I spent most newly single nights on the bare floor of my apartment reading travel magazines and drinking red wine. The photos of far away comforted me more than any sympathetic therapist or cathartic girls’ night out could. I wanted to take these pictures of sunrise at Machu Picchu, the Acropolis’s stately grace, and the desperately blue French Polynesian waters and rub them over my body in a baptism of travel and desire—I wanted them in my veins.
My nights settled into this familiar routine of turn page, sip, and sigh; turn page, sip, and sigh—until one page turn resulted in a destination. An image of the golden Taj Mahal appeared at sunrise beneath bold text: INCREDIBLE INDIA.
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)
