I arrived at Maputo exhausted and exhilarated after my long flight, and stepped out onto the tarmac of the airport thrilled to be in Africa. Africa - the word alone is thrilling, and I knew little about what to expect save for the traveler's confidence that somehow everything would be okay.
I ate a rich meal of mixed seafood grilled with butter and retired to my hotel room to rest. Mozambique was a pleasure at first glance. Outside my tall window, an impossibly full moon rose out of the ripples of the Indian Ocean and Maputo Bay that first night and disappeared into the fronds of the palm trees, which rustled audibly in the cool winter breeze.
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Ngor, just beyond a little channel whose twin openings to the sea permit the force of the Atlantic to pour forth in wavelets that meet in the middle in a chaos of interference: it's an easy traverse by wooden pirogue, ending at the little island that makes for joyful Saturday beach excursions. But speckled with boats at anchor, protected by the worst of the sea's excesses, it makes a nice paddling excursion, too. So starting in late fall of last year, I made a habit of putting my surfboard in at day's end and paddling out across the current to Ngor and back.
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I'd hoped to learn all about the speckled history of Innsbruck, "the Bridge over the River Inn" in order to flesh out this story. In reality, between kids and work and other responsibilities, I never really got a chance to learn much at all about the place we spent Christmas of 2014.
That doesn't mean it hasn't earned a very special place in my heart, though:
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As you travel through life and across the Earth, some things stick with you, and some things are lost. I lived and worked in Boston for two years and can't remember a single street name. I studied at Cornell for four years and can't remember the names of buildings I visited every day. But I remember this instant vividly, and think about it frequently. It has become a part of me.
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Awake, under whispering pines
Giants shoulder to shoulder, I
Walk at their ankles.
A scattering of Red Cedar, chicks
under Hens' wings. They loiter like houseguests.
Here and there a Holly -- How did YOU get in here? --
Sharp-witted with bright eyes.
I'm looking for the Zen of early winter, a
Blanket of thick needles,
Pillow a bracket of ferns,
my book the alternating,
Vertical
Stripes of Light
and Shadow, between which
All Life happens.
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