I am writing about events that happened six weeks ago.
I don’t know what it was about our last trip, but it used to be so easy to keep up with our adventures. So many once-in-a-lifetime experiences, so much that I wanted to say. I used lie awake at night, mulling over every detail that I would write the next morning. But this time, it’s a little different. Significantly less down time to tell our stories. Fewer moments that I feel are “blog-worthy”. And a whole lot less people following along. The motivation is weak, to say the least, and the distractions are many.
That said, I really want to catch up. The blogs from our first big trip in 2010 are the best gifts we could have ever given to our future selves. Back home, in the years that followed, we’d read excerpts to one another and reminisce from the comfort of our fluffy bed. It was hard to imaging that the people on those virtual pages were the same ones living the lives that we had cultivated in Venice. Yet, it was such an indescribable treat to re-live the times we’d had.
So, every day I think to myself, “Today is the day I will get caught up! No more putting off until tomorrow a story I should tell today.” Fast forward at least 40 days. Not a word. I’ve even had a few friends ask why I haven’t written lately, which is indescribably humbling and flattering and also a reminder of my perpetual slacking. So now it's 11:30pm on a random Tuesday night in Spain, after an amazing evening of Pintxo Pote (more on that later). And I am determined to get caught up. Irish-folk sleeping beside me. The streets below a flurry of wine-fueled action. And the hostel a dull buzz of holiday-ing Europeans. This is where I will (at least attempt to) get caught up on our trip(s). Here goes nothing…