Last fall, before the election, I heard a lot of promises that — so far as I know — didn’t make the transition to reality: “If Trump wins, I’m going to move to Canada.” Or Mexico. Or New Zealand. Or Australia.

Been there, done that.

My ace in the hole, as it were, is none of those appealing countries. Nor can I see myself ever moving back to Britain — I’m still upset about Brexit. Nope, if everything went cattywonkus here and I had the means and the health to do so, Sri Lanka (aka Serendip and Ceylon), the island nation just south of India, would be my old age refuge. Somewhere in the south, in the hills, where I could ride the narrow-gauge railways along the ridges and through the tunnels, rattling past the endless tea plantations.

I was there twice, a month each time. The first, 1983, Louisa and I just missed the impending civil war. I went back alone in 2002, right after the war, having spent nearly 20 years dreaming about the places we visited. I wrote this about a week after my arrival.

Schoolteachers in Kandy [All photos by author]

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At 6 a.m., I’m waiting for the “2nd and 1st Class” ticket window of Colombo Fort railway station to open. Already the dawn street is bustling with people and ‘tuk-tuks,’ Sri Lanka’s noisy-but-efficient threewheeler taxis. I landed two hours ago and now I’m feeling disoriented after 26 hours of flying, in four legs, from Arcata.

The window opens and I ask the bespectacled clerk for a ticket in the observation coach on the 7 a.m. train to Kandy, the old hill-country capital.

“Window seat?” I ask hopefully.

“No window. One seat left only. Aisle.”

“OK, great, thank you.”

“230 rupees,” he says.

I hand him a 500-rupee note, the smallest I have, my dollars newly changed at the airport. He examines it carefully, squinting as he holds it up to the light, before handing it back.

“No change.” No change? I’m thinking, This is the main railway station in the capital of the country, I’ve handed him the equivalent of a $5 note for a $2.50 ticket, and he can’t make change! Then I remember, this has happened to me so often in third world countries, I’m surprised I’m still surprised.

Adopted by a picnic party at “World’s End”

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“Need change?”

“Er, yes,” I reply warily, to the scruffy, unshaven young man, maybe 22 years old, who has appeared at my side. I’m still holding the 500 rupee note and watch myself do exactly nothing as he grabs it out of my hand.

“You wait!” he commands and sprints off around the corner.

I come to. What on earth am I doing? I’ve just been taken for five bucks. Not even taken, I’ve given it away! What an introduction to this country, fool! Me, the seasoned traveler, who just watched a stranger help himself to my money. And suddenly I’m laughing out loud, enjoying my own stupidity. This is traveling, I tell myself, I’m jet-lagged, this is a cheap lesson. From now on, I promise myself, I’ll be really careful.

I’m chuckling, letting myself off the familiar hook of self-criticism, when my new buddy comes running back and carefully counts five 100-rupee notes into my hand.

“You thought I would not come back,” he accuses me in his clipped English. Tactfully not waiting for my response, he adds sternly, “You must be more careful with your money!” I’m still laughing as I put a 100 rupee note into his shirt pocket — not just for his honesty, but for reminding me that traveling in a country like Sri Lanka isn’t predictable, but rather a string of encounters and incidents that I can’t easily categorize as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ like I tend to do back in the U.S.

The Intercity Express to Kandy.

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As it turns out, the funky old observation coach is almost empty, a gay French couple and a local businessman the only other occupants as we wend up the long green hills to Kandy on the optimistically-named Intercity Express at an average speed of 25 mph.

Ten thousand miles from home and all is well in my world.

Heading down after a night pilgrimage to the top of Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak)