It’s funny to think that the tropical places we search up on google during maths do genuinely exist. It’s even funnier to find out they look as good as they claim to,
if not more idyllic and wonderful in person. It gets less funny on the flight back home, hearing the last ‘bula’ or receiving a final Fijian smile. In these moments,
normality has never and will never appear more harsh. The step back into it, never more forced. In it’s bleakness, it felt simply unwelcome. Reality arrived on my
doorstep, sans a flax hat, a sarong and a dozen coconuts. It also said ‘hello’, which I’ve decided does not make the cut anymore, now that I’ve known ‘bula’ the way the
Fijians say it (and boy, do they say it).
Looking back at the first evening in golden Fiji is something I do with immeasurable pleasure. That night, we left live bar music for balmy air and sawdust sand,
a luxury completely unrealistic only several hours before. I already felt myself edging the colour red as we sauntered to the jut of the island. Located right next to a
shadowed white chapel, for a second I almost understood that ‘holiday fling hits marriage’ compulsion. In a place so simply divine, you can only try to compete with it.
That rare beaming sun seems to tint your bones with happiness. And in a moment like it, it’s only right to immerse yourself in the feeling.