Florence gazed out at the Sea of people flooding into the main hall of Terminal 1. A cross current of arrivals from the West Gate converged with the tide departing for the East. She spotted the ticket counter across main hall, like a remote island waiting for someone to reach its shores.
With plenty of wind in her sails and her butterscotch yellow overnight case in hand, Florence set off across the crowded waters. The Sea ebbed and flowed with the bioluminescence of travel. As people passed her, Florence felt a sparkling of stardust in their wake. She connected with them in that dust, she heard their celestial murmurs brought back to pass the torch; charting the course for a new adventure.
About twenty paces in Florence noticed a tall brunette who walked to the beat of midnight suede. Her boots that no other could wear told the tale of hyacinth and vanilla, of being lost in the backstreets of Montmatre. A secret love story that one must only experience to fully understand.
Then there was the sheep-haired boy that nearly tripped Florence when he ran back to pick up his fallen toy, a hand woven leather camel with soft wide inviting eyes, the toy that mommy and daddy bought in that fly laden market in Fez to keep him occupied while on a seven-day desert safari.
Florence hadn’t taken her eyes off the ground when she noticed the flowing habits of the Sisters of Charity. They passed before her with a firm silent grace while carrying her own multicolored retablo that bore Andean scenes of worship, harvest, feasts and processions. Instantly Florence had a vision of the village elder presenting these gifts as a token of gratitude for their service.