These are the items you will forget: a lock for your suitcase, your grandmother's rosary beads, a lavender and vanilla scented candle contained in burnished tin. You will neglect your orchids, and come back to them gnarled and gasping for water.

He will claim to be a seer, purveyor of truth. Sneer into his face. Show him the back of your hand. You are older now, you know better.

You will wander through temples and find four fairy generals, dragons circling around poles, swallows on ceilings, a punk buddha with blue hair made of camphor wood, golden guards, the god at the center, commander of dreams, commander of seasons, the Goddess of Mercy you can call with the rope that trails down to the earth.

Kneel, bow, unfurl your hands.

The salmon will confuse you. Under the spell of glowing lights, you will almost forget the minute drops of poison they contain. When buying mussels, remember to avoid the shellfish that have fully closed. Poison lurks there too.

You will come across a coin of ancient vintage as change for a cup of coffee and a cinammon roll. Keep it in your pocket til the day you meet a firebreather on the street. Drop the coin in the firebreather's top hat. She will wink at you and blow you a kiss filled with luck.

When the child lays her head on your lap and asks, "When is everything going to be alright?", look straight into her eyes and lie.

You will leave a box that contains two books on her doorstep. One a story she loves that you could not understand. One a story she lost but that you never read. No notes in a tired hand. Just her name on the box, in small letters, like a whisper.

In the rush of events, you will lose your words. Abandoned gifts. Stop. Wait. Make time for the leprechaun under the hill, the infusion of poppy seeds and lemongrass in the stoppered glass bottle. The candle in the rice paper lantern still glows. The turquoise egg waits.

There will be other cities, new views from the top of glass buildings, strange stars. Other streets to get lost in, new accents to decipher, strange steps. And always, what you left behind, lingering. Another path, another life. But you cannot stay if he will not ask. You will leave, and try not to look back lest you turn into a pillar of salt.

You will find yourself on the verge. Restraint will mean that you will remain safe. Abandon will only bring tears, loathing, yet also uncontained joy. Live as you will.

Beware of movies. Lurking between textbook lines, well-worn cliches, is a scene so full of truth that your heart will break all over again at the memory mirrored onscreen.

You will come upon a place of whimsical shapes on spires, grand dancing fountains, design, design, design, Gaudi, Miro, Picasso, art noveau windows and honeycomb doors, tiled lizards and peace signs of black ribbon posted on the veranda grates, long walks on cobblestones, fast food paella, a sky threatening rain, a church that will never be finished in your lifetime, mosaics on walls and roofs painted to match the rainbow colors of mountains.

Fortune favors the oblivious, the blind, the mischievous, the kind of people who assume that it is possible, required even, to eat rich caramel ice cream everyday.

A prophet will cross your path, unexpectedly. Make sure not to run the prophet down in haste or distraction. Having to change the playlist on your ipod is no excuse to miss your destiny.

In Valparaiso, a little Chilean town by the bay, you will ride the aging funiculares, pick your way through cobblestones and corners, trace the outlines of a black and white monster on a neglected wall, a beacon from an aging artist left long ago.

You will the dust storm to carry your thoughts across the plains of Kansas. Perhaps he remembers you now, as he drags his guitar across Nebraska. Perhaps when he takes the stage,
microphone in hand, his eyes will glaze over as an image of you curled underneath the rumpled bedsheets assaults him amid the lights.

The time has come to stop all pretensions to a misspent youth.
Take your regrets and burn them, never speak of them again.
The only emotion you will be allowed to have is hope.

Traffic angels will smile on you as you weave your way through the interstates and side roads. Chinatown will confuse you, rice wine on the shelves, boxes of green tea, strange markings above letters, words you cannot pronounce. Decide quickly between the sweet shrimp and soft shell crab. She is waiting for dinner.

You will say over and over that you never heard them play that song. He will not believe you.

You shall write a poem for these curly-haired blond demigods who are scattered on the islands. Refugees from colder climes, they have left countries and the frenetic rhythm of city life to be skippers, dive instructors, bartenders on little slips of paradise. They are tall and toned. They care not a wit about Marc Jacobs or the newest lounge, the underground concert. They want to know what visibility will be like tomorrow, where the current flows. They worry about the storms from Costa Rica. They pay attention to the wind. When they dive into water, they slice through it gracefully. They emerge as golden mermen, glistening. They have been so long under the sun that their skin has forgotten what it is to be pale.

Beware technology. Your mother will discover the wonders of email and the internet. Be prepared for a deluge of forwarded messages. Prayers to a happy God. Breast cancer and personal safety warnings. Reasons why you should greet the day with a smile.

You will be stunned into silence. The only words stamping their way through your wretched mind, lines from a movie watched long ago, "I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen."