Writing hasn’t come so easily over the past year or so. The reason might be because I drink less now, and that elixir of inspiration has lost its sway.

I’ve been dreaming of moving to France.

I’ve only made one big move in my life. My intent was for it to be the first of many adventures. The reason I came to St. Petersburg, FL was a simple circumstance: I didn’t want to stay in Midlothian, VA for Spring Break, so I drove to Tampa with a roommate. When we adventured one day to the city across the bay, I thought, “I think I’ll live here someday.”

And here we are.

I don’t believe life has to follow the same pattern every time, but I do watch out for omens, and after enough risks, I can begin to sense which adventures are calling me.

In 2010, I left a hostel in Paris. The bartender who worked the bottom floor of the building poured a shot into my mouth and then lit it on fire. It was his goodbye as my travel partner and I hoisted our bags and headed for the train station. We had an overnight ticket to Barcelona.

The story was glamorous, until the overnight train stopped at 6:00 am. No one on the entire continent of Europe was awake, except for us and the woman listening to what sounded like French Classic Rock as she washed down the espresso machine in the refreshment stand at the station. We were on a two hour layover in a seaside town in Southern France. My knees held that ache that long legs earn from a prolonged period in a cramped seat.

This was also Spring Break. Not knowing when life would bring us back on an adventure, we made the most of every moment, catching a croissant from the Classic Rock lady before plodding through the sleeping streets.

There’s something about Spring Breaks and accidental places.

As we returned to the station, between daydreams about sleeping on the next train, I held the inkling “I hope I come back here some day.”

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