Today, shoulders hunched against the chilly San Francisco wind, I looked down at my feet while waiting to cross the street at Mission to my office building waiting on the other side. I was surprised to see that all that melanin acquired in Greece and Turkey has faded to a slight tint, barely noticeable against the lighter stripes imprinted by the shelter of my flip flops.
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I was inserting a footnote in Excel about the capital expenditures of a hospital. Except, instead of obeying my head and typing hospital, my fingers found their way around the keyboard and out came
H-O-S-T-E-L.
It seems Wanderlust is a chronic condition, and I've got no interest in a cure.
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