Words are powerful.  They retain the ability to communicate thoughts and ideas, especially when used in a manner that is easily understandable to the reader or listener.  Over time, languages change and become relics of the past.  The meaning of ancient messages might be altered or lost in translation through time like the children's game "Chinese Whispers" or "telephone" (in the USA).  The telephone game takes place usually within a large group such as those found on a playground where one child whispers a message to another, which is passed through a line of people until the last player announces the message to the entire group.  Errors typically accumulate in the retellings, so the statement announced by the last player differs significantly, and often amusingly, from the one uttered by the first. Reasons for changes include anxiousness or impatience, erroneous corrections, the difficult-to-understand mechanism of whispering, and that some players may deliberately alter what is being said to guarantee a changed message by the end of the line.  Depending on the size and maturity of the group, the original message would range from slightly altered to completely different by the time it reaches the last person.  For hundreds of years, civilizations passed their wisdom down to their offspring by word of mouth.  It is hard to believe that the original message would have stayed in tact despite their best efforts...

Parents do the best they can for their kids and somehow generations of children grow into parents themselves, with each generation raising the next.  It's no accident that you exist, hundreds of generations have led to your being here today.  Eventually, as people mature, we develop codes of conduct.  These codes become our core values and determine our behaviors.  Our values govern what the individual deems as morally acceptable behavior.  My atheist friends are some of the 'best' and most caring people that I have ever met.  (Religion or upbringing does not guaranty 'good' moral character, ultimately it is a choice).  Their moral code adheres them to behaviors that are in line with their beliefs such as honesty and a hard work ethic.  People from all walks of life and different moral backgrounds can all come together in the knowledge that as human beings we are more alike than we are different.  Poets and philosophers have written for years that our blood flows the same color and we experience pain and suffering the same.  We are also capable of the same feelings of joy, love, and acceptance.  Here's where things begin to get a bit tricky...

The concept of God has been around since (and even explains) the beginning of time.  Almost every culture has a creation story with God in it.  From a scientific perspective, all children are the offspring of two parents, and they from their own set of parents, all the way back to a common ancestor.  Our ancient ancestors explained that the original creator of life was "God", a being of both masculine and feminine energy capable of generating all life within the universe which includes the stars, planets, plants, and animals.  After all, we had to come from somewhere.

I think where people are turned off from the concept of a Divine God is when the human lens of personal politics is introduced.  Human nature is finite and limited.  We exist for nearly a century and we die.  Our biological imperatives drive us to seek two main functions which are to survive and reproduce.  Thousands of years ago in an attempt to bring order to early societies, states and religions were formed to govern and explain complex thoughts and ideas to the masses or tribes.  In doing so, the nature of politics started to take over as individuals with power exercised their authority over others by using their human intellect to interpret divine guidance.  The members of society that weren't in positions of power were subject to blind faith and were kept in line though taxation and  obedience or faced consequences such as being shamed by the community or even criminal punishment.  This is not divine teaching, this is human nature where power tends to corrupt.

The etymology or basic origins of the word "good" come from "God".  Humans tend to define things in terms of their opposites.  The opposite of light is dark, the opposite of good is evil, the opposite of truth is false, etc.  In truth, God is infinite and thus cannot be completely defined.  For our benefit as limited creatures we have thousands of names for Him as expressed by the Holy Om...

So fast forward a few thousand years, and society finds itself in a brave new world of technology, air travel, and space exploration.  The cosmic game of "telephone" continues to exist as we teach our children about good and evil.  The message goes by many names and different words, yet still bears the same basic concepts.  Languages have come and gone, cultures too, even races of people, yet humanity lives on.  Philosophers have assigned the term "zeitgeist", originally derived from German, which means the spirit of the times.  This spirit is the dominant set of ideals and beliefs that motivate the actions of the members of a society in a particular period in time. 

"But the time is coming and is already here, when by the power of God's Spirit people will worship the Father as he really is, offering him the true worship that he wants.  God is Spirit, and only by the power of his Spirit can people worship him as he really is."
― John 4:23

The idea of surrendering oneself to such a complex concept as God is abhorrent to some, especially as interpreted through the corrupt lens of egotism.  (Personally I think humility and gratitude have more to do with it).  Both religious and state authorities are susceptible to human corruption which serves to extinguish hope in a loving God as they claim to be representatives of sovereignty.  Corruption exists even within families with absentee or abusive parents which serves to discourage hope in the idea of a Heavenly Father.  Many in this world are not given the blessing of loving, compassionate, and faithful parents so it's understandable why these individuals would simply give up hope, become indifferent, or even hate the concept of God (even with this blessing indifference is possible).  As children we depend on our parents for survival and guidance.  When our young faith is smashed by the realities of the world, it's as if a sapling were crushed before it had a chance to grow, flower, or bear fruit.  Still the resiliency of the human spirit is astounding, and All things are possible.  Faith can be stoked as a tiny ember and in time can grow into a wild and righteous flame.

Having moral character is not easy.  I have heard critics say that God and religion offer a crutch to people who should otherwise be fully able to think for themselves and behave according to their own moral codes of conduct.  I would agree with them in that human nature is lazy and tends to seek the path of least resistance and maximum reward.  After witnessing the bigotry, abuse, and crimes that "the religious" perpetrate, it's hard to imagine remaining faithful to what they claim to represent.  Most people have had their faith tested, and it is when they are most desperate that they turn to God for help.  If that help doesn't readily appear their faith dwindles or turns to resentment.  This is human nature.  Again, we are finite creatures with limited perspective.  We have a short term lease on life which makes it hard to see the ripple effect we have on the cosmic fabric of the message we interpret and rebroadcast as players of the immortal "telephone game".

"He is the Spirit, who reveals the truth about God.  The world cannot receive him, because it cannot see him or know him.  But you know him, because he remains with you and is in you."
― John 14:17

Lately I've been writing about the dynamics of power and the divide between Men and Women.  My hope is that someday we will have peace between the classes that hold power and those that do not; between Husbands and Wives, Brothers and Sisters, Men and Women.

This year is an election year in the US where one can hardly go anywhere without hearing the political bickering between the candidates: a Billionaire Business Man and a Female Political Titan.

Once again, 'fear' is used to goad the masses into a frenzy.  People form opinions, which later fuel emotion-driven behaviors.  Hate campaigns and speeches are given which are intended to discredit or mar the opponents credibility.  Rallies are held which capitalize on groupthink to steer the direction of the herd.  These speeches are rebroadcast on television and published in online journals and newspapers to reach as wide an audience as possible.

