The East Coast

Running out onto the beach up to the red rocks and the lagoon, I couldn't help but feel at least a little depressed, if not a hatred for all humanity. A line of bottles and plastic bags and cans spread out where the waves stop in the sand, mixing with dead fish and cow shit and - I'm not making this up - one big hypodermic needle that I only narrowly missed in stride. Black birds bit into the washed up fish and the water itself was murky and gave off a smell, and the whole dark scene together brought forth one big thought: we just ruin everything good and most of us don't even think twice about it.

Across the pond and just beyond that East Coast horizon, the forests of Sumatra are burning and have been for weeks. The sky turns to a fiery haze which drifts with the wind into three countries. People wear masks and cough and wheeze, and in some old chamber thousands of miles away, Congressmen still legitimately debate the science behind climate change and our human impact on the world.

I'll tell you, on my more pessimistic days I have a hard time seeing this all ending well. Like a bad dream, I sometimes vaguely imagine a planet we have rendered unlivable simply because we like living in boxes, we like short-term fixes, and we like things and having things now. That image in my head is always so painfully apocalyptic, and it makes me yearn for a quiet corner of Yosemite in winter, because there I remember feeling something that seemed like no human hand had ever touched.

So carrying all that - thoughts, premonitions, fears for our children - from the East Coast at Trincomalee, you'd do well turning around and going back through the center. There you pass an impossible amount of green, the kind of green where it's actually hard to spot something not green, then paddy fields filling up in the rain, always one worker out there hacking away at something, lean and cut and dark with his shirt off, then a million identical roadside shops that are actually just someone's house with a little shack in front, then Buddhas of all shapes and sizes, at least one for every town, always looking so peaceful and knowing as each person drives on by, then more lazy stray dogs napping in the road under the incredible expectation that every car going 50 MPH will simply drive around them, then at one point elephant droppings lining the highway, but no sign of elephants, but you know they are out there somewhere, which makes you feel a little better inside. 

Singapore, this time

It's the conversations I love most, those that wander more widely as one pitcher of cold beer turns into many pitchers of beer, because you find out in the real world the average person does not want to talk in depth about specific goals for December next year, and what country they want to travel to next (Myanmar would be amazing, but due to their first democratic elections, the Philippines would be more relaxing, while Nepal continues to suffer from a string of bad luck). They do not want to talk about the psychology around going to the gym, or not going to the gym, or the sociological merits of monogamy at three in the morning. They do not understand why a customized leather kindle case means more than a brand new car ever would, because in a present that thoughtful everything you need to know about kindness and generosity and human connection can be found. Most are too busy and pressed to grab a bottle and just walk around the Singapore Marina observing all the strange things that pass you by, before ascending the Marina Bay Sands and drinking $20 dollar negronis as smog blows in from Indonesia and blocks out the sun.

It's been that way for years, really, as far back as I can remember, through shifts in a restaurant, the hours after a triathlon, and the sprawling youthful Saturdays with nothing to do but go through boxes of pizza and watch college football games. It happened like this in Austin and Guatemala and New York City and Kuala Lumpur. It happened on a car ride up to Louisville, Kentucky, and back from Shiner, Texas, and another one all the way up to a small place tucked away under Sri Lankan tea plantations. These are situations you can copy and paste in every corner of the world and each time it is good and maybe even a little bit better because time has gone by and there is more life to both catch up on and think back to. It is built for the sentence that begins, "remember that time..." and you think back and remember that time not exactly wanting it to be that time again, but certainly observing the merits of all those many stages of life now gone.

In all of it you realize how rare these groups of human beings are in the world, those where simplicity and authenticity are everything, fresh and adaptable to any circumstance, always keeping to its core. You realize you are lucky to have these unspoken things hard to put your finger on, those subtle comforts, that dose of sanity, which are always just a hop, skip, and a jump away from a place that more often than not pressures you to wear a mask, look normal, eat dull dinners, and blend in with crowds.