Yesterday, when boarding, we were taken to the plane via a small launch. This time the plane itself was making for land. And as I looked out, I could see what must be Callista, the capital, looming closer and closer.

At the last moment, the plane-slash-boat speeded up, and we felt a rubbery sort of bump, and we started driving up some sort of sea ramp. Our plane apparently had powered wheels, and they had touched down on a platform that dipped into the water, specifically designed to accommodate giant, amphipious vehicles like ours.

With a screech, our large plane's large wheels skidded on the cement ramp for a moment, but with our momentum and the tires' traction, we drove up the ramp and out of the water, and rapidly made our way to what I could guess was some kind of airport gate.

When the plane came to a full stop, the captain made an announcement confirming this, and we all undid our seatbelts and stood up.

I pressed the button on my seat's armrest, and the overhead compartment unlocked and started lowering itself down. I wish regular planes had these.

"Let me get your luggage for you, sir," the steward who poured me the wine earlier said. She... he reached out and effortlessly lifting and bringing out my two carry-on bags and coat. It's strange to see a supermodel lifting heavy bags as easily as a weightlifter.

I smiled my thanks when he handed them to me, and I started making my way to the exit. I had this sneaky feeling he was looking at me as I walked away.

"No need to hurry," one of the other stewards said. "The next liner isn't due for a few more hours so there is no need to disembark quickly." Some of the other stewards were circulating and distributing more drinks. I politely turned another drink down and just proceeded to the exit. After walking through a high-vaulted square tunnel with a slightly-squishy floor, a slight breeze and a couple of flashbulb-like explosions in my face (nothing was there, though), I came out into a bright and cheery reception area of sorts. I didn't see any kind of x-ray machine to put my bags through. Maybe they’ll be doing a hand inspection. I noted a digital clock on one wall (Arcadian time conveniently matched up to our twelve/twenty-four hour clock, and they accommodated us by displaying small Roman numerals underneath the Arcadian numbers, which were also decimal) and adjusted my watch and smartphone to match - it was seven fifteen AM the following day, according to my watch.

There were several Arcadians waiting behind counters, many of them females, I noted, judging by the fact that they weren't as tall as our stewards, and were more... voluptuous.

"Good morning, Mr. Barlowe," the sexy, female Arcadian who seemed to be in charge greeted me. Her accent was still there but she was perfectly understandable - just enough accent to make her sexy. She seemed like an old hand at dealing with foreigners like me. And this one's uniform was as captivating as the cabin crew's, but this time her blouse was modest yet at the same time revealing a lot of... herself – there was no cravat and her plunging neckline showed off just enough of her cleavage to great effect, and she was wearing high stiletto-heeled short-boots and a short, incredibly tight skirt in place of the leggings and high boots the stewards wore, which showed off her legs spectacularly. All the other Arcadian girls wore the same uniform while the boys wore the same uniform our cabin crew wore.

"Welcome to Callista, and to Arcadia," she said, in a voice that was not just gentle and musical, but authoritative as well. "May I see your papers?"

I surrendered my passport and boarding pass, glad that I didn't have to speak. If the stewards had me tongue-tied, that was nothing to what this gorgeous Arcadian girl was doing to me. If Arcadian males looked like unbelievably gorgeous supermodels, their females were beauty and femininity personified. I will have to try to find a way to get used to this, I thought, otherwise I would be totally useless and wouldn't be able to concentrate on my job. And the girl in front of me was the best looking of this group.

The Arcadian girl just glanced at my picture and the stamps in my passport, gave my boarding pass a cursory once-over, stamped something on a page in my passport, and then gave them back.

"Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Barlowe. Thank you for your cooperation. A vehicle is waiting outside to bring you to an apartment that has been prepared for you. It's in the Visitors Village near the outskirts of the city." That was where tourists and visitors to Callista were usually booked. "All your belongings will be there before you arrive."

"Thank you, Miss," I said, finding my voice. I was handing over my bags but she shook her head.

"That's it? Won't you be inspecting my luggage?" I asked.

"No need, sir. You and your baggage were scanned when you first boarded the liner, and when you went through the tunnel just now. You're set." Must have been the flashes.

