To the east.

Syreeta sung so graciously with Stevie Wonder back in the early 70s. She sung the lyrics, I can see the sun in late December. Well, I can't see the sun in New York City. Where is it? I want to feel the sun, I'd like turn into crimson and purple and orange, absorbing the rays as the sun sets. Maybe If I were in the Sahel I could once again feel the dry air graze my arms and back and through my hair; My feet wants to be planted on wet rocks on a beach. We need sand, saltwater and heat. I want to eat a plate of food that was cooked for hours in a pot by an old woman. I need space. It would be nice to have some city dweller smile at me or even kiss me. I looked for the sun today, but since there is a strike, the subway stations are closed and I couldn't climb up to the platform and see the sun and the emerging moon. They were hidden behind buildings. Everything is so flat; walking down the street I cannot see what's ahead of me or behind me, there are no mountains and hills like in San Francisco where you can feel on top of the world, depending where you are, Lombard street or Twin Peaks. I need to get to Mombasa and Zanzibar, quick.