As it always seems to, my writting is the first thing to go when it comes to vacations. I start out with the best intentions, buy a journal, find a pen and generally start thinking in long poetic prose and flowery details. (I chalk it up to my deep rooted desire for the coveted job of travel writing and a gypsy heart)
I love the idea of writing and I love to write and everything would work out fine if I had the time or took the time to actually do it. And as I purchase or pack a journal for the exciting trip ahead, I always forget, in that choose-not-to-remember way, that I don't write as much as I thought I would.
So here we are again, a second trip to San Francisco and my second-ish day in California and I have yet to write since the plane ride. The Terribly long flight and prior to that terribly long layover were opportune moments to write. And I did for as long as I could stay conscious having only slept for about 4 hours total since Wednesday night/ Thurdsay morning.
Even now, as we take Bart to SF I keep vetting distracted and losing my thoughts in the green picturesque hills and scenery passing the window.
I have so much I want to say about our trip here and our day in Santa Cruz yesterday, turkey burgers, cake, starbucks, the boardwalk, the bead shop and the feeling of flying.
I keep telling myself it would be easier to do the writing if I had ventured out on my own and wasn't visiting anyone but that wouldn't be nearly as fun or interesting for me.
So I keep looking for moments to write a trying to remember all I needed to say for when the time comes but if I keep worrying about writing it all down, I'm going to miss it when it is happening.
So here's to adventure! May it always be so exciting as to stop me from writing and remind me to be a part of what's happening.