Vibrating with irrational post-flight euphoria, I place my feet on size 24 yellow footprints painted on the floor at immigration and wait. Travel lore has it that Tokyo Narita is a congested and problematic airport. But at 8:25 a.m. I see no congestion and no problems—until an immigration officer waves me over. He studies my ticket, doesn’t like it.

Bali, 1996: The taxi driver honks his way from the airport through Denpasar’s polluted, dusty chaos and drops me off at a walled compound in Kuta by the beach. From the gate, I see a tropical garden, a pavilion with a pointy ceramic-tile roof, a swimming pool, and two-story guest buildings. A girl in red flowery sarong and sheer blouse….

Australia: A tall chick in a bikini walks along the beach, face shaded by a floppy hat. She carries a bag in one hand, sandals in the other. Her boobs sway and her hips swing and her inner thighs rub together as she puts foot before foot in the loose sand.
      “Look at that babe,” he says.
      “Holy moly,” I observe in my perspicacious manner.