It's been a wet, gloomy, raw day here in this waiting room of a town. In Duluth, the fog makes the Lake disappear; in Bozeman, the clouds make the mountains disappear.
My bus companion stopped by and we talked and said goodbye. It would have been nice to have a friend in the area but complicated circumstances on both sides made it impossible. I knew I was passing into a strange new place when I even spoke to someone on the bus, much less suggested we get together.
What did I do on my last day? I took a nap on a bed where I can't reach either side of the mattress when I'm lying in the middle. I'd like to take it with me. And the microwave and the refrigerator and the tv and the private bathroom. Why am I doing this again? I've already seen the mountains.
After my nap, I wrote down the bus schedule from here to Duluth. I thought the first cigarette in years might be good, but I'm in a non-smoking room. I wondered how many minutes it would take me to pack up yet again. I cranked up the tinny sound of Bruce Cockburn on the laptop. The trouble with normal is it always gets worse.
Off to the abnormal I go early in the morning, hoping the internet really exists in the canyon. The weekend's high temperature looks to be around 40; I might wear my winter coat across the river. Still pacing the cage, looking for the door. . .
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