I have set down in Orlando. It takes fourteen hours to drive from my home to Orlando; the plane trip, from my home to my hotel, wound up taking seven hours. I'm not sure flying was the right decision.
It's storming like crazy here. I'm in a hotel that's far larger than any I've ever stayed at before; it contains eight restaurants, a deli, and half a supermarket. Gargantuan would be an understatement. It took me fifteen minutes to walk from one side of the hotel to the other. It's world-spanning.
A wincing flash of hot, white light; a terrible series of booms that shake the windows; the sky is falling. The spotty Orlando skyline is nearly invisible behind the dense wall of fog and bitter, dark clouds. Through it all, cars travel International Drive unceasingly, and a sad, redundant fountain across the street shoots its jets ever upward into the uncaring rain.
The hum of the air conditioner in my room is my only companion, but the power of the storm is such that even that begins to soften. The air, this afternoon thick with heat and humidity, has given up its tension and relaxed with a cool sigh of release. And in the lobby below, a thousand tourists glance at each other, shrug, and order another drink.
I can see palm trees at crooked angles; I can hear the girl in the next room talking about clothing; I see limousines, valets jogging, the convention center's rain-slicked roof. Its doors yawn open like the devouring maws of Titans. Tomorrow, I will enter, and be consumed.
Somewhere in this city, there are answers, though I do not know the questions. I suspect that the secret is to listen, and to remain open to the truths I am told. I will doubt nothing! Illuminate me with your meager, thirsty light, Orlando! Show me what you have to teach to a soulful traveler, bereft of all sense and mortal desire! And you, my friends, will be the recipients of my happy report.
I have already drunk the water.
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