November 21, 2010
I would have drowned, had it not been for Pete.
On our recent trek to the Seychelles Islands—a nearly pristine archipelago 994 miles northeast of Madagascar in the Indian Ocean—I found myself 20 feet underwater with enough air in my lungs to fill a Dixie paper cup. Staring at a seabed of kaleidoscopic coral, I began to make peace with my final aquatic resting place.
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November 14, 2010
Pete and I took a whirlwind trip to a Buddhist monastery in Nepal this past weekend. The scenic panoramic grounds surrounding the cloisters were pastoral and bucolic, but the food was downright dreadful. Upon entering the centuries-old monastic temple, I discovered that Pete is allergic to a certain Tibetan incense that he said, in his Don Knotts-esque Incredible Mr. Limpet voice, “smelled a little fishy.” Pete and I encountered a group of barefoot, robe-clad monks. (What is the collective word for a group of monks, I wondered? An Om of monks? A transcendence of monks? A nirvana of monks?)
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