I’ve been holed up in a house in the eastern part of the Netherlands for a week now. Writing all day, every day, but not for La Viajera, as it’s clear to see. I’ve been avoiding it. First came schoolwork, then freelance stuff, then writing that I won’t get paid for but that still seemed more urgent than this.
Maybe I’m avoiding it because Africa already seems so far away.
It always shocks me how little time it takes before routine conquers my life again and the memories of a vacation settle in the cluttered drawers of my mind. How it only takes a few days before the last sand of the Namib desert washes out of my hair; before the flush of the Middle Eastern heat leaves my skin; and before the taste of a Stellenbosch pinotage disappears from my palate.
Life goes on.