One month ago from yesterday I picked up my backpack and my bike, hugged my parents and cried a little at my cat, and got on the train in Florida. Now I am again surrounded by blue skies and palm trees, only on the other ocean.
Florida, New York, Boston, Montreal, Quebec City, Chicago, Seattle, Southern California: I think I’ve wrung this rail pass out pretty well. Despite the fact that I think I spent more time in Canada than the US for its duration.
I’m bone-fucking-tired (“bone-fucking”? — things to never, ever Google…), though two nights of ten-plus hours of more or less uninterrupted sleep has tempered it slightly. And I am absolutely, utterly, 100% not ready to go back to pretending to be a real person.
I haven’t even nearly gotten settled anywhere — hell, I’m still 1,000 miles from Seattle, and still have San Francisco to look forward to — and SF is probably the one place I’ve never been in the US that I really want to visit. But I’m already peering at my dwindling savings, thinking maybe I could go to Vegas; the bus is cheap, and the city is cheap…
You guys, I don’t even like Vegas.
Or picturing the Venn diagram of how long I’d have to work a soul-sucking job to afford to fuck off to Europe for a little while versus how long I could work a soul-sucking job without offing myself at this point. Or wondering if I should have put off travel until the fall, because everything is better in October.
Or, or, or…