I looked at her disbelievingly. "Really?"

She gave me a sparkling, delighted smile. "I guess we just don't want to inconvenience our guests. Yes, that's it. Just go through the exit there, and your driver will be waiting."

Wow. Total time elapsed: one minute forty-five seconds since I stepped out of our plane.

She handed me a small pamphlet.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s everything you need to know for your visit to Arcadia. And if you get lost, or need some more help or anything else, dial 1-5-8 on your phone if you brought one, or just approach any Citizen and they will direct you to the nearest aid station. 1-5-8 is similar to your 9-9-9.”

I chuckled "You mean 9-1-1."

She nodded. "Ah, yes. 9-1-1, of course. Anyway, I hope you enjoy your visit."

I smiled. “Thank you.”

I looked around, looking for the exit, and saw my fellow passengers starting to trickle in, and the other customs officers taking charge of them. They were being given the same treatment as me but it seems I was the only one the lady in charge helped.

I saw the exit sign, nodded to my customs officer and followed her directions. I wish getting through customs and airport security was always this pleasant and easy...

The other Arcadians nodded at me pleasantly, one of them politely opening the door for me.

When I stepped outside, I was greeted by bright morning sunshine, cool, fresh morning air bordering on cold, and a clear view of the city. I came out in an open platform maybe three stories from the ground, with cars and other vehicles parked by the railing. I walked to the railing and saw the city in all its glory. It would have been great if I could have seen it from a greater height but this was more than fine.

Callista was definitely beautiful, with wide boulevards dissecting a city populated by large buildings reminiscent of classic Greek structures and ancient Roman coliseums interspersed with tall glass structures like buildings that might have been lifted from the cover of some fifties sci-fi magazine. Mixed into the city layout were lots and lots of tall trees, and beautifully manicured grassy paths lined by neat, trimmed bushes. In the distance were more buildings, and beyond that, green mountains, with clouds licking their summits. I looked in the opposite direction and saw Crescent Bay and the sea. The sun was in the sky, at maybe the seven or eight o-clock position. It was still early in the morning. Back in DC, it would be just the time when the morning commute was starting to build up. Maybe that’s why the traffic was still light.

I would have said that, because of the absence of excessive noise, smoke, dust and dirt, and the absence of traffic jams or large crowds clogging the sidewalk, Callista had a feeling of a sleepy little old-world European town, but its size and high technology, and the busy activity were at odds with this impression. Perhaps more like one of our metropolitan cities just waking up in the morning. I guess I can’t explain why I had that impression. You have to be here, too, to understand what I mean.

The low Greco-Roman buildings were all massive, the glass towers tall and high-tech. Nevertheless, I breathed deeply and smelled only trees and mountains and cool, fresh morning air. It did not smell or feel like a city, or at least not like any I knew.

And it felt busy despite the paradoxical, laid-back ambience, surrounded by frenetic activity - like DC or New York: different kinds of vehicles - none I recognized - were zipping to and fro, and Arcadians walking around on sidewalks, most of them in office-type attire and a few in more casual clothes. There were young girls as well - too young for me to distinguish which were male or female - in what I felt sure were school clothes. Some were very young indeed, and were being carried or accompanied by adults.

There were Arcadians in sexy exercise outfits, and were jogging along some of the bush-lined paths, or riding bicycles or other manually-powered one-, three- or four-wheeled contraptions, getting in some cardio in the early morning just before the workday. Exercising seemed to be an important activity to Arcadians. Also the wearing spandex, apparently...

If I could have taken a picture and showed it to people, no one would have mistaken it for a scene from a normal city. It wasn’t just the buildings or the streets or the vehicles. The people were all women – or at least they looked like women. And they were all a little… off. The way they moved, the way they made their gestures, the way they walked up and down the streets – it was like each movement or gesture was delicate and, I guess, feminine. I suppose the slightly longer limbs that Arcadians supposedly had contributed to this impression.

And all of them were dressed in, what looked like to me, high-fashion clothes or, at the very least, high-end designer clothes. Not a one was dressed sloppily or was unkempt.

