I love cities. I love the rush I get when I look up at tall buildings, when I listen to the hustle and bustle of the streets, when I hear the vendors call out their wares, water and fruit and newspapers. I love the colours, or the slick glass, or the crumbling facades of places that once held power. I love New York, I love London, I love Bangkok, I love Montreal, I love Melbourne, I love Tokyo and Dublin and Ljubljana and Venice.
And so here I am, sitting on the beaches of Nicaragua, the sand of the tiny island of Little Corn dusting my legs, the salt of the Caribbean seas causing my hair to curl wildly, the sun finally showing itself for a few moments. I feel as happy as a clam. I feel as happy as I did when I was in Utila last month, the little lazy island I spent two weeks on, the little lazy island where I spent hours reading in the shade, where I drank pineapple smoothies every day, where I spent my evenings with people I hope to see again, where I laid in hammocks and counted constellations, where I fell asleep to the sounds of the ocean, where I spent most of my mornings underwater. I was made for the beach. This prairie girl was made to be in the sea.