Chapter 37From 1927 on, the years seemed to fly by. I was sixty-seven when I returned from Saigon, and when 1935 rolled around, I was seventy-five. Seventy-five. It didn’t seem possible. The funny thing about it was that I didn’t feel any different reaching seventy-five than I did when I turned sixty-five or fifty-five.
My physical façade, without a doubt, had transformed. My skin was thinner, and age spots, or what my doctor called “senile freckles,” seemed to materialize every day. I noticed that minor scratches and bruises took a lot longer to heal, as did aches and pains when I foolishly behaved like I was forty-five and not seventy-five. But inside I felt like I did when I first came to Asia forty-one years before. Inside, I had not grown old.
The seven years between my activities
