Dropping our bags, we free our feet from shoe prisons and survey the room. Beige walls, tan carpet, white sheets. Nice, nice, we say, patting the beds and looking for open outlets. We espy a small balcony through the slats of the window blinds and hope for a glimpse of the final rays of the day.
We swing open the back door, then fall back on our heels, blasted by a most unlikely assailant: the roar of a raging river. White foam shoots like fireworks over great boulders, aquamarine threads pinball around lesser adversaries before pooling into a more polite assembly advancing on down the sandy riverbed.
