Romantics and Transcendentalists have mused at some length about continents and nations within, the inner world being as expansive as the outer. Though analogous on this supposition, I am unsure just how far the one-to-one correspondences can themselves be pushed. If the inner world is one of continents and nations, perhaps even peoples, I might take this one step further and hold that such can be visited, traveled in some sense. So, I ask my unresponding reader whether the travel of travelogue might, in some instances, consist in travel through the countries of the self, either through its unfolding or my unwittingly penetrating through those same layers. Such were the origins of this travelogue not outwards but inwards.
Stranded in Heathrow the airport, I was directed through Heathrow the town, drab grey and grimy brick. In the nondescript airport hotel, I bided my time with either book or television and took my dinner alone at a table for four and watched through the windows, high as the room, the play of light in the courtyard, escaping from blinds and throwing the shadows of the ivy onto the plate-glass before me. In the room, mindfulness falls away to the droning of the television and the phrase “koala mittens”. Back at Heathrow the airport, I took a stroll through the designated multi-faith room, tucked away between stairwells, and got it into my head to wander through some prayers. Once embarked and after some time, our plane flew with the dusk over Greenland, and the sun rose for a second time that day.