After watching Mickey Rourke
Seems beside the point
I began to have trouble breathing in the soupy air and noticed my fellow slow-traveler (Tom) had taken a seat on a rock to catch his breath, too. I seized upon the chance to rescue us both by suggesting I could be easily convinced to return to the villa without further ado. Tom, God bless him, concurred. I admitted to Tom and our consummate host, Nick, that although I grew up in the country and had hiked and explored the woods and rivers of Louisiana, Mississippi and East Texas, it has been more than twenty-five years ago and it feels almost disingenuous to claim that history. It’s like I’ve co-opted someone else’s childhood for dramatic effect, however accurate it may be. I keep saying I am not that guy, but I must come to terms I have become that guy; City Slicker, Gringo, Greenhorn, whatever you call it. I’m soft, people. Soft like a down pillow. But I’m okay with it because at least this down pillow agrees to leave the couch and be thrown into the wild (be it woods, plains or jungle) from time to time.