Sitting at the airport 

I’m so freaking tired and hungover.  I’m in a daze.  A dazzled lame state of exhaustion.

Yesterday I was right.  Janett wanted to go out.  As soon as I arrived at her hotel, she was waiting.  Before noon.

We met up with Egon and Stefan, two fellow pilgrims.  We ate lunch and stopped for souvenirs, meandering around.  

By the end of the night we were all shitfaced and dancing to Spanish dance music.  Before I knew it, it was 2am, then it was 3am.  I told Janett I was going back to the hotel but she didn’t want me to go and just kept on dancing.

Finally, we left the bar.  As we exited, there was a long line of finely dressed Spaniards waiting to get in.  The place was hopping.  It was jam packed in there.

I was wearing my usual pilgrims attire of super baggy camo pants held up with a belt, and my wrinkled flannel shirt.  My hair was a mess.  I danced like I was alone in my room in front of my bedroom mirror.  I danced until I couldn’t stand up straight and knew it was time for me to leave.

It was a wonderful last day.  We walked back to the hotel, talked a bit before bed and passed out.

Janet wants to move to the US but it’s a hard place to get into.  You either have to marry someone or win the green card lottery.

I met an older Canadian woman who told me her friends drive down to Florida for the winter every year but this year they were stopped by border patrol and asked what they thought about Trump.

They were refused admittance because they voiced their concerns about him and when they tried again at a different check point, they were already flagged in the system and turned away.  They are banned for a year because they said they didn’t like Trump.

I’m so tired.  We went to sleep at like, 5.  My flight is boarding soon.  I can’t wait for home.  There’s no place like home.

Whenever I fly into JFK after visiting a non-English speaking country, JFK feels like home.  The whole airport feels like my backyard.  Quaint and home-like.  Which is nuts because it’s freaking JFK.  A dirty busy hub of noise and shoves.  

From JFK, I still have another 90 minutes of driving to my house.  I hired a personal driver to pick me up.  It’s really not that expensive.

Home home home home home home home

What’s going on?  Why aren’t we boarding?  And what’s stuck on the bottom of my shoe?


I’m now home.  It’s the next day.  I slept for a very long time, maybe 10 or 12 hours, I don’t know.  I’m laying in bed and it feels soooo good.  I have to buy my plane ticket to Peru and stop by Work and unpack my stinky backpack.  My parents got me a $20 gift certificate to the new hibachi place that just opened up across the street and I want to try it.  There’s much to do.  

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