I’m in my room, sorting things into piles. There’s the receipt pile (tax deductions). The business card pile (contacts to keep in touch with). The brochures pile (museum information). The magazine pile (writers to discover). The book pile (plane reading).
It’s my last night in DF and it’s the first night I’m alone. Every other night this week I’ve forced myself to go out. I say forced because I struggle, when I’m traveling solo, with the decision between staying in to write and keep on top of all the information and ideas I’ve accumulated (because it tends to get diffuse so quickly) or going out and catching up with friends and meeting new people in places that I haven’t been before.
I make plans to get together, but there’s always a moment when I think about canceling. I could get so much done if I stayed in. I could also sit around in my pajamas and socks, which is my preferred state. But to cancel would be rude, and I don’t want to be rude.
So I pull it together and go out.
And I’m always glad when I do.
This last night feels lonely.