And your luggage finally arrives, almost 24 hours after you did. And your flip flops are so happy to see you, and your pink octopi swimsuit, and the awesome sun hat that nobody else thinks is awesome. And your relief is almost overwhelming. Gone is the memory of the gut wrenching ride in the prop plane, or the insane cab driver who sped through at least three rivers – literally into and through the water – to rush you to the hotel, without your bag, to find that your room wasn’t ready. For now you are reunited with your effects! Never again will you take underwear for granted, or deodorant, or sun shirts of various colors which obviate the need to apply sunscreen. And you sing a nonsense song as you change clothes before your first scheduled yoga class – a song of praise for clothes, and luggage, and Dago the porter who brought your bag. And you make haste to the Yoga Shala, and your twenty-something yogi Sierra tells you it is time to let go of your “need to control”. And you laugh to yourself, because that shit ain’t happening. But as you stand next to your wife, bending and stretching and contorting into ridiculous positions with the ocean before and around you, a word begins to worm its way into your mind. And ninety minutes later, a bell rings and you wake up on your mat and realize that the word is joy.