It's a bit Orwellian in actuality to see our 'telescreens' broadcasting such messages along with our cell phones equipped with two way camera/microphones used by simple 'proles' (short speak for proletarians or common man).  In fact after numerous attempts at privacy protection with online protests such as Sopa/Pipa, it seems that individual privacy is a thing of the past.  In the name of national security, We the People have been coerced into submission by the powers that be.  This means that anything we post online whether through email, social media, or web searches are recorded as part of our digital footprint.  (Good luck to all the parents raising children in this era of online transparency.)

Today I met a man bathing in the restroom as I went to wash my hands before lunch.  He apologized and asked if I could help him with a few dollars.  He was an older man but not as old as he appeared.  His hair was still more colored than gray, and he was missing all of his teeth.  After I finished washing my hands, I invited him to join me for lunch.  While they prepared my food, I discovered that I had amassed enough 'loyalty' points and was able to secure some chips and guacamole with my meal which was more than enough for two.  We split our burrito and he introduced himself as "Popeye" (I think due to his toothless one-eyed grin).  He thanked me over again, and we both bowed our heads and gave 'thanks' before eating.  He asked if I liked music and shared that he was an Elvis Presley fan; he even belted our a few bars while we ate.  I noticed that he struggled with chewing as his teeth were gone and he frequently washed his food down with what was most likely alcohol.  I listened and ate until it was time to depart.  He hugged me and I wished him well.

In George Orwell's 1984 he discusses the class distinctions between the upper, middle, and lower classes.  His dystopic novel, published in 1949, offers insight into the human condition as well as the maxim that 'absolute power tends to corrupt'.  The novel explains that throughout human history there have been essentially three classes of individuals, those with power, those with some, and those with none.  (The inner party, the outer party, and the proles.)

When the ruling party fails to maintain their vigilance, becomes lazy, or allows the middle class to rise against them in revolution, the middle class seizes control and they themselves become the ruling party, all while the poor stay poor.  The inner party in Orwell's novel had figured out how to cement their control over the masses through the illusions of constant warfare, a barely sustaining economy (despite abundance), and fear.  This way the middle class could never amass enough wealth or strength to over throw the ruling party and would remain forever under manipulation.  If any challenges were made, drastic measures were taken to ensure the demagogue or agitators were punished, tortured, or even killed.  Freedom had ceased to exist.  History books were re-written to reflect the inner parties politics, to keep the masses ignorant and dependent.

"He who controls the past controls the future.  He who controls the present controls the past."

― George Orwell, 1984


With the political war between the Conservatives and Democrats in full swing, it really makes no difference to the poor.  The candidate most likely to garner the majority vote will be the one who can emotionally manipulate voters into action, but it is my opinion that the best candidate is the one who does not want the job for their own ego satisfaction.  The best candidate is the one who will use their power to enrich the lives of the poor, to free them from their dependence.

The same goes for Men and Women.  When there is no feminism or chauvinism, but Humanism.  When both parties treat one another with the respect that each deserves.  When there is fairness and open dialogue.  When there is reason, accountability, and compassion.  When we no longer have to campaign and simply BE the best person for the job.  Then we can make some real progress.

"Nothing can be more absurd than the practice that prevails in our country of men and women not following the same pursuits with all their strengths and with one mind, for thus, the state instead of being whole is reduced to half."

― Plato

I grew up watching the Disney version of The Jungle Book. It was funny and full of catchy songs, but didn't really follow the original story line. (Giant orangutans aren't in it). I became interested in reading the book for myself when friends would compare me to the protagonist Mowgli (as I refused to cut my hair and resembled a wild brown child). I was amazed to see how easily this story read and how the author could break each tale into short stories of their own which allows an adult to read them to a child. The stories are simultaneously deep and complex as well as understandable and easy enough for a young mind to grasp. The writing style is a mix of poetry, prose, and fable. One of the darker components of the story deals with race and acceptance. The story of The Jungle Book actually began much before it was ever written.

John Lockwood Kipling, and his wife Alice, moved to India from England to serve as a professor of sculpture. He was appointed principal of the Mayo School of Art during the British occupation in India. He toured the country producing hand drawn sketches of tradesmen, animals, and the countryside. Within the first year that he and his wife lived in India, they welcomed their first child, Rudyard, born in December, 1865.

Rudyard Kipling would later grow to become the celebrated author of The Jungle Book (1894), the story of a feral child raised in the jungles of what is believed to be Seoni, Madhya Pradesh, India.

This beloved tale of a child born into a non-native environment and raised by wolves as one of their own serves as a metaphor for Kipling's own upbringing as a non-native son of India. His writing cleverly used his characters as literary tools to reflect the emotions of his protagonist, Mowgli (originally pronounced Mao-glee). For instance, his story includes the tale of the "bandar log" or monkey tribe, who forever carry on with an arrogant haughtiness of their self-perceived superiority over the other jungle animals due to their ability to mimic "man" and always talk of big plans, yet fail to act upon them only to start all over with their meaningless chatter, "We are great. We are free. We are wonderful. We are the most wonderful people in all the jungle! We all say so, and so it must be true." Here Kipling is able to write literary jabs at people who believe in their own 'superior heritage', while relying on their own collective story for validation instead of being content to be members of the entire community.

Kipling's genius is that he is able to weave tales of morality into simple stories that children can understand and remember as they mature (similar to J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter ,1997). His blending of poetry and jungle lore help to immerse the reader into another world, one where humans can live side by side with animals and even communicate.

The story begins with the discovery of an infant child presented at the footsteps of a wolf den by Bagheera, a benevolent black panther. The "man-cub" was discovered after Shere Khan, a man-eating tiger, had been heard hunting humans nearby. The tiger howled as he was burned by man's fire, but managed to scare Mowgli's parents away. Before Shere Khan could find his quarry the vigilant panther was able to intercept and bring the innocent child to safety.

The seemingly happy child is then discovered by Father Wolf who gently brings him into the wolf den to show Mother Wolf, Raksha. The man-cub does not fear the other animals, and instead laughs at their sniffing curiosity.

“How little! How naked, and — how bold!” said Mother Wolf softly. The baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide. “Ahai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a man’s cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man’s cub among her children?”

Raksha decides to adopt and raise "Mowgli" a name which fictitiously means "little frog" due to his smooth fur-less skin.

The story details how Mowgli became a member of the Seeonee wolves and how they are a free people who are not subject to the bullying of predators like Shere Khan, but rather exist within a democracy and follow the laws of the jungle. The pack is led by their Alpha Wolf, Akela, who allows Mowgli to join the Seeonee if he is spoken for by at least two members (not including his parents), and so Baloo, "a lazy brown bear of whom the wolves allowed to come and go as he pleases since he only eats roots, nuts, and honey" spoke first for the man-cub. Second, although he acknowledged that he did not belong the the pack, Bagheera referenced the jungle law where the life of the man-cub could be bought with a price, in which case the panther had exchanged the life of a bull he had freshly killed. The hungry wolves agree to this bargain and inspect the man-cub as one of their own. Shere Khan is enraged by this decision and vows in time to kill the boy.

Mowgli learns to speak and understand the animals. He knows that he is different but feels that his heart belongs among his brothers and sisters in the jungle. He is raised by his adopted wolf family and grows strong with them as he hunts, plays, and adventures.

The antagonist of the story, Shere Khan, is a cunning hunter who has a ferocious reputation of killing for sport. He is hinted at murdering men from a nearby village and is responsible for Mowgli's appearance in the jungle. Since then, Shere Khan has been trying to kill Mowgli, who is protected by the pack, and harbors great animosity toward him and mankind. (Kipling cleverly includes a fable of how the tiger got his stripes from the early days of creation with the Elephant lords of the jungle, which explains the hunter's nature).

Through political maneuvering, Khan is able to influence the tribe to cast Mowgli into exile as he doesn't "truly" belong to the the wolf pack. Some of the wolves are threatened by Mowgli as he possesses a stare that causes every animal to look away. Disheartened by the arguing, Mowgli goes to live in the nearby human village. There, he finds comfort and care from a woman, Messua, who lost her own child to a man-eating tiger. His human mother (most likely his real parent) helps to integrate Mowgli into the village and to life among humans, even though he prefers to sleep outside under the stars unconfined by the walls of a roofed dwelling. Mowgli tells Gray Brother, "I will always remember that I love thee and all in our cave. But also I will always remember that I have been cast out of the Pack." Mowgli tries to fit in, but simply finds that life with these humans to be too strange and different from the jungle. The humans are superstitious, proud, and can be cruel, not unlike the monkey people, "and Mowgli had not the faintest idea of the difference that caste makes between man and man."

He frequently visits his wolf family as they also come to visit him. Eventually Mowgli learns the language of the villagers and overhears one of the hunters, Buldeo, telling an exaggerated tale of his adventures in the jungle; whereupon, Mowgli begins to laugh. Buldeo is embarrassed and angered by the "jungle-brat" who dares to laugh at a village elder.

The villagers tease and fear Mowgli as he learns their culture; however, they attribute his mysterious ability to communicate with animals to witchcraft or sorcery. While still a boy, "Mowgli did not know his own strength in the least. In the jungle he knew he was weak compared with the beasts, but in the village people said that he was as strong as a bull" and preferred the work of tending the village cattle. Once, while watching over the herd, Mowgli is visited by Gray Brother, who warns Mowgli of Shere Khan's impending plot to attack. Mowgli devises a plan to ensnare the tiger in a ravine and causes a stampede to trample him.

Once Shere Khan is dead, Mowgli sets to skinning his hide. Buldeo sees the jungle prince in the act and comes to claim the bounty; however, Mowgli has had enough of his bullying and subdues him under the threat of attack from Gray Brother and Akela. Word reaches the village that Mowgli has killed a full grown tiger and the villagers begin to fear and throw rocks at him. They are scared of his ability to command animals and kick him out of the village while Mowgli responds, “Again? Last time it was because I was a man. This time it is because I am a wolf. Let us go."

"The Man Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk child’s talk.

My mouth is bleeding. Let me run away.
Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, my brothers. We will leave the lights of the village and go to the low moon.
Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why?
Wolf Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me and the village gates are shut. Why?
As Mang flies between the beasts and birds, so fly I between the village and the jungle. Why?
I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but my heart is very light, because I have come back to the jungle. Why?
These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the spring. The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. Why?
I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.
All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look — look well, O Wolves!
Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

The second Jungle Book takes place when "Father and Mother Wolf have died, and Mowgli [had] rolled a big boulder against the mouth of their cave, and cried the Death Song over them; Baloo grew very old and stiff, and even Bagheera, whose nerves were steel and whose muscles were iron, was a shade slower on the kill than he had been. Akela turned from gray to milky white with pure age; his ribs stuck out, and he walked as though he had been made of wood, and Mowgli killed for him." The pack had flourished and grown strong with new young wolves along with new leadership; however, fear struck them when they heard the ominous cry of the Red Dog, or Dhole (plural) closing in on their hunting grounds.

A bleeding wolf from another pack stumbles into the Seeonee and announces that his mate and pups were killed by the Dhole and warns the pack of the approaching danger.

The Dhole are fierce hunting dogs up to 200 in a pack who trample and tear apart everything in their path that even Shere Khan and the elephants would avoid them. The wolf pack had to decide whether to hide and let the dhole hunt on their grounds or stay and fight the terrorizing mass.

The Dhole unleashed their terror upon the inhabitants of the jungle and Mowgli sought help from the most wise rock python, Kaa. After meditating nearly a day, Kaa developed a brilliant plan to thin the herd of red dhole making them a fair fight for the Seeonee pack. Mowgli then set out to engage the dhole; cutting off their leader's tail and leading them on a blood thirsty hunt. Mowgli danced over the tree tops and guided the dogs towards the bee caves where he kicked boulders to awaken the wrath of the wild bees just before jumping into the gushing river below where Kaa was there to pull him to safety. Many of the dhole were killed by the bees or "little people" and many more are drowned as they jump into the river. As the dhole are weakening in numbers the Seeonee pack waits for them downstream ready to finish off the remaining dogs.

During the battle, Akela is injured and before dying he tells Mowgli, “Thou art a man, Little Brother, wolfling of my watching. Thou art a man, or else the Pack had fled before the dhole. My life I owe to thee, and today thou hast saved the Pack even as once I saved thee. Hast thou forgotten? All debts are paid now. Go to thine own people. I tell thee again, eye of my eye, this hunting is ended. Go to thine own people.” Mowgli refuses claiming, “Nay, nay, I am a wolf. I am of one skin with the Free People,” Mowgli cried. “It is no will of mine that I am a man.” and that he will stay in the jungle and hunt alone. But as Akela and Bagheera had warned him of this day, Mowgli must decide his fate.

