The Migratory Bird

THE MIGRATORY BIRD

Once a migratory bird stopped by a local travel agency.
The year was getting on into fall, and the bird’s thoughts had begun to turn to warmer places again. This time, however, the familiar destinations just didn’t seem to have the attraction they once had. The bird was tired of the group tours and even of the glossy fliers from its alma mater’s alumni association, which had apparently abandoned scholarship fundraising to concentrate instead on providing well-off graduates a choice of “unforgettable Wanderlust experiences” in 7-day, 14-day, and 21-day packages.
So when it noticed a poster of a deserted tropical beach taped to the window of the travel agency, the bird went straight on in and up to one of the agents who looked to be from somewhere like the place in the poster. Nothing beats first-hand knowledge, the bird told itself.
No sooner had it mentioned the poster, though, than the agent replied, “That place was booked up months ago.”
“Months ago?” the bird said in crestfallen surprise.
“Yes. Everybody wants to get away to a remote beach in the tropics these days.”
“But the beach is empty.”
“Isn’t Photoshop amazing? You’d never know the place was actually packed, would you?”
“Well, what else have you got?” the disappointed bird asked.
“What are you looking for, exactly?”
“How should I put it? A change in my life focus, a veritable adventure for the senses, a rebirth of the soul, a whole new approach to being, a—”
“What does all that have to do with tropical beaches?” the agent broke in with a tone of having heard it all before.
“You are aware of Paul Gauguin, I assume,” was the bird’s miffed response.
“Are you expecting to spot Gauguin in a beach chair at Club Med?”
“Ah, Tahiti! Tahiti! Doesn’t the name simply ring with the call of the exotic? Like Mandalay! Or Samarkand! Or Shangri-La!”
“The Shangri-La you’re looking for doesn’t exist, I’m afraid.”
“I know that! But someplace like it where everything is ‘inscrutable’ and I can get in touch with all those timeless truths that are denied me here.”
“And what are those ‘timeless truths’?”
“That’s where I need your help, don’t you see? I feel I’ve got to open myself to raw experience and let hot blood drum through my veins in the dusky night. Go native and get in a little all-night flocking with birds of a different feather, if you catch my drift. You do catch my drift, don’t you?”
“We don’t run sex tours here.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong! Don’t get me wrong! I’m talking about something magical! A mystical transformation of the self! Getting in touch with ancient teachings and the inner me! Becoming one with universal rhythms! Embracing the ‘Eternal Feminine’ . . . my anima . . . everything! . . . Why, exactly what you must feel each day in your very bones! You’re from those sultry climes, aren’t you?”
“What makes you think that? I was born here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“You’re not from there? You sure look like you are to me. Come now, you’re just pretending, aren’t you? I see in your face everything to make me feel alive, truly alive, everything that is just waiting out there somewhere for me, beckoning . . . always beckoning . . . like that poster!”
“That poster isn’t real, I tell you.”
“It has to be real! Don’t you understand, I have needs here! Needs only paradise can satisfy!”