I don’t turn 34 until 7:44 pm tonight, Chicago time.
Actually I don’t even know if that’s true. They moved Daylight Savings Time back, so maybe I’ll be 34 at 6:44, or 8:44, who knows. But I read an article one time that said 33 is the best age to get things done, and the examples they cited were Jesus and Jennifer Love Hewitt, so you can’t really argue with that.
I’ve been on the road for three weeks and haven’t written a damn word.
In my defense, I’ve been in Spanish class until last Friday. It hasn’t felt very much like traveling — two weeks with one family in Antigua, one week near Lake Atitlan — and it’s only since Saturday that I find myself with no real obligations or responsibilities. Of course plenty has already happened, and I’ve already scribbled out some notes about things like volcanos that blow up the day after you hike them, the relative threat index of Colombian women vs Guatemalan women, likelihood of electrocution in a Central American shower, and how to talk down a Canadian who threatens to hit you (hint: he won’t). So it’ll all make its way up here shortly.