Upon ruminating over the books I chose to bring with me, I’m a bit confused yet amused at Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, as I find myself badgered in Thamel almost daily to purchase the means through which I’d be able to channel my inner Hunter S Thompson. I am not surprised, though, that I would be toting around On the Road by the original hipster, my personal favorite son of a gun, Jack Kerouac. I’m not quite sure whether I brought the little novel along just to stare at, maybe page through and feel comforted by the words for a fourth or fifth time, or if I had really intended to read cover-to-cover. Either way, I am content to know it lays at my bedside every night while I am here.
It sort of reminds me why I am here, or at least why I think I am here It is very easy to question why one would come to a place like this. It is easier for me to question myself and my own decisions. Waking up Paris and London, like I got to with my mom and sister last summer, is worlds away from what it is like waking up here. It’s not the same. As a matter of fact, very little about this country thus far is “the same.” I thought less about the trip or the travel aspect of this journey when first deciding to come here. Another place to add to my Facebook timeline map feature? Yeah I guess, but that’s not the important part. This to me is a life experience. Kerouac says the road is life. Well one day when I’m snuggled up with the love of my life (shoutout) and maybe a baby or two at Christmas time 2022 or so, with my mother (shoutout) baking her butt off in the kitchen and my sister (shoutout) sitting around with her millionaire fiance or whatever, I’ll recall stories to my family about my road, about my life.