Sri Lankan Dayz

There are days when you forget why you're on the road. When you are dirty and dusty and tired and frustrated by language barriers, and all you can think of is home and your own bed and the comforts of familiarity.

And then there are the other days.

Like today.

Today, I woke up with the sunlight filtering through my curtains onto my pillow. As I lay in the rays, I debated whether to have a balcony coffee before, or after, my run on the beach. Tough decisions.

A peek out the door onto my private balcony revealed a view dominated by clusters of palm trees and a wide, deep blue sky. Red flowers filled the bushes, and you could smell the salt in the breeze off the ocean.

Grabbing my running shoes, I headed down the lane to the beach, crossing over a set of rusted railway tracks past homes built in the style of the Dutch colonizers of years past.

I passed clusters of men in saraongs, their deep brown skin glistening in the morning sun. Three wheelers and local buses, decaled and colourful and perfectly tropical cruised by me on the road, honking a simultaneous greeting and warning to each other.

The sand was soft under my feet as I kicked off my shoes to run barefoot along the beach, ocean spray wetting my legs as the waves crashed and tumbled beside me. Early morning fishermen walked the shoreline and the mist off the dunes gave the entire place a wild and untamed feel.

A swim in the surf to rinse the sweat way, then home to shower. A cup of coffee on the balcony as I watched my neighbours begin their daily rituals - girls in white school uniforms walking to school, mothers with small children in tuk tuks, the paper boy cruising by on his bicycle.

As ten a.m. rolled around, another tough decision to face: suntanning, or another swim?

This is why we travel.