I was sit­ting on the Jun­gle Train con­tem­plat­ing the illu­sion of secu­rity that I’ve both con­sciously and uncon­sciously packed deep into my back­pack.  At some point you just have to trust.  Trust that no one will steal your pre­cious cam­era equip­ment from your room, that when the tour oper­a­tor asks for your pass­port num­ber it’s not for some black mar­ket coun­ter­feit­ing scheme, that when a cab dri­ver asks where you’re off to next you’re not being clocked by a pawn in a clan­des­tine abduc­tion ring and that if you answer “USA” to a curi­ous waiter’s “where from?” he will not send a sig­nal back to the cook whose been sav­ing that vial of cyanide just for this occa­sion.  It’s all ridicu­lous, right?

Where is that line?  The one between curios­ity and stu­pid­ity, care­ful­ness and cal­lous­ness, wide-eyed explor­ing and myopic tourism?  Ten, fif­teen years ago I’d ride on my inno­cence, my naivete, sleep in some stranger’s flat, on the beach, wher­ever; stop by a local’s house party on the edge of town; and at least leave my pack at my seat while I take a walk back to the din­ing car.

Have my 30s made me timid?  Has New York made me hard?  How can I arrive in a new town in a sliver of a crevice of Malaysia and “Keep your head up, walk like you know where you’re going”?  I don’t.  I have no idea.  And I like that.  That’s the point, isn’t it?