Imagine the explorers of old, on their slow dogged ships. How long it would take them to discover this place; how much lore and witchcraft it would seem to possess when, alighting from the motherly deck of their womb-like ship, they saw--this. The strange fruits and dark skin of exoticism. How like a birth. To be evacuated from the warm familiar into a place with no language known to you. Is this why we crave the experience of travel--at least why the thought appeals to us, even if we do it rarely ourselves? Not escapism at all, really. But a return to the earliest sensation. Birth, rebirth. The oldest story. It's always the same stories.