During the time I was in the Navy I went on two six-month Mediterranean cruises on the USS Saratoga. Whenever we pulled into a port, no matter where it was, Naples or Malaga or Izmir or wherever, most of my shipmates would immediately head for the nearest bar to get drunk, or seek out the local prostitutes, or both. I wanted to fit in and be just “one of the guys” but I couldn’t bring myself to join them in these banal escapades, which seemed dreary and pointless to me. But I didn’t know what else to do so whenever we were in port, so I went out walking by myself, exploring, mostly at random. I found, strangely enough, that the times when I felt most alive and most at peace were the times when I was keenly aware of being all alone in a strange place, in a foreign culture among people who spoke a language incomprehensible to me. At such times the world was beautiful and strange. As for example walking along a seawall late at night in Majorca, looking out into the dark sea and sky and seeing tiny stitches of distant lightning and feeling an extraordinary sense of peacefulness. Or climbing up a high hill on the outskirts of Barcelona and watching the sun go down. Or wandering the back alleys of Split until late into the night, all alone, unafraid, and feeling content to be simply walking with no destination. I relished the strange feeling of being lost in a world that I didn’t understand, of not belonging anywhere in particular. When you are lost the whole world becomes your home.

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