Eyes on the road.

Today, Biarritz is the cloudiest beach town in the world. Basque Country must be as sad to see me leave, as I am to be leaving, but I think we both know it's time. I'm en route to Paris to see an old friend, and to begin another adventure, but my basque experience still resounds in my head. Summer: sun (normally), sand, tapas, rioja, repeat.

"Excusez moi," says an old tymer, interrupting my thoughts. "Do you play rugby?

"Non."

"Pffft. C'est dommage." (It's a shame.)

He abruptly leaves, leaving me to wonder if I am wasting my broad shoulders on less masculine endeavors. I did yoga at the lake all summer. Ok, power yoga. I guess it paid off. Namaste Monsieur.

Yoga was as much a physical outlet as a stress reliever from my sometimes difficult summer gig.I lived in a hostel for the last 60 days with teenagers from all over the world, not as their vagabond, but as their all authoritative center manager, ready to confiscate booze and chase down anyone trying to sneak out after curfew. Despite any difficulties, I loved it. I loved them.

After so much time it was like we were a family, but I knew better.

I could feel the itch of the road tingling in my blood. The shameless one inside me had never left. Never did he stop aiming for the aimless adventure. Feet on the ground. Eyes on the road. Heart lodged in the moment of uniquely endless encounters, asking nothing while receiving everything.

Sitting on this train, overweight bags containing the last year of my life, pen ready to write, I am at home again. Even the short exchange with the old tymer showed me that there is still some magic to this adventure. Sometimes you go to it, but often, it just comes to you.