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Go Where Local Tourists Go

Our ship pulled up to Gallno. The landing was nothing more than a small dock and a dirt trail that led into the large island. It's the sort of place where my sense of direction is totally adequate, just one trail with some things along it.

Sharing the trail were a couple people from the boat. One had a hand cart with some sort of cargo, and didn't speak with us. The other was a chatty woman from Stockholm who ended up leading us to the only hostel on the island, a converted schoolhouse that looked closed and had no signage whatsoever.

There's not much to do on the island, but that's a nice change sometimes. We're in the main room of the schoolhouse, converted to a big living room. I'm programming, and Justine is painting. Out the window I see purple and white flowers, green fields, and a few cows. Last night we roasted ourselves in the wood-fired sauna.

When I travel and see other foreigners, I involuntarily cringe. As if Tokyo isn't a big enough city for at least a dozen of us white devils, I feel as though my trip is somehow degraded every time I see another foreigner on the streets.

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