Nearly two years after the dhole, Mowgli is sitting with Bagheera and notes the changing of seasons and how spring marks the time of 'New Talk' where all the animals began "practicing their songs" different from any other time in the jungle. It is when new life grows in the jungle and all its inhabitants frolic, play, and fight. Mowgli is angry at how all the animals have deserted him during the time of new talk, even though "I am the Master of the Jungle!" He scolds Bagheera, "I shall know when the Time of New Talk is here, because then thou and the others all run away and leave me alone.”

Mowgli struggles to understand why the animals in the jungle behave this way when he begins to feel sick. “I have eaten good food,” he said to himself. “I have drunk good water. Nor does my throat burn and grow small, as it did when I bit the blue-spotted root that Oo the Turtle said was clean food. But my stomach is heavy, and I have given very bad talk to Bagheera and others, people of the Jungle and my people. Now, too, I am hot and now I am cold, and now I am neither hot nor cold, but angry with that which I cannot see."

Mowgli decides to run the length of the jungle and calls to his wolf brothers, who do not answer. This leaves him feeling most alone and so he runs by himself. He runs for miles until he reaches the new village where his mother lives. He hears her voice and calls on her door. "As he stood in the red light of the oil-lamp, strong, tall, and beautiful, his long black hair sweeping over his shoulders, the knife swinging at his neck, and his head crowned with a wreath of white jasmine, he might easily have been mistaken for some wild god of a jungle legend." His mother is astonished, and invites him inside her house. She hugs him and cannot believe how beautiful he has grown and that she is unsure of whether he is actually her lost son, Nathoo, or "some forest god". She feeds him and tells him that he is always welcome before Gray Brother paws at the door.

Mowgli returns to the council rock sullen and confused by his emotions. There he is greeted by an aged Baloo, who can barely see, and Kaa the wise rock python, and finally, Bagheera, who has just slain another bull with which to free Mowgli from the Seeone. Baloo speaks, "I taught thee the Law. It is for me to speak,” he said; “and, though I cannot now see the rocks before me, I see far. Little Frog, take thine own trail; make thy lair with thine own blood and pack and people; but when there is need of foot or tooth or eye, or a word carried swiftly by night, remember, Master of the Jungle, the Jungle is thine at call.” Mowgli takes comfort knowing that this time it is not the Jungle that casts him out, but rather this desire wells from within Mowgli himself. Each of them tenderly wish him well and lovingly send him off on his new path.

Kipling ends the Jungle Book here, but includes a way to re-open his story at any time. His work mirrors his own emotions and he brilliantly weaves his message into a vivid dream-like reality. I believe that message to be one of inclusion and acceptance not on society's terms but on one's own. The pack will continue to do what the pack does, but as long as our loved ones exist, we are not alone and will always be welcomed and accepted by them. The Panther, a Bear, a Python, and a Wolf all serve as the metaphoric families we create for ourselves who help us survive and fight for our right to exist. Membership into a tribe or race does not guarantee love, loyalty, care, or happiness. Inclusion and compassion from those strong enough to see beyond race, caste, creed (or species) is the antidote to society's ignorance. In the end, Mowgli is welcomed and accepted by both the Jungle and Man as long as he has people who love him regardless of tribe.

Kipling is associated with controversy over his works which include The White Man's Burden, a poem dealing with the concept of imperialism.  Furthermore, his writings have influenced many works including Tarzan of the Apes, by Edgar Rice Burroughs.  For example, Tarzan is the offspring of John and Alice Clayton, remarkably the same names of Kipling's parents written in either homage or error.  Kipling for the record was disgusted with Burroughs' rip-off.


“When you call yourself an Indian or a Muslim or a Christian or a European, or anything else, you are being violent. Do you see why it is violent? Because you are separating yourself from the rest of mankind. When you separate yourself by belief, by nationality, by tradition, it breeds violence. So a man who is seeking to understand violence does not belong to any country, to any religion, to any political party or partial system; he is concerned with the total understanding of mankind.”
― Jiddu Krishnamurti

First published in 1844, Alexandre Dumas' The Count of Monte Cristo was written as a serial publication with new chapters being released as a television series would run similarly today. People would anxiously await each chapter in between releases (there are 117).

The book deals with such concepts as class discrimination, revenge, faith, and salvation. Dumas, himself the grandchild of Haitian and French Ancestry, most likely felt the keen sting of racial discrimination as well as having experienced the political tumult of various french revolutions.

The story begins with our protagonist, Edmond Dantès, a young "every-man" (in his early 20's) who served as second mate on the merchant ship, The Pharaon. He has returned home from a long sea voyage and is eager to see his father and betrothed, the beautiful Mercédès. Mercédès belongs to the Catalan fishing community of Spanish immigrants who settled in Marseilles, France. Mercédès' cousin, Fernand Mondego, is madly in love with her and despises her and Edmond's relationship as, "it is a sacred law among the Catalans only to marry among themselves".  He is further embittered when Edmond returns with news of his imminent promotion to ship captain. While Mercédès and Edmond celebrate their good fortune, those jealous of their happiness sit and conspire to rob Dantès of his future.

During his engagement party, Dantès is arrested by French Gendarmes in front of his peers, fiance, father and employer. He is subjected to shame and falsely accused of treason, which eventually lands him imprisoned in the formidable Château d'If. His loved ones inquire about his incarceration, but after several attempts to plead with the corrupt courts they are told that Dantès has been executed as they give up hope. Mercédès mourns for a year, Dantès Sr. slowly dies in poverty and from starvation due to a broken heart, while Msr. Morrell (Dantès' employer) suffers catastrophic business setbacks that nearly bankrupt his family. Dantès' conspirators, include Mondego (who later marries Mercédès), his ship mate Danglars (whose avarice, greed, and cunning allow him to succeed in business and amass wealth), Caderrouse (a covetous and opportunistic neighbor), and Villefort (a corrupt and ambitious politician bent on his own political gain).

