Last night, I drank wine with a monk. Which, oddly enough, is nowhere near as random as it sounds.
(Also, I’m typing this all on my phone? Because my computer has yet to be properly set up since the move? I’ll explain later.)
Two weeks and two days. That’s how long we’ve been back in San Diego, and we’ve only just now arrived at the place we’re going to call home.
Eventually, we will call it home. At the moment, it’s just the place we happen to live. I’m trying hard to see this as my own episode of Fixer Upper, which ultimately it is, but right now it feels pretty uncomfortable.
Don’t even get me started about the rats.
You know, I lived in New York City, and never once did I see a rat. I mean, I heard them plenty, but I never actually saw one. Same with cockroaches. Never saw one.
In San Diego, however, I’ve seen plenty of both. And not just in this place, but out and about. Little Italy, for instance – which is a rather posh part of town – is totally and completely infested with roaches. Skunks too, but that’s irrelevant to this particular story.
My point is, this is a season of making. Making a home, making a career, making love.
Next week, I’ll celebrate another journey round the sun. When I think back to this time last year, my very deepest wish was to live the life I’m living at this very moment.
(Except for the rats.)