Back in the air that feels lighter than the sweating heat, the biting cold of NYC. I feel myself waking up, gazing at the heavy clouds that promise rain no matter what the forecast tells me.

The woman in pink is either sleeping or so enamored with a new place that she bumps into me half a dozen times while waiting to go through customs. Or perhaps I'm insubstantial here.

There's a transformation that happens when traveling to another country. It begins in the air. The airport. The drive through the dark mountains and down into town. It won't be complete until I'm drinking coffee on a rooftop. Silence is part of it. And observation. Looking. Remembering. Shedding layers. Seeing the connections that mattered. The selves I discovered.

The story of our evolution is the story of what we leave behind.