Old friends are only a telephone call away, but I know I cannot cope with a “normal” conversation now.
I hike the long way from Waikiki back to the airport—a long midnight walk—marveling at the incredible wealth, the impossible normalcy of everything I see.
The airline has “found” my backpack. The US customs police have gone through it and broken open its aluminum framework to search for the drugs I must have smuggled in from Nepal. But I didn’t.
I carry the ruined backpack to a beach I know and sleep with my head on it—guarding my few worn possessions and my diary as I have all these lonely, weary months. My backpack is the only familiar thing to me now. Hawaii, the place I used to think of as “home”, is an absurd fantasy.
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