Sunsets and sunrises here are ridiculous. At seven degrees north latitude, when the sun makes its move, there’s no fooling around. Bang. It’s up or it’s down. But that brief period in between is, barring overcast weather, outrageous. The reds, oranges, pinks, and purples are indescribable as they light up layer upon perfect layer of clouds stretching so far into infinity the earth’s curve is almost perceptible, creating a cineramadome panorama of such heart crushing beauty that I sometimes find myself transfixed, paralyzed until darkness falls.
I don’t thrill to the feel of power as I throw a German sedan through winding curves. There isn’t a theatre showing the new Tarantino flick for a thousand miles. No one is going to stop by my table to decant an effusively boisterous yet darkly mysterious petite syrah that will nicely compliment a foie gras stuffed rosemary encrusted quail with roasted fingerling potatoes and heirloom tomato roux. I don’t own a phone. Or keys. It’s been forever since I danced to live music. The few minutes of free time I get a day are spent passing out as I read three paragraphs in the same book I’ve been trying to finish for two months. Internet is a joke here. I wouldn’t even know how to act on a date. I’d kill for a pint of Ben and Jerry’s. But if each of us is allotted a given number of perfect sunsets, I am well into or even over my quota, and I may be cutting into yours.