And it made me feel like I was some kind of monkey amongst a city filled with ballerinas. I felt so awkward and, I guess the closest word I can think of is uncouth. Unconsciously, that made me bring out my comb and get my hair untangled, fix my tie and try to smoothen out my crumpled shirt.

I thought of the camera that I was given, but recalled that it was in one of the crates along with the books.

So I took out my smartphone instead and turned around to snap a few pictures. I couldn't send them to my profile, though, or anything like that since there was no internet, naturally, and I didn't know how to run the satellite function, so I just saved them on the phone.

"Mr. Barlowe?" an Arcadian asked, and I looked back. Standing beside the door of this massive, luxurious open limousine was a footman in what looked like royal livery. A girl footman. In a sexy, tight skirt. Smiling her welcome, she opened the car door and waited for me to get in.

The limo was of a make I didn't recognize. It was luxurious, long, shiny and black, with half of the passenger cabin open to the sky. I didn’t know what make of car it was because it was Arcadian-made, but it reminded me of British royal carriages, or the pre-war luxury cars like the old 1930s Rolls Royce cars. I gulped because I didn't realize that I was going to get such fancy treatment.

"Would you like to sit in the open cabin, sir," she said, "or inside?"

I thought it would be pleasant to sightsee a bit in the open air and gestured to the open part. The footman nodded, closed the door she had opened, and opened the one for the open-air cabin right behind the driver's section.

Before I could step in, the tall driver stepped out of the driver's door and effortlessly took my coat and bags from me. "Let me put those in the trunk, sir," she... he said, and effortlessly slid them in the open trunk.

"It's a little nippy today, sir," the footman said, glaring at the driver, a little irritated. "It'll warm up a lot later in the day, but the temperature is currently around fifteen degrees Celsius, or sixty degrees Fahrenheit."

The driver looked a little chagrined and exclaimed something in Arcadian. He hurriedly retrieved my jacket and offered it to me.

"She is quite right, sir," he said, looking a bit embarrassed.

I accepted the overcoat with a nod of thanks and slipped it on. He went to the driver's door and got in.

"What did he say?" I asked my footman. "I didn't quite catch it."

"Your driver said that it was his mistake that he forgot, sir," the footman answered, ushered me into the car and closed my door.

"He forgot?" I wondered to myself. "Forgot what? The jacket?"

The limo started moving. The driver explained, via an intercom, that they thought I might enjoy a leisurely drive around their city before proceeding to my assigned apartment, but I should tell them anytime if I started to feel cold, if I wanted to go directly to my apartment, or if I wanted anything else.

I thanked her, and she pulled away from the parking slot. Godammit, I meant "him!"

I turned around and looked back to see the strato-liner I came in on parked on their airport tarmac. When you see these strato-liners, they're usually floating in the water or flying in the sky. They looked pretty big then, but this up close and out of the water, this one was gigantic. It was presently disgorging cargo from the back, with workers putting the cargo on open-pallet trucks, to be whisked away when the trucks were full.

There were two others parked there as well. Several buses were parked near the curb, obviously for the tourists I rode with. But in seconds the limo whisked us down a gangway, turned into the main road, and the enormous planes disappeared behind some buildings. I had glimpsed some other smaller planes but didn't have time to note the details. Too bad - that was part of my "secret" assignment, to note these things down.

Despite the brisk air, I enjoyed the ride. It was smooth and comfortable, and I got to see a lot of Callista.

We rode down wide boulevards with other cars cruising beside ours. Like the streets I was familiar with, traffic was segregated into two directions of traffic, but they were like British streets where cars stayed on the left. There were no traffic lights - cars just peeled away to the side when they needed to, and for those who needed to go to the right, there were plenty of little roundabout overhead overpasses, artfully constructed to blend in with their surroundings.

The traffic felt light - it's like there should have been more cars, although the streets already seemed full. I suppose it was because there were no cars that were standing still: no cars were stopped at red lights, no one was picking up or dropping off passengers, no one was pulling over, no pedestrians waiting to cross, and no traffic jams. And there was no exhaust, too. At least none that I could detect. There were traffic noises though, but not as much as I expected - no engine sounds at all. A kind of whispering and crunching, a whizzing as the vehicles flew past and cut through the air. The closest I can compare that sound to was the traffic on the Autobahn. And no beeping or horns! Either Arcadian drivers are very nice and forgiving, or they just didn’t outfit their cars with horns.

