So I’m in the hostel lobby by myself, writing post cards. The Greatest Hits of Sting and the Police is playing over the speakers. I’m alone because my siblings are off ostensibly shopping on this the last day of our travels, but since I accidentally found the birthday cake they inexpertly hid in the room last night, I’m fairly certain they are off making whatever preparations they have planned for the ’surprise.’ Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, I do. I just would have hidden the cake better. I need the time alone, anyway.
I’m trying not to make it obvious that I’m staring at this absolutely gorgeous brunette standing by the reception desk, the one with the wide belt slung loosely over her low-rise jeans, her long wavy hair stuffed under an askew conductor hat, the one with the amazing smile. It’s wonderfully distracting.
I really don’t want to go back to Chicago–I’d rather just avoid certain things indefinitely rather than confront them. Soon, the consequences of certain decisions I made in what might be described as a mania of hopefulness will soon become unavoidable, and I for one would honestly just prefer to avoid that issue altogether for the time being. I’ll win the lottery, quit my job, and just hop from hostel to hostel talking to Australian iPhone users and French backpackers and American girls with improbably silly names and never have to go home. Sounds fantastic.
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