I’m on vacation with the fam. (More on that to come at a later date; there’s material aplenty, and believe you me it’s going to sound mostly like a big complain-fest from a tired man, because, well, I’m tired and I will likely complain. Hear me now: I’m very thankful for the opportunity. It’s just that whoever said it’s about the journey and not the destination did not journey with children.)
For now, I wanted to say that, because we are staying in a condo that doesn’t have WiFi (a situation that even 10 years ago would have been the norm but now seems like a hardship akin to not having running water or to fighting your way to the cereal aisle of that strange local grocery chain only to discover they are sold out of everything but generic unfrosted blueberry pop tarts), I am at the local Mcdonald’s, drafting posts, catching up on reading, and partaking of the cuisine.
As such, here I sit with a swell of pride in my chest, one which owes its existence to the fact that I live in such a great time and place, one in which I can walk into a “restaurant” in a different part of the country, an establishment which looks much like those from my hometown, and experience that old familiar feeling. . . like I just got punched in the gut. Hard.