I always breakdown crying at some point on the first day. Some trips have many first days: I remember crying in the lobby of a budget hotel in Antwerp, and again in a Paris train station and AGAIN in the lobby of my Paris hotel. I cried in Whangomomona Republic. I cried great gulping tears in Mumbai and again in Pinjore. Every time, it is for reasons of everything and nothing. You think I’ll care why I cried, once the longest day is over and I’m finally getting ready to lay down to sleep for good? You think the cruelties of cab drivers and banking systems and ticket agents and hoteliers and all of the rest of the noise will matter? No. I’ll remember the sun shining through the window shade over the Andes. The smell of fish in the market. That in the world, good people still exist.
I’ve even written about crying on arrival before. There’s nothing new under the sun. I arrived in Santiago; I cried. I’m sure tomorrow will be different.
So far, wildlife-wise, all I’ve seen are pigeons and a lot of acrylic yarn. But I purchased 60 airmail stamps. I plan on using them.