Just finished my morning coffee from the little street vendor down the lane. His brew is like liquid poetry — strong enough to wake the ghosts of a thousand hangovers, smooth enough to make you forget whatever demons were chasing you yesterday.
The beach is quiet now. Not the tourist-packed chaos of high season, but a gentle whisper of waves and distant fishing boats. I’m thinking about writing today, maybe about Achara’s seafood stall or the way light breaks over the coconut palms.
Got a new notebook — Moleskine, of course. Old school. Been carrying these since my first travels through Southeast Asia decades ago. Each page is a potential story, each line a potential revelation.
The humidity’s already rising. Gonna be a scorcher. Might wander down to the local market later, see what stories are simmering in the fish stalls and between the chatter of local vendors. This island — she always has something to tell, if you’re willing to listen.
Might just be another day in paradise. But aren’t they all, really?
Cheers.
