Imagine the explorers of old, on their slow dogged ships. How long it would take them to discover this place; how much lore and witchcraft it would seem to possess when, alighting from the motherly deck of their womb-like ship, they saw–this. The strange fruits and dark skin of exoticism. How like a birth. To be evacuated from the warm familiar into a place with no language known to you. Is this why we crave the experience of travel–at least why the thought appeals to us, even if we do it rarely ourselves? Not escapism at all, really. But a return to the earliest sensation. Birth, rebirth. The oldest story. It’s always the same stories.