Actually I wasn’t. Sightseeing that is. Get to see quite enough from the handlebars. Time off the road a chance to catch up on domestics, writings and ramblings. And often a chance to chat with fellow travellers. Or at least observe. Endlessly fascinating.
A middle-aged chap whose efforts at flirtation with those less than half his age bordering on the contemptible. But never when his elderly mother, with whom he was travelling, was around. I think she knew.
An English woman. Londoner. Musician. Saxophone, mostly modern jazz. Drawn to hostels to escape the suffocating isolation of bland, lonely motel rooms. And a Swiss long-haul cyclist I rather liked. Chatted with her late into the