I stand with a hand on my suitcase handle and look out the window of the BART train. The warehouses of Oakland zip by. Some sailboat masts poke up behind them.
It occurs to me I have no phone in my pocket. I left it at home, stashed away. I cannot text or be texted. No one can call me. No one can track me. There will be no pings or zings or bells or ringtones. It is a bit scary and yet thrilling, totally liberating. The train whistles softly across the elevated tracks. Off to the right I see the Berkeley hills.
I have no camera. No digital recording device other than the digits of my hand, transcribing what I see in my travels. I reach down and pat my pockets. Empty. Not even keys. My wallet is as thin as the day it was born, stripped down to just American dollars, 3 cards and a BART ticket.
No jingle jangle. No electronics. Just me and a back pocket journal, a new pen, me and my self, my senses, my thoughts, wearing the only pair of shoes I brought, standing on a train with a blue suitcase and a plane ticket in a blue backpack, riding the BART train to China.