His wan smile folded at the creases. His crescent eyes closing from the gathering wrinkles. I studied his smile as he nodded his head in acceptance. We couldn’t understand each other’s languages but communication existed in many forms. His teeth were yellow and he smelled of fish, typical for a fisherman. His black hair was salted with white. The man tried a first to get me to understand him “Konnichiwa,” he said confidently. After seeing my confusion he did a little wave then stood smiling. What was it that had appealed to me so much about visiting a foreign country, where I wouldn’t be able to grasp anything? The whole time I was with my husband, Peter, I secretly imagined myself doing just this.  Peter’s voice would drone on and on and I realized I was a loner. I realized I didn’t want love, at least in the way I had always received it. I convinced myself of this, all through the divorce. But now, gazing into the kind eyes of the fisherman, my past thoughts melted. I didn’t want anything except to be myself. Something I couldn’t do or felt I couldn’t do for the longest time. Now here I was gazing into the kind warm eyes of the old fisherman, breathing in the smoky ocean, in a completely different environment yet more myself than ever before.