Meanwhile, Dantès nearly loses his mind in captivity. After six years, he begins to lose faith in freedom. In a desperate attempt to escape through suicide he refuses to eat hoping that starvation will give him peace. As he waits for a slow and painful death, Dantès hears the scratches of a fellow prisoner secretly tunneling into his cell. Here, Dantès meets his fellow inmate, Abbé Faria, an ingenious priest who convinces Dantès not to give up and that together they can aspire for freedom. For the first time in years, both of them have found companionship as Dantès finds a surrogate father, and the Abbé, a son. Over the next eight years, the Abbé mentors Dantès and spends time teaching him multiple languages, maths, sciences, economics, and philosophy "which cannot be taught".

"Philosophy is the union of all acquired knowledge and the genius that applies it: philosophy is the shining cloud upon which Christ set His foot to go up into heaven."
― Abbé Faria

The Abbé even helps Dantès to solve the mystery of his imprisonment and laments, "Because I have insinuated a feeling into your heart that was not previously there: the desire for revenge" which sets the wheels in motion for the transfiguration of mortal Dantès into the supernatural Count of Monte Cristo.

Abbé Faria suffers from epileptic seizures and just before his death he bequeaths Dantès with the secret whereabouts of a tremendous fortune located on the Isle of Monte Cristo.

When the prison guards discover the corpse of the Abbé, they sew him in a muslin body bag and leave the cell to make further preparations. Here after nearly 14yrs of imprisonment, Dantès takes advantage of his opportunity to exchange places with the deceased in order to escape and later on dig himself free from his burial; however he learns that instead of being buried, deceased inmates are thrown into the sea with weights chained to their body. Dantès is thrown into the ocean and must fight to survive by breaking himself free from his chains and tearing through the burial sack all while swimming to the surface for breath. He accomplishes this metaphorical "birth" from prisoner to free man and falls into company with a pirate vessel coasting along the shore. Being an accomplished sailor, Dantès is quickly respected by the men and begins his quest to find out the status of his family, friends, and enemies.

This book has been celebrated for generations and shares honors for being one of the quintessential readings for young men as they develop their own character in life. Dumas has created a masterpiece that is as amazing in translation as it must surely have been in its original french.

I set out on a three week trip to Europe with this book as my sole entertainment and was not let down as I devoured nearly 100 pages a day. It is beautifully constructed with many side stories as well. It delivers many lessons and leaves the reader encouraged to seek their own freedom from false imprisonment. It touches upon the nature of men and women. It discusses the conduct of politics. It examines the psychology of revenge. It challenges the reader to explore faith and fidelity.

One of the underlying subplots of the novel is the concept of treason and its implications on those who are faithful to either "the King" or "the Emperor". The story takes place during the french revolution where corrupt wealthy elites by royal birthright were removed from office through force and replaced with Napoleon, a military general turned emperor, whose own power is usurped back by the Royalist party. It was a struggle for power and dominion not unlike a spiritual war, which I think Dumas cleverly suggests to the reader.

It seemed to ask the question, "To which Authority does one serve?" Depending on how one answers, they will find themselves rewarded for their loyalty or be found guilty of "treason".

Upon landing back on shore from his time as a smuggler, Edmond visits a barber to see if he would recognize his own face.  "The Barber looked with astonishment at this man, with his long hair and thick black beard... and was surprised that a man who could enjoy such physical attributes should deprive himself of them."  After discovering that people no longer recognized him as Edmond Dantès upon his return to Marseilles, he dawns his new persona as the Count of Monte Cristo (along with a few other aliases: Sinbad the Sailor, Abbé Busoni, and Lord Wilmore).  Using the hidden fortune left to him by his adopted father, Abbé Faria. The Count spends several years traveling the Earth acquiring new knowledge and skills to help him exact revenge on his enemies. He perfects many languages and makes numerous alliances with people of influence. He saves lives, and helps the less fortunate. He becomes a "Guardian Angel" to those who loved him before and during his exile. He becomes an "Avenging Angel" to those who betrayed him and were disloyal.

The Count makes his return to France in a grand fashion as he quickly becomes the talk of Paris with his wealth and eccentricities, "either because of some imagined aura or because of his natural presence, he attracted attention wherever he went."  He studies his enemies and learns of their strengths and weaknesses, even going so far as to make the acquaintance and gain the trust of his enemies' grown children. He constructs an incredible plot spanning years to use his enemies' own flaws against themselves until they have suffered as he was condemned to do. The Count offers them opportunities for redemption, but knows their nature won't elect this path.

Slowly, one by one the Count's betrayers are destroyed as the secrets of their past come back to haunt them. Some kill themselves, others leave their lives in shambles.  Only when a the young son of Villefort, the corrupt politician, is killed by his own demented and murderous mother does the Count realize that he has gone too far. He tries to revive the boy, but he is too late.

"for the Lord loves what is right and does not abandon his faithful people. He protects them forever, but the descendants of the wicked will be driven out."

― Psalm 37:28

The Count compares himself to the fallen angel who thought himself the equal of God and repents by saving the life of another who was poisoned by the murderous step mother as he raises her from the dead. 

"Come, do you know what the Count of Monte Cristo can do?  Do you know that he commands many powers on earth?  Do you know that he has enough faith in God to obtain miracles from Him who said that if a man has faith he can move mountains?"

After revealing his brilliant plan to restore the "dead" woman back to life, the Count leaves his wealth in the hands of a family friend and sails off into the sunset with his devoted new paramour, Haydée, concealing his final words in a letter.

"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget, that until the day God will deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and Hope.”
― Alexandre Dumas

It's 7am on December 28th, 2015; I'll be leaving the country for over a month as I have been planning for the last two years, but somehow the reality has not quite set in.  We load my dad's pickup truck and head to the bank for a last minute cash withdrawal.  It's cold and rainy in Dallas.  After topping up my travel funds, we head to my uncle's house to pick him up.  As usual, he's been waiting 'prepared' so after loading his cargo we head to the Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport.  My folks drop us off, exchange loving embraces, and we walk through the international departure gates.  Almost 45 minutes into our adventure, my uncle frantically searches his bags for his passport, a deal breaker for our morning's departure.  He thinks that he has left it at home and we call my father to return and pick him up to take him back to his house.  I wait in the check-in line until I have to make a decision to load my suitcases onto the plane.  I decide to check them on in optimistic hope that my uncle will return on time.  The check-in counter slowly attends to each passenger until they inform me that they will be closing in a few minutes.  I smile and tell them that I'm fine with whatever the Universe has in store for us.

Then suddenly, I see my uncle quickly shuffling to the counter with his passport.  Miraculously, we are able to check-in and make it onto the plane in time.  We each breath a sigh of gratitude and situate ourselves for the fifteen hour flight.

