It's too late. I should be asleep already, but I've been up writing a story I started while in Riomaggiore. A story about a drunk and lost man trying to find his way. I'm perhaps half way through finishing, but I can tell you now, he won't.
Everything I've written of late has that sort of tone. Stories of people who are lost, running away, confused and uncentered.
Even I am not sure why these have been recurring themes.
Yes, I've spent the last four months without a home of my own. Sure, there have been many days when we get up having no idea where we will sleep that night. But we have each other (even if sometimes the 24/7 time together can make you want to jump out of a moving car). And we seem to be finding our way (even if we can't see very far down the path).
We had been hoping to spend our last two weeks in France with a friend in Paris, but now it looks like that won't work out. We need to find something else. And for the first time since this journey began, I am truly excited by the unknown and not at all worried, nervous or afraid.
We could go to Amsterdam, which would give me an opportunity to do some research for my novel. We could go to London and visit family. We could go to Barcelona, maybe find a place to couchsurf, and check out Gaudi's architecture in person.
Or.... Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile