I have reasonably complicated plans for the summer. In less than two weeks, I’m heading west to Ohio, for my stepmom’s birthday party. Then I’ll go north to Michigan, where I’ll visit at least one friend, maybe more, and perhaps explore the upper peninsula, which I hear is beautiful.
After that, I’ll head to Toronto, to deliver some of R’s miscellaneous possessions to him. (It is incredibly nice of a person with storage space as limited as mine to offer to transport belongings: I am never, ever, ever going to do it again.)
From Toronto, I’d like to head east to Vermont and spend some more time there, then swing down the east coast to visit friends and family in Massachusetts and New Jersey.
But honestly, right now, I’m writing all that and really thinking that I am in a perfect place, and I’d like to spend my whole summer here. I’m parked at my brother’s garden, the blueberries are getting ripe, the grass is green and lush, the weather is perfect, the company is great, and the writing is going well. Why do I keep moving again?
Oh, right, because that’s what people who live in vans do. But it is seriously, seriously lovely here right now.