How do I start blogging again? Where do I begin?
Perhaps with bottle feeding the baby lambs?
Or with the glaciers or the pancake rocks?
Maybe with hitchhiking with Santa?
Or with the birthday nudity and wallet on the roof (which wasn’t on the roof, the mystery lives on)?
Maybe I start with the seals, or with the penguins?
With a friendly warning to take motion sickness pills before the Interislander ferry?
How about New Years Eve inside an empty restaurant?
Or the 5 encounters in different places with the French guys?
Perhaps with making our first Christmas dinner?
Or with hand feeding the native parrots?
Or with getting drenched while hitching (put your pathetic face on)?
How about with climbing the gondola hill?
Or with changing my mind all the time?
Or maybe with today, when I got to fly in (and control for a bit) a glider – an airplane with no motor?
Nah, I don’t feel like recounting. It doesn’t feel right.
How about I speak of the open road; of how it fills my soul with an indescribable feeling. That absolute freedom of a stretch of highway far into the distance, without a clue as to when that ride will arrive, nor who it might be. The beauty of when conversation flows without being forced, or the annoyance of a kind person who has nothing more than the usual questions. The characters – from truckies to transvestites. Those who give me a beer, or a meal, or an ice cream cone. Not knowing where I will sleep tonight, nor a clue what tomorrow will look like.
Travelling wears me down, beats me up, plain bores me at times. But that open road, with all my belongings by my side and my thumb out towards the cars (whether they be few or many, country road or city), that doesn’t get old.
Hobbies include: hitchhiking.