Occasionally, I would see a large, white car with stripes down its rear sides, and red-and-blue lights moving left and right around where the bumpers and the chrome sidings would be in a regular car, moving twice as fast as the rest, and it would zoom and zig-zag through the traffic.

I asked my “footman” what they were and she explained that they were either police, ambulances or emergency maintenance engineers. The pattern of stripes would indicate which was which. I asked about delivery trucks or buses, and she explained that cargo delivery and mass transport don’t travel on the highways.

"Cargo is transported by trucks in tunnels underneath the streets," she said. "As for your ‘mass transport,’” she pointed up and indicated what looked like a monorail maybe a hundred meters above the roadway, that that went around the many buildings.

I hadn't noticed them before until she pointed them out. I was shocked and was extremely impressed as well. I imagined I was one of the passengers, and imagined the convenience of being dropped off right at my building, not to mention the view. I went, “ohhh…”

On the roadway, many were riding in convertibles with their tops down, and I saw a lot of people looking at me. I couldn't blame them. In a city populated only by people who looked like gorgeous female models and actresses, I suppose the only male-looking person in a thousand miles would generate some curiosity.

I would wave, and various Arcadians would giggle and wave back.

We drove “downtown,” and my footman dutifully took on the role of tour guide, describing various points of interest as we passed them by, while I snapped photos with my cellphone, imitating a stereotypical Japanese tourist.

I had a special interest in the Lyssium Palace, the Arcadians’ equivalent to the Buckingham Palace, or the Tokyo Imperial Palace, since it was the residence of the royal family, but it was also the equivalent of the White House, since it was also the center of government, with the king being their equivalent to a president. President-for-life, I guess, since the king wasn't really elected, and would only be replaced upon by his designated heir upon his death. I specifically asked that we pass by the Palace, and as soon as I did, we switched lanes to whip around and get onto a separate spur of the main highway.

I heard my footman make a call, and we continued to travel away from the city. Soon, around us were rolling hills and wonderful looking plantations and wet fields full of what looked like rice. These gave way to what looked like mile-long gardens of mixed flowers and low, slender fruit trees. I asked for the limo to slow down, and I immediately heard the mixed buzz of bees and birds. I took a deep breath and the air was redolent of sweet fruit, flowers and perfume. It was wonderful.

Interspersed between the flowers were large trees with long thick branches that covered the wide, empty boulevard with a roof of branches and leaves. There were a lot of vines that wove in between the branches. There was some movement up there, too, which looked like monkeys or something, though larger and more orange than brown, but I couldn’t really identify them since we were moving.

My footman noticed my interest. "Orangutans," she explained. Orangutans? Really?

My driver kept the speed low and slow, and I basked in the fragrance and the riot of colors and green trees all around me, but when the trees gave way to sun and sky, we topped a rise and I saw the Lyssium Palace.

Later, I learned that it was supposed to be called just Lyssium. I knew what it meant to us, but I asked what the word meant to them, and it translated into “graceful" in formal Arcadian. And indeed it was. Graceful and beautiful and majestic.

The palace was made of what looked like white marble with streaks of pink and mocha, and it had tall, pointed spires that looked like shards of what appeared to be glass and chrome. It looked like a cross between Sleeping Beauty's castle, the Capitol Building, the Taj Mahal, and the Washington National Cathedral. It was amazing and, in the morning sunlight, it reflected the sun in such a way that it looked like it was glowing or shining with its own light.

We pulled up to the main gates that were as wide as a two-story building was high, and twice as tall as they were wide. It took a while for them to swing fully open.

Our limo went through and slowly started around the large circular drive. This allowed me to see the palace’s beautiful front grounds and forecourt. The compound was so enormous that it took us at least ten minutes to drive to the front doors of the palace itself.

I was also surprised because the drive was lined with people, all clapping and waving excitedly at me. My footman explained that these were the palace staff, and they came out to greet me. In my mind, I was asking why, but I didn’t ask it aloud.

