I look up from my book and focus on a sentence: sometimes Henry Miller can be quite psychedelic. My neck reaches out, a bit giraffe-like, I bite the straw and I pull a sip of the best fruit shake that can be found in town. I look at the street where a bus drives by: the very last window is framing a face. A chubby red oval, a shaven head, only one shoulder is covered by the orange robe: it's a Buddhist novice, one of those child-monks. Tiny hands grab the edge of the glass, while wide-open eyes stare at me or the whole world. I can't take a photo but I nail him to my mind. Year-long journeys in countries like Laos - among other things - have taught me this lesson: one just needs to relax and sharpen one's senses in order to boost his mood for the day.
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