Laying in the sun on L’Hemitage beach, we remembered tops were optional. I can check another box off my bucket list.

On the long bus ride back to campus, I sat by the open window and let the wind style my salt-laden hair. The seat next to me was left open and the gruff Reunionnaise man across the aisle, that went in and out of dozing, sometimes watched me take pictures like a tourist.

The sea water was pink lemonade massaging the rocks where fishermen stood in sandals. Behind them, giant gullies wrinkled the mountains so lush they looked soft. The sun setting in the west cut shadows across each dip in topography, making each ravine a thick line of black against the lit up greens of palms and vines. The whole island smelled of flowers. A sweet and warm wind with the scent of gardenias swallowed my face and took my mind away from the crowded bus that held waves of body odors from diets full of spice.

I had the eyes of someone who saw what that Reunionnaise man could no longer see; his view of this world was polluted with memories, associations, and distractions of the everyday, while I could still see its raw, pure harmony. Every shadow, every cloud was magnificently textured with the freedom of not knowing it.