My driver asked me to look up and I could see in the Palace’s main balcony was the King, and beside him was who I presumed to be his Queen. I thought that the King looked like the most beautiful woman in the world. I was wrong. I was so wrong.

Beside the incandescently gorgeous Queen were two attractive little girls who appeared to be between five and ten, and they were pointing at our limo in excitement and asking their parents things. I waved and the two children waved back.

Our limo slowed and stopped and I asked if I should step down. Our footman said no, so I just stood, faced the royal family and bowed.

This was greeted by a wave of cheering and applause. I didn’t understand it, but was glad that I did it right, whatever it was.

The King grinned and waved, and the Queen pulled a colored white handkerchief from her sleeve. She kissed the little kerchief and threw it down to me.

The colorful, delicate piece of cloth drifted down and my footman stepped out. She picked it out of the air as it floated down, went back to the limo and handed it to me with a bow. I thanked her and, not knowing what to do, I waved it high and everyone again broke into applause.

My driver smoothly pulled away from the Palace’s doors and drove back out. As we drove past the enormous gates, I could still hear the cheers. It was like I was a rock star at a concert, or some celebrity. What’s going on? And shouldn't I have gotten down and greeted them?

I sat down and wondered if this was the normal way they greeted visitors and tourists. This was too over-the-top weird. Wonderful but weird.

The cloth that the Queen dropped was made of some silk-like material, shiny and satin-like in feel, and very, very delicate. On the edges, it was covered with designs that looked like roses. But in the middle, there was a little design that depicted a scene of a little girl who was hanging from a tree by her legs and one hand. With the other hand, she was handing a single red flower – perhaps a rose, to a little boy that was standing below her. It looked a little like an illustration from a fairly tale book.

Originally, I thought that the kerchief was plain, but I was mistaken – perhaps the light changed how it looked from a distance and the flowers and the picture wasn’t too noticeable. I brought it to my nose, and it had a delicate perfume smell, almost like a trace of perfume, actually. It smelled of roses.

I thought that this was like the kerchiefs that Arcadians gave as gifts, but this wasn’t the same. The one I was given before was made by the Queen herself, and it was cotton instead of silk, and it had an embroidered design in the middle just like other Arcadian kerchief’s – this new one just had the color design in the middle, like it was color-tinted into silk.

As I was holding it, the colors were slowly fading away.

“Oh, no!” I said.

My footman turned around in her seat. “Is anything wrong, sir?” she asked.

“The Queen’s handkerchief! I think I ruined it!” In seconds, it was plain white.

“May I see it, sir?” she asked and I passed it to her.

She looked at the plain, little piece of cloth and paused for a moment. She shared a look with her partner. The driver smiled a delighted kind of smile. He picked up a phone from the dash and spoke to someone in Arcadian.

My footman sighed. She shook the plain-white handkerchief like you would shake crumbs off a table napkin, and held it up to the sun. And in the bright sunlight, as it flapped in the wind, I could see the designs on it again.

“It seems all right, sir,” she said, and passed it back.

I took back the handkerchief and, indeed, the designs on it were back. I looked at it and the little boy and girl were back, as well as the flowers. But as I looked, the colors started to fade again.

I didn’t know what was happening, so I held it by the edge with two fingers, and the colors started to come back. Except where I was holding the handkerchief. It was my touch that was doing it!

I didn’t know what that meant. I was so perturbed, I didn’t mention it to my driver and footman. I just quickly folded it and put it in my coat pocket.

I sighed.

We drove back to the city and resumed our “tour,” and that… whatever-it-was at the Lyssium – I sort of let it go. At least for now. Well, maybe I can try to subtly find out a little more about it later.

After thirty more minutes of driving around and sight-seeing, I started to shiver a bit. I would happily have preferred to be driven around some more, but my face and hands were starting to go numb. I tapped my driver's shoulder (when I handed the kerchief to the footman, she had lowered the divider between us, and they had kept it down ever since).

"I think I want to get indoors now," I said to my driver.

He nodded and smoothly turned at the next left turn.

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