Eve of Departure

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I'm still in San Francisco.  I'm reminded of this because my apartment is messy, cluttered with discarded items that didn't make it into my carry-on.  My asian robe is lying on the floor, half-draped over the waste-basket (too thick to fold and fit), the black top that you pull down over your shoulders and hope that it doesn't creep up every time you raise your arms, the black and brown long african dress lying in a ball at the base of the carry-on...this one still has a chance.
When I'm travelling, my living space is neat.  It's a strange feeling, this neatness.  I only like it for small periods of time, then I have to mess it up.  It's my theme.  I like stillness, order, but then I crave stirring those up.  I enjoy tossing things on the floor, leaving them there.  It can feel so homely.  My stamp on a personalized world. 
This time I'm not staying in hostels.  I'm actually staying in hotels.  Thanks to the credit card.  I'm not sure this will be a preferred method of travel, it's more isolated.  Like the rich people who are pleased with their fences around their yards -- not even the mailman can get in.  But I don't necessarily want to share my money belt and clothes this time.  I also prefer not to listen to someone snoring in the room with me, especially if I'm not sleeping with them.  (But those are preferences, and I've read almost everywhere that we should discard preferences as they are just learned behaviors rooted in routine.)  Oh, how to rid ourselves of routine!
Oh yes, I'm bored with being in my gray cubicle at work, filing patent applications internationally, and seeing the same people every day.  So I've opted for a month off.  To disappear.  To take tango lessons on the Seine at night.  (I hope this exists.  I haven't really researched anything.  But I envision tree strung lights and beautiful moments like in the movie Chocolat.)  I know I'm going to visit some of Hemingway's haunts.  Shakespeare & Co. -- the fisherman -- the gardens...basically the innards of "A Moveable Feast."
But I'm not there now.  I'm in San Francisco.  And I must remind myself to live in this exact moment.  And in this moment, the gauge in my wine glass is veering towards empty.  I must refuel.  So, a bit more 2 buck chuck, a little sleep, and my friend will arrive in the morning, in his economy commuter car, with a little bumper sticker that says "Free Tibet."  I still wonder how we might do that.

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