After a brief connection in Dubai, we set on to the impressive new Mumbai (formerly Bombay) International Airport, from which we will hop again to our first and final destination, Goa.

It was a beautiful experience in spite of the pain in my injured neck.  Then in the evening, Fr. Nalpat took us to have dinner with his brother’s family a few kilometers away.  His sister-in-law was able to prepare a delicious meal on such short notice consisting of pork, prawn, and chicken options in addition to vegetable dishes and ice cream for dessert.  There are few pleasures like the delights of a home cooked meal prepared with love.

The next morning, my uncle woke me up to celebrate his daily mass ritual, something I’ve grown appreciative of since coming to India.  After praying we ate breakfast in the hotel when Fr. Nalpat came and took my uncle to see a doctor, which gave me a chance to catch up on some reading and writing.  It was in the afternoon when the sun was beginning to relent when we went to the beach to experience the Cochin seaside. It was warm and unusual to encounter such a vast ocean in the midst of January’s winter. It was an unforgettable experience.

Later that evening Fr. Nalpat took us to an ashram convent to dine with the Sisters of Christo Raj (Christ the King).  I was informed that this privilege was not normally extended to lay persons but an exception was made for me.  I was honored to be with them.  They seemed so inquisitive and happy that they reminded me of the school children I had visited once in Africa.  The priests lovingly teased them and they blushed like joyful young ladies.  They had prepared delicious food and never wavered in their graciousness as hosts while they constantly served us new foods and drinks to enjoy.  I ate till I was unable to hide my gut and felt compelled to stand up and walk a lap or two before sitting back down.  They walked us out to the gate, wished us a safe journey, and watched as we walked down the street to our hotel.  I loved being there with them and witnessing their commitment to devotion and innocence.

The next morning we left for Mumbai at 5am.  We reached Mumbai with plans of dropping off the heaviest of our luggage at St Francis Xavier's School which is managed by Fr. Theo Fernandes, my uncle's classmate nearly 47 years ago.  After having lunch with the school Fathers, my uncle and I went back to our quarters to formulate a plan.  We were scheduled to leave Mumbai later that day for Bangkok at 11pm and return in four days back to India.  With our truncated time table we set out to meet up with my mother's relatives.  We took a rickshaw to a wrong church, which happened to be precisely where my aunt, Doris Pereira lives.  We had called her from Cochin to let her know that we might be stopping by, so she wasn't all that surprised when we knocked on her door.  After catching up for a bit and sitting for some snacks, which included my grandmother's delicious fruitcake recipe, we decided to head to a local market for provisions and gifts.  We found expensive knock-offs and crowds so we decided to visit another relative, Dr. Margaret Miranda.  Her practice is attached to her home so she can often be found busy and (according to her) unprepared for guests.  When we showed up unexpectedly, we found her home to be charming and very welcoming in spite of her own criticism.  I was so happy to see that Fr. Francis Gonzalves, her brother (and also my mom's cousin), was there to have tea with us.  We chatted for a bit, enjoyed some delicious 'impromptu' chutney sandwiches, and took some pictures before heading off to Dharavi, one of the largest slums in the world, to shop for gifts and provisions.

With dangerous efficiency, my uncle and I secured our purchases, maintained our safety from pick pockets and thieves, and headed back to Xavier's School by rickshaw for supper and to prepare for our trip to Bangkok later that evening.

We arrived in Bangkok around 8am and after exchanging some currency at the airport we realized that our hotel information was saved somewhere in cyberspace as our smartphones could not access the server.  We managed to find an old email with our booking information only after registering on the airport wifi connection.  It seems that my uncle and I constantly rely on each other to solve our problems and have made a good team thus far.  After confirming a few times that our hotel was in fact located an hour away by another local airport we set out in a cab to sight see the city until we reached our accommodation.

Our hotel was nice.  It was located in a quiet neighborhood next to restaurants which we got to explore on foot.  We discovered a street restaurant that served the best Tom Yum soup!  We made plans to explore downtown, check out a riverwalk, and catch a lights show.

The next day we decided to check out the "floating market" as recommended by our previous night's cab driver (he even agreed to take us there in the morning).  After driving nearly an hour (everything in Bangkok is far away) we arrived at a tourist trap and reluctantly bought our tickets for a boat ride through the canals of a "floating market".  We decided to go with the flow, bargained down the outrageous ticket price, and sipped on a coconut while watching the show.

Next, we decided to check out the famous "Golden Buddha", that my uncle had seen back in 1971.  An hour later, we were there.  It was bittersweet to see such a spiritual place littered with commercial tourism, people taking endless selfies, and crowds that erased any sense of intimacy.  We hastened our visit and proceeded back to our hotel for a rest.  In the evening, feeling recovered from our time in the sun, we decided to get authentic Thai massages by a street shop across from our new favorite restaurant.  Any lingering pain from my neck injury was tenderized into submission and left me feeling like jello.  We stumbled over to our Tom Yum soup shop to enjoy a bowl before retiring for the evening.

We decided to shave a day off our time in Bangkok by attempting to ride the bus system to the airport from the purported "complimentary" shuttle service from domestic to international airports (opposite sides of Bangkok).  All attempts to contact our airline were fruitless, so we decided to go to the ticket counter in person.  Once we reached, we found the counter abandoned and were informed nobody would be available until 5pm that evening.  With diminished enthusiasm, we attempted to board the shuttle system back to the other airport next to our hotel, only to be rejected by the attendants as we were told that our tickets were only one way.  After asking several people for guidance and getting answers ranging from impossible communication barriers, blatant rudeness, and kind smiles with broken English, we decided on following the latter most until we made our way back home riding public transportation.  With our frustration reaching a fevered boil, patience was needed to survive the journey.

When we reached back to our hotel, we enjoyed lunch at an unbelievably inexpensive and delicious street shop which helped encourage our spirits.  We rested for a bit until we felt prepared to reattempt our early departure.

In our second attempt to leave Bangkok, we marched confidently to the shuttle bus with our luggage in tow.  We walked directly to the Air India counter, found it staffed with attendants, and secured our places in the queue.  My uncle left to inquire at the counter whether we could exchange our tickets scheduled for the next evening for a pair leaving tonight.  It was here that we discovered that my visa into India was only a single entry and had expired the moment we left for Bangkok.  Basically, this meant that we could not leave and would have to re-apply for another visa to re-enter India within 24hours of our scheduled flight.

