I was wearing shorts and sandals, and a big sheet of plastic. I looked massively ridiculous and I did not care.
A poster on the bus advertised the heats for the local yodelling festival. Not the festival itself, but the pre-competition to allow people to apply for the competition itself.
Each night I would pore over guide books, plotting routes all over the city, hoping to pluck up the courage to make my way in to any one of the eateries that I aspired to get in to. There was no barrier but my own insecurity.
Nothing can prepare you for a beauty you have always felt. A field as flat as a wicket; an enclosure of monastic solitude; a building burned in to cultural memory.
The problem was that I had not bought the tickets in English, so the tour guide had no opportunity to realise that she had a family of English speakers on the tour.
We barrelled down a gravel road to a steep drop, descending in a terrifying corkscrew. We stepped on to the glacier, took pictures, and knew it would soon be gone.
I get the impression that some people only indulge in their “normal” because everyone they have grown up around has done so, and so they take it as the sole option. That’s grotesque.