I am starting to tell people where I am going.
I wanted to keep it a secret, partly because I want to surprise people, and partly because I don’t want to have to listen to everyone tell me their advice. Their advice about where to go.
Oh we went there, you have to go there, you are going there, aren’t you. That little hole-in-the-wall around the corner from such and so? YES YES YES You have to go there. It is obligatory. Or even worse: The No People. Oh no, we went there, you don’t want to go there, the whole city is awful and the people are rude: it’s dirty and full of thieves there there there, you don’t want to go there at all NO!
So before I told anyone where I was going, where I hope to be going, where I plan to be going, where I will be going in eight weeks God willing and the creek don’t rise, before I told anyone I went ahead and made my plane reservations from LAX nonstop AirFrance to CDG, adjusting the dates slightly to get a better price on my slightly larger and more comfortable premium economy seat. AND THEN I went ahead and rented a tiny studio apartment for 30 days from September 30 to October 30. My credit cards are now officially groaning in agony.
Then and only then I told my mother where I am going. Somewhat to my relief, she says she approves of my choice, and applauds the fact that I already arranged everything. So give me the address and telephone number already, will you? Okay Mom, here it is.
I suspect she is relieved that I am not going to Mexico. I think she is afraid of all the drug wars and kidnappings. A good friend of the family was killed recently, just right here in Baja California. His father was one of my stepfather’s best friends. At least they did not live to see the young man be murdered and destroyed. RIP.
I just hope the plane doesn’t crash.