We arrived at our long-awaited vacation, and went right to sleep.

We had taken the Red Eye to Fiji and checked into our hotel at 6 a.m. After a few hours of blissful horizontal sleep, we awoke and started counting down the hours. Our son has been living in New Zealand for almost a year, and Mark and I will be meeting him at 2 p.m.

I have been trying to have a “be in my body” instead of always-in-my-head year, and so as we venture out, I remind myself of what I see, hear, and feel around me. If I’m not careful, I forget to be present in the place I am.

I see enormous trees towering above as we walk, embracing our we-don’t-need-no-stinking-taxi kind of Peace Corps roots. I hear birds in those trees – different from those at home.

I feel the tickle of sweat streaming down the back of my legs, born from skin-on-skin contact under my skirt as we walk in the unfamiliar humidity.

In town, we dive right in. We are offered bowls of cava, a muddy water kind of sedative drink given to us as part of a tourist introduction ceremony. We pray we don’t get traveler’s diarrhea from the shared coconut cup. (End result: still too early to tell, but so far, so good.)

We arrive at a bustling produce market. It seems to be all locals, and we enjoy that we are still able to vanish right into the fray despite Mark being 6’6.” There are many aisles with tall piles of ginger root, okra, and organized tomatoes.

I notice a woman buying spices. The first thing I notice is how she smells them. The vendor has carefully lifted a scoop of some brown powder near her nose. I can see how, as she deep-sniffs the waft of scent, she delights in its deliciousness with her whole body, melting her shoulders just a little bit. Then I notice that she looks like she isn’t from here, with her Garmin watch and blue toenails. Then I notice that her face looks familiar. Within seconds, I am thumbing through the millions of people in my head-rolodex. I place her and I am exactly sure, and find myself, without thinking and just feeling, tapping her on the shoulder.

She looks at me, and I wait with patient anticipation and an overly zealous smile to see if she recognizes me. “Julie?!”

“Erin!?”

The last time that Erin and Mark, and I were together was 27 years ago, when all three of us were working with teenagers on the Blackfeet and Crow Reservations in Montana for the summer, with Visions Service Adventures. The experience had bonded us and we had not forgotten.

The cacophony of squeals and amazement lasted for seemingly forever. We met her now husband, the guy she was pining for all those summers ago. We learned that it was an extra special trip, as this is where they honeymooned decades ago, right after their summer apart, and have now brought their kids. We embraced her kids and marveled at the grown-up that she now was and we now are, and how much life had happened in between. But she still looked the same and felt the same.

The world is impossibly big, and there is so much to notice, but when I stay present, I receive the biggest gifts from the smallest of moments.