Early this morning, during my drive to work I heard a story about a coastal city… a city whose bluffs had been bleached stark white over time by the sea… a city whose pristine and rustic beauty could only cast a thin veil over the misfortune it had recently suffered…


The journalist described humble, shack like homes (also stark white) whose red tiled floors had been smashed–ground down by mob anger…. kitchens left in hasty disrepair no longer housed hungry faces around heavy wooden tables, but scattered and  stomped on papers and lonely shoes about the floor….

Honestly, I don’t even remember hearing the name of the city or what misfortune had befallen it.  I do remember though, picturing it perfectly and for a quick, passing moment I wondered what it would be like to be there, smell the air and allow my eyes to soak in all of it’s contrasting hues from it’s ancient mediterranean color wheel…. 

That train of thought lead me towards the actual travel there… the process…. the preparation….

In my twenties I would have believed that I would one day go there… with a nonchalant sort of certainty that only people in their 20’s will possess….

Alas my thirty-something brain reminded me that actually seeing this place–traveling there was now…. highly unlikely…. what with life and everything….

…. kind of sad…..

…. can it be changed?
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