To be a writer means working, and working hard. It means sitting by the fire scribbling furiously while garnering quizzical glances from your host sister who serves you increasingly heaping portions of rice.

In travel, one must renounce control, gird their energy reserves, spend much time reckoning sights previously unseen, come to terms with ethnocentrism and question the validity of their own culture, spend a little too much time with others, and a little too much time alone. All this tends to result in a great sense of satisfaction, and, dare I say, inner peace?

These stars rival the sky tonight, and as I look down, the problems with humanity that I know to exist melt away and all I feel is a fondness for our species.

I looked around at all the people, the momolas and popolas with their prayer beads, the teens and babies and obese street dogs and shopkeepers and street sweepers. Then I looked at my own two feet and was reminded that I was also there. I felt a catch in my chest.