The hamlet, with even cobblestone paths, manicured lawns, trimmed hedges and perfect facades, is idyllic. Flowers bloom everywhere and not one vehicle is in the street.
The air breathes of vanilla-bean, baked-bread, lemon-drops, ocean breezes, and I’m confused, lost.
A woman walks up, “Hello, dear, how did you get here?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, as she takes my hand, guiding me to a bench under a blue jacaranda tree.
“It’s okay. It happens every once in a while. We have all the time in the world to figure it out.”
Her voice is pleasant, but her skin is chilled.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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