I always thought I thrived in controlled environments. Give me a project plan, a map and an itinerary and watch my heart sing. When a life could so easily be reduced to a bullet point and there is a schedule for how and where the day takes you. Although I never speak about my private life on this space (as that part of my life is sacrosanct and wholly mine), I will reveal a moment that will illustrate the depths of my need for controlling time and what is contained within a span of moments. A great love and I were sitting in bed as we were wont to do, and I started to twitch. Never the coquette in a relationship, I’m the sort of person who will get up and ask about dinner. My former love pulled me back and pleaded with me to stay awhile, to which I responded, in all seriousness, for how long? Because I needed start and end points. I needed to know what was on the other side. You want an ETA for lying in bed? I suppose I did.
I’ve changed a great deal since then, but I do like my schedules and projections.
Imagine me, slightly ruffled, when I arrive in Biarritz to find everything closed. Everything. Closed. Cerrada. Fermé. For hours. Living in New York, you forget about the notion rest, a break within the day is considered comic, a waste of time, but in a span of twenty-four hours I’ve been forced to be content with wandering, with breaking free of plans.
So I’ve done just that. Wandered the streets of Biarritz, reading in front of the ocean, getting comfortable with simple rest.
Before the madness that is New York ensues.
Tomorrow I’m off to San Sebastian. Except for scheduled posts (I’ve a tremendous backlog from Paris), I plan to be off the grid. No camera, no Instagram, Twitter, and all that jazz. I’m leaving my phone at my hotel and plan to hop on a bus and see what happens.