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I know what I'm looking for. The fabled lady with the cowboy hat. I first found this stall on my last excursion and spent countless hours drooling over her food and revealing in the idea of having found near perfection. My love for her is completely irrational. Maybe it's the hat or that she seems immortal, somehow unagging, maybe it's the complete control of the machete sized cleaver that she wields effortlessly, not a drop of anything on her apron after hours of standing on a small stool, endlessly chopping pork on a tree trunk size butcher block all the while smiling and looking regal. It could be all of those things but it's probably the food.
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I am praying now, making vows to only eat bran muffins and use the stairs for the rest of my life. Swearing loudly, to any higher power that will listen, my intentions of a strict workout plan and a more measured approach to my consumption. Golf ball size beads of sweat are streaming down my face in anguish, I am questioning the morals, motivation and true nature of the gods, questioning Jesus and his overly preachy book.
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The morning fog descending on the city, the dawn peeking its head above the mountains, the start of the constant buzzing and unrecognizable chatter that every city keeps as its own. The promise of wonder that every new day can bring if you are aware of it.
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As you start your descent, the tree covered mountains roll out beneath you as thunderous green canopy sprawls in concord with the rise and fall of thick rock, carving it's way through the terrain. Rivers run like veins through the dense jungle floor. Eventually, the grand peaks giving way to rolling countryside, lush with terraced fields and rice patties stretching as far as the small pane of window will allow you to see.