I want to have wings on my feet.
I want to…explore.
I want to have breakfast in a river side cafe in Paris and lunch in a crowded sweet-smelling farmers market in California.
I want to live out of my suitcase; I don’t have a problem washing my clothes in a stream in Japan while stunned onlookers get amused and whisper about me politely.
I want to be airborne, I want to get seasick, I want to ramble along on a train.
Cross the countryside from Surrey to Gloucestershire, walk to Harrods in London.
I want to wear a sombrero, speak Spanish and make floury powdery tortillas.
Bedazzle myself in Vegas, sober down in Somalia.
Find a tiny tucked-out-of-sight bookshop somewhere in Denmark, while tearing into soft pretzels with mustard and ketchup and candy.
Collect postcards and stamps from all around the world; my parents will get mail sometimes from Boro Boro, or Ibiza or Johannesburg. Wherever the wind takes me.
Run barefoot in the Nile, feel the soft sand weaving through my toes, breathe in ancient history; my world becoming a sheer dazzling yellow. The pyramids, upended cones, restoring order to the universe.
Learn the grace of eating with chopsticks in Beijing, smell the fragrances and essences. Seafood in broth as pale as jasmine tea.
Wear a mink in Canada, make friends with a moose, go hiking and camping. Skiing on zigzagged slopes down a talltall mountain.
Use a samovar in R-r-r-russia, have tea in the Tsar’s palace, walk around with pink cheeks and cold fingers.
Where is Hermes when you need him?