of the few.

Faced with my indescribable privilege, I have a thousand words to describe my feelings of moral obligation, struggles with the injustice and occasional embarrassment and yet it all boils down to this. I  somehow got incredibly lucky and won the lottery of life. Unfairly, entirely undeserved, I was born at the better time in the better place. No more, no less. Full of awe I linger in the presence of this awful realization and then, I depart – with a new found gratefulness.