Anything can happen. The day may come when you find yourself, for the fortieth time, cadging a meal at a graduate school reception (despite never having attended any quaternary education)...or you stop off for a pork belly taco at a bougie cafe in Mississippi (guilt mounting for having expected crumbling infrastructure and Deliverance locals)...or you resignedly chew a stale bagel (your last MRE, woeful sustenance) to withstand endless, soulless, artificial, McMansion-stuffed suburbs a dozen miles outside Denver.
These happenings are neither tragic nor that bizarre, but you get the idea. Plans change; but happily, your wonderful, strikingly tattooed friend welcomes you into her home, makes sure you have plenty of cabbage and cauliflower, and not only gets you on your feet but takes you on some great hikes.
So I missed a few states and many miles, but I was a temporary resident of Boulder before flying back to lots of nephew-kiddie-pool-time and wall washing with my parents. And there's a few weeks to dream of all the cheeses I will stuff in my backpack when I get to Paris.
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