12.10.2012 - 12.10.2012
When you are traveling you feel you must write about your day. Each day is special, never to be lived again, and if you don't record it, you have consigned it to oblivion. With the pressure mounting, a sort of mild panic sets in. You cast about for an imaginative way to describe what happened. Nothing comes. You wonder then if you are making the most of your time. You worry about worrying too much. Jesus, the inner dismissive Bryan in you says.
Today you moved from San Jose del Sur to Santa Cruz. The bus took you to the junction, and then you walked another four miles or so in the alternately muggy, alternately blazing heat with your heavy, uncomfortable backpack. For some reason you did not begin your familiar mental exercise of devising a way to lighten your load. Perhaps you were too hungry or too faint. You took in the lush, pastoral landscape with a weary, semi-indifferent eye (keeping the other eye trained on the road to avoid cow and horse patties).
But when you got to your hostel you thought maybe it was worth the trip because for the first time in a long while you have your own bathroom, which comes with such luxuries as a toilet roll holder, complimentary shampoo packets, and even your own towels folded into the shape of swans. Also, a mosquito net for the full-size bed, meaning that when you sleep tonight you will not have to place an extra sheet between you and Chris to keep your sticky bodies from touching in the too small mosquito net tent. You think to yourself incredulously, Could all this comfort really be for me? It is, and you take the time to smile befroe heading to the restaurant/reception area to check your email.