Crooked streets and the dinner is superb; the wine does not end. We loiter on the cobblestones as the others return to their beds, reluctant to follow. A newfound friend brings her bicycle and velvet accent to show us the better quarters, the Friday night. We follow giddily, the summer night is warm and where else would we be going?
Hours later we stumble home, and aren't the streets just as warm, the night just as young? I know there are plans for tomorrow, I set my alarm. But my head still simmers with a language I begin to remember, a comfort I too easily forget.
Life on the road is exhausting. It is worth the every heavylimb.
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