Feeling thoroughly discouraged at this point we gathered as much information about visiting the Indian Embassy and headed back to our hotel across town.  Somehow the weight of our luggage seemed a bit heavier and the bus routes a little longer.  When we reached the hotel, our friendly inn-keeper was there to welcome us back despite our early check-out.  We found our room had been cleaned and dressed with fresh new sheets and towels.

I awoke with the earnestness of an uncertain dawning; my uncle had been up for at least an hour.  After a quick mass, a short breakfast, and a shower we left the hotel by taxi around 7am.  The traffic in Bangkok is horrendous.  According to google maps our destination was only 30 minutes away, but it took us more than an 1 1/2 hours to reach.  When we finally found the embassy, we were told that we'd have to go to another office located a short distance away on the 22nd floor.  I waited in yet another queue only to be told that my best chances for a quick issued visa was to apply online and wait at a coffee shop down below.

A long time ago, when I was a boy, I was taught the concept of 'Grace' was like going to a fancy restaurant, ordering a big meal (including a decadent dessert), and finding out that you left your wallet at home... but instead of trouble, somebody else takes care of the bill without expectation in return.  And like that you are free.  To feel loved, to be protected by, and to be forgiven is to experience Grace...

At the Kuppadeli cafe in Bangkok, I find my fingers instinctively braiding together as I wait to hear back from the e-visa office.

Here's to Grace!

After trips to the Indian Embassy and US Consulate we decided that it was best for my uncle to catch his flight back to India to prevent further complications.  I felt comfortable riding the bus back and finding lodging in the neighborhood where we stayed the previous night.  During the taxi ride to the airport my uncle and I exchanged last minute contacts should we lose touch.  Somehow I misplaced my cellphone with all my contact information and photos while exiting the cab and shuffling to collect our luggage.  Once we reached the check-in gate I was reluctant to share the additional bad news.  I confessed to losing my phone, upon which uncle Johnny reached into his bag and gave me one of his phones and some cash (talk about grace).  I could see the apprehension in his eyes, but being men we just smiled, shook hands, and bade each other a safe journey at the security counter.  I watched as the man who used to pick me up with ease and swing me through the air as a child, now grown into a silver haired old gentleman ambled through the flight gates with his roll on bags in tow.  I felt the unique blend of sweet sorrow as I was both happy and sad.  After making sure he was safely through, I marched deliberately to the familiar shuttle bus that would take me through two connections and bring me back to my hotel.  As I sat on the cramped bus seat I reflected upon the metaphor of seeing one's loved ones pass from this world into the next.  It's a certainty that all of us will have to face and only when our 'visa' to the next destination is approved will we be able to join.

Bangkok is an amazing city filled with spirituality, which means both spirits of vice and virtue.  The good people at my previous inn were able to secure me a room for the night at an inexpensive boarding house named the "Don Mueang Mansion".  It was a huge old apartment building with dozens of floors and rooms.  While checking in, I was astonished to find my cell phone hidden in one of the bag's compartments.  After I checked in, close to midnight, the attendant showing me to my room asked if I wanted a Thai massage woman, upon which I laughed and said, "No thanks."  While there were no noticeable insects, the room was musty and drab.  The plastic coated mattress rested in stark contrast to the bleached white sheets adorning it.  I threw off the ancient duvet, cranked up the air conditioner, and went to sleep smiling at the comedy of the situation.  I woke up around 9am with the sound of my tube television set playing Thai cartoons that lulled me to sleep the night before.  I was surprised to find hot water in the shower and enjoyed a steamy bath.  Running low on Thai currency, I decided to walk to the local Don Mueang Airport and exchange some bills.  On my way there, I was able to use the internet and found that my visa had been approved for re-entry that day.  I excitedly returned to check-out of the "mischief mansion"; whereupon, I witnessed a scantily clad young woman with a fistful of cash shamelessly stuffing the bills into her purse as we rode the lift down from my floor.  Just as the 1980's song alluded, "this is Bangkok" I thought to myself and smiled inwardly.

From Bangkok, I returned to Mumbai close to midnight.  It was a sweet reunion cut short by the chaotic mob accompanying my uncle as they gathered for their newly arrived guests.  Soldiers armed with semi-automatic machine guns adorned the exits to prevent unauthorized entry and keep the peace.  We caught a 'rick' back to our Mumbai fortress at the St Francis Xavier's School and in the morning I awoke to the sound of children playing in the courtyard around a 100yr old banyan tree.  It was when they started singing their school song that I decided to roll out of bed.

After a night of peaceful rest and relaxation we roamed about Mumbai to check out some sights and decided to catch a bus to meet a family friend for dinner across town.  That evening we were treated to a five star meal at a members only 'National Sports Club of India' (the US equivalent of a Country Club) where our host was a member.  Instead of taking a bus home our host recommended that we view the Mumbai "Sea Link", a beautiful bridge that cuts across the water, to bring us directly home via private cab.  It made me wish that we had more time to spend with loved ones and sight-see around Mumbai.

The next morning we flew to Ahmedebad to stay with my uncle's cousin Reginald once again, but this time in his home in nearby Gandhinagar, the capital of Gujarat.  It was here I met the D'souza family (my third cousins) and enjoyed sharing a comfortable two bedroom flat with 9 people (& 2 dogs).  There, everyone got along well despite also sharing only one bathroom.  My uncle and I were given royal treatment which included waking up to homemade chai at least twice a day, delicious snacks, and an endless buffet of amazing Gujarati cooking.

After spending a few days with my extended family, we booked an overnight train to Ajmer in north India.  We reached the station around midnight and still found a cavalcade of rickshaws and taxis waiting to deliver passengers.  We reached the Fatima convent a few kilometers from the station on a cold night in what seemed like a remote village ashram.  We waited at the gates until a giant but ragged looking old man answered the gate and escorted us to our quarters at the back of the convent (it reminded me of something out of a Harry Potter novel).  We found an ancient guest quarters with several rooms and one with two beds set up for us.  I decided to climb right into bed from the exhaustion of restless 'sleep' in the upper berth of a moving train.  In the morning I woke up to a cold room with thick concrete walls and hard stone floors.  I stayed warmly wrapped in my bedsheets until my uncle informed me that the shower produced a steady flow of hot water.  I have never appreciated 'bucket baths' so much in my life.  After getting dressed we headed to breakfast where we met Sister Carmelita, my uncle's cousin.  She was an 80yr old nun with the grace of an innocent child.  She seemed overjoyed that she got to see my uncle once again and wouldn't part from his side (it reminded me a lot of my niece and nephew).  In fact, all the nuns I met at the convent all seemed to remind me of children as they giggled and played in addition to their responsibilities at the convent.

