Decided to spend a good chunk of my long weekend with old friends who knew me way back when I was an impressionable seventeen-year-old with delusions about becoming a doctor despite my own practically perfunctory interest in the sciences and zero tolerance for blood and needles. Decided to spend it in the city I last visited as a still impressionable person in my twenties, when all I wanted was to be crazy in love and travel the world and maybe get some writing done. Thanks to friends willing to indulge me, our meanderings included small exhibits (where I got my fluxus fix and fashion fix), medieval art, gardens, a park, and of course, bookstores (here and here). I know much has changed now that I’m a little less excited by crowds and craving the company of plants in quiet places. Much has changed too now that two for the road is down to one. But the road continues to be pretty interesting, the writing is still getting done (sort of, fingers/toes/eyes crossed), and I am slowly developing the appetite (or the stamina) for solitude. Besides, when the going gets rough, love is just a bus, or train, or country (many times over), or a few continents away.