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The Most Important Thing About an Interlude

I'm sitting on a sun dappled lawn, under old oaks in the foothills outside Los Angeles. Two puppies are playing in the yard. There's a light breeze. It is, in every single way, what we invented the word idyllic to try and capture.

But tomorrow, I'll wake up early, head to LAX, and get on a plane to a place I've never been. A place where I know nothing about the culture and little about the language. Here in idyllic, it got me to thinking about why.

The past four weeks in America have been lovely - catching up with people I love, teaching anyone who will listen how to cook Thai food, simply living in a culture where I know what's going on.

But the truth is that it’s also wearing on me. I thrive on new and lots of alone time, and both have been in short supply. The wonderful space and absence of things fighting for my attention I enjoyed in Thailand has been replaced with, well, an entire civilization fighting for my attention. I’ve felt like a fish who’s leapt out of water, here. I get a different perspective, and there some really cool things about it, but it's not where I belong. It’s not where the air is.

Even my writing, a constant companion in my travels, has been sparse and hard to find. I look around for my words, and find nothing, but a small note, “Went ahead to Mexico. See you when you get here.”

Which brings me to the plane, and the most important thing about an interlude. It has to end.

It’s time to get back to the main story.

Nah, I hate curiousity.