In the evening we went to dinner at another cousin's home, nestled in the mountains.  Immediately after supper we departed for the midnight train to Baroda to visit with the Bishop and some other family.  After a night of traveling and a 2hr morning bus ride, we reached the Bishop's estate in time for lunch with his excellency and a few other priests.  This is where I got to meet Father Pablo, a 90 yr old Jesuit Missionary Priest, who with his brothers helped to educate my Dad and Uncle when they lived in India as kids.  Father Pablo was the highlight of the Baroda trip as he was the image of a real life "Don Quixote" complete with battle scars from a run-in with skin cancer leaving a menacing suture track on his face.  I learned that he published a few books and even more amazing is that he started writing at age 83.  His works involved writing on topics of spirituality, psychology, philosophy, and faith.  He was a gentleman priest and even presented us with two signed copies of his books (which I read with zeal).  That evening we stayed with some family and left for Nadiad in the morning.

In the village town of Nadiad we had lunch with some priests, who ran the St Mary's school.  It was a simple school with a devout student body, as children could be seen taking time from their lunches to come to the sanctuary for quiet prayer.  After lunch, Fr. Joseph Mari and I decided to make a liquor run as Gujarat is a 'dry' state with liquor sales permitted to those with foreign passports.  We zipped through town on his motorbike witnessing cows, street vendors, and children playing in a river.  We also witnessed a gruesome vehicle accident on the highway as we scooted by on the access road to our liquor shop.

After some rest, Fr. Mari drove us back to Gandhinagar.  Even though our trip to Baroda and Nadiad was short, I was happy to be "home".  With great expectation we awaited the arrival of Anthony, Reginald's only son, and the only other young male that could help me balance all the female energy in the flat with 5 women (they ruled with an iron fist and teased me mercilessly).  He worked in Mumbai during the week and on the weekend caught the train to Gandhinagar to be with his family, wife, and baby daughter.  With my visa problems in Bangkok, my uncle and I decided to skip going to Nepal instead opting to travel with our host family to Udaipur, Rajasthan.

We packed a weekend bag and made the 3 hour road trip to the mountains of Udaipur, where I discovered a city that one could easily mistake for being in Greece or in the fabled Agrabah from Disney's Aladdin at night.  I learned the difference between a street and a gully, which are narrow roads claustrophobically surrounded by ancient multi-story buildings which make it impossible to tell one's navigational orientation due to lack of landscape clues.  We adventured the town during the day and dined at amazing restaurants at night.  Food was always a welcomed indulgence throughout our travels in India, but I was starting to feel the effects of the rich consumption as more flesh was sticking to my ribs by the day.  We concluded our weekend trip with an early morning ice bath and hit the road by 7am (hot water was a precious commodity and didn't heat up until the boiler was lit around 8am).

When we returned from Udaipur we met with the last of our friends and family for lunches and dinners until our time in India had come to a bittersweet end.  With one last celebration of mass with our host family, we set off for the airport to catch a series of flights to our last adventure in Dubai, part of the Unite Arab Emirates. 

There we were greeted by a cousin, Patrick, who made arrangements for us to stay in a hotel/apartment with a kitchen, gym, and a rooftop pool.  After spending time with Patrick's family and some friends, we set off on a 'desert safari' which involved being picked up by an ordinary looking driver in a large Toyota SUV along with some other passengers for a drive through the city and into the desert.  After about 30 minutes we reached a small station for tourists to use the restroom and shop, when I noticed our driver deflating the SUV tires to a pillowy bounce.  I figured this had something to do with increasing the tire surface area for maximum traction on the sand.  Then we all re-boarded the SUV and headed out into the desert.  The driver morphed from ordinary man into "Jason Statham" and the SUV from road vehicle into Desert Cruiser as we raced up 15 foot sand dunes and down with equal ferocity.  The roller-coaster sensation was paired with an arabic beat as the music matched the mysticism and excitement being felt here in the afternoon sands.  We surfed the dunes for about 30 minutes before arriving at our 'desert oasis' for an evening of dining and entertainment (sort of like an Arabic Medieval Times with belly dancing instead of jousting).  After snapping a few pictures and getting our fill of food and show, we headed back into the desert for a night ride of oceanless surfing.  When we reached the road, our driver made a quick stop at an air station to refill the tires where I had the chance to examine the SUV and congratulate our driver with a new lens of respect and admiration.

We spent the next day walking around the enormous Dubai Mall which rivals (or dwarfs) any western shopping center I've ever been to.  Since shopping gives me a headache, I opted to people watch instead.  As Dubai is host to many tourists and cultures there was an endless supply of 'interesting' to observe.  We caught a ride to the Dubai Museum located in the Al Fahidi fort where we learned about the regional culture.  One of the things that stood out to me was the fact that Islam was conceived somewhere here in such an environment where their calendar is based upon the cycles of the moon.  This makes sense as the moon provided illumination to desert dwellers who might have opted to stay indoors during the hot day and to hunt, travel, or celebrate at night when the temperatures were much cooler.  When I was in the desert I felt the presence of the stars unlike anything experienced in a busy city.  I felt the presence of Divinity despite being 'alone'.  I can easily see how ancient people of this land were able to connect the night's cool respite as a saving grace, a time for healing from the day's desiccate heat.

After our desert adventures, riding the rail and buses through the city (which houses the world's tallest building), and with our shopping thresholds being reached, I decided to relax by reading on the rooftop and swimming a few laps in the pool.  By the end of our 35 days of travel we both were feeling a longing to be home and rest peacefully in our own beds without an agenda necessarily planned for the next day.  We checked out of our hotel and made our way to the airport for our direct night flight back to Dallas.

I was proud of my Uncle as he traversed the many airports, lugging baggage to and fro and up into storage compartments (the key lesson being travel lightly and take only what you need).  We found our seats, had a drink or two, and tried our best to sleep through the flight.  In the morning, we had arrived back in Dallas, suffered immigration, and yet another "random security check".  I tolerated the customary travel pestering as I was too happy to be home.

“For our goal was not only the East, or rather the East was not only a country and something geographical, but it was the home and youth of the soul, it was everywhere and nowhere, it was the union of all times.”
― Hermann Hesse, The Journey to the East