Six Senses Samui

It was the last day before it was time to head back home. The flu that had made the first week miserable had long vanished and, brushing aside the looming sense of departure, the wooden deck smelled of nothing but eternal summers. High on a cliff above the Gulf of Thailand, it was the kind of place that paid its staff well and where everyone seemed genuinely happy about their jobs, all to an extent that even the colonial shadows dwindled out of one’s consciousness.

It still takes a lot to think that everything is for the best. Maybe it was the pair of black and white sneakers that had been left over at the pool. For some strange reason, they were of the exact same Adidas model as the ones that she had worn in the asylum in Guatemala. Next to them was a short hand-written note in Spanish.

We play with worlds and roles next to ravines; be it the journalist chasing her Pulitzer prize, the nurse or the oh-so-important professor who is about the save the planet. Afterwards it will just be idiosyncrasies, dead ends and a few strange symmetries (of which the tuk tuk undoubtedly takes the price) in case someone tries to unwind it all.