Leaving Muscat

As I walk up the ramp of the plane I pray I will return shortly, and that my rescuer of this last month will be here again to pick me up, as they were to see me off. And that I won't need any more rescueing, and that maybe I could save him for a change.

The plane lifts off into the air, and the rainbow gaslights of Muscat's highways and looped roundabouts appear like antique silver and gold necklaces, strewn haphazardly all the way from Seeb to Al Bahrimi. I twist the locket-like Omani traditional necklace at my neck, and cry [almost].