A lost perception.

The smiles I get from my friends at the Ancient Luang Prabang Hotel are purely jovial. I watch them work in black slack stride with sandaled feet and neon green polos. In their interactions with other foreigners, I am able to see something I have lately neglected.

My perception of size has been greatly altered in almost 4 months spent in Southeast Asia, to the extent that I forget my towering height that reaches at least a foot above the crowns of their small round heads. This size worked to my detriment when picking out a shirt in the market one week ago -- the polo was about one size to small -- so I have proceeded to slowly with pressure pop the threaded seams that bind my arms and chest. At times I have also smacked my head in short doorways or ducked with a whoosh to avoid lumps from bamboo sidewalk awnings.

Now, watching my dedicated friends working in the presence of a pair of six foot white women, they appear to be small fantastical elves in the presence of giants; attending to their work with honest duty but jumping into character when catching my watchful eye and returning it with a gleeful smile. The truth of my perception.

I have made plans to leave Luang Prabang by tomorrow morning. My already extended visa expires on the 26th, so I will slowly make my way to Cambodia. The route: from here to Udom Xai, to Pakbeng, to Sainyabuli, to Pak Lai, and back to Vientiane before going to the border, straight south. A roundabout way to see the north -- its people, rivers, and mountains.

[A diversion from my normal writing; in the facial features of a woman four tables out, I am reminded of someone I once pursued to the best of my knowledge. In hiding romanticism of my years, I chased with letters from west to east. With concern for every word, I wrote in my exhaustion. Beneath a polyester rainfly or a starlit sky, and with embedded dirt in the whorls of my fingertips, I painted in monochromatic color. But with more grace than ever before. I don't know what will happen to these letters. Have they embedded themselves in the heart of their recipient, or will they wash away like the black once upon my fingertips? In a tenderly sharp jawline, and thoughtful forehead furrows, I see pieces of someone I know.]