I'm tempted to write in the style of an American high school student. Oh. My. God. I love travel. So many flights these last few years have been long haul, but this one short and so I was out late last night and hungover on the plane. I slept for hours, and reckon I probably drowned out the engines. It's so hard to tell from peoples' faces when you wake, whether you've been snoring. Although waking up with the the passenger in front's hair extensions in your mouth might be a clue.

And then suddenly it's tropically warm and frenetic and the sound of horns and the smell of two-stroke and trees that are ostentatiously extravagant -- bursting with fruits most trees can only aspire to. The sea. The smiling temperament of the locals. Questions questions questions. I'm like a 2month old in a pusher, trying to take it all in.

Shorts on and ready to hit the beach. New people to meet all week. Writers from all over the world and new friends already met on the plane. One who runs retreats here. Others coming just to attend or volunteer at the festival.

Travel. Change. Newness. Exploration. I'm seven again and bedtimes and baths have been cancelled (what about bed-baths?). So that it occurs to me, if you don't have your intrigue in life, you don't have life in your life.