I have jet lag. And for some foggy-headed reason, I think that when and how much I’ve slept in the last four days is interesting to people. It is not. As if stories about the fabulous trip to Sri Lanka aren’t bad enough.
Sri Lanka? Why Sri Lanka? I just wanted some beach and a rest. But a few months ago when I passed a link from a british yoga marketing email on to Andrea, I had a small feeling there might be consequences. It was for a place called ashtanga lanka, on the beach in southern Sri Lanka. I passed it on because it boasted great bodysurfing, which is among Andrea’s true joys.
I’d have been happy with the Caribbean or South America. I’ve never been. I’ve been to Asia—central and south Asia—more than five times. Only once because I was truly aching to go there. Sri Lanka takes a long time to get to, isn’t an easy place, and has a huge time difference. And I’d only managed to wedge three weeks out of work and teaching, and another teacher training. Sri Lanka?
But Andrea was set. “The surf in the Caribbean and South America is dreadful,” he asserted. He got his tix, and I wanted to go. Ashtanga every morning before ocean swimming sounded great, and perhaps I could get some traveling in my last week there. I was also curious about the American couple running the place. I’m burning for another way to live. And, the food would delight me. Though it would perpetuate the untruth that I prefer to vacation in troubled places, I was somehow convinced. Seven days before the flight, I booked my tix. Once again, I didn’t choose South Asia, but she somehow got me back. Perhaps it’s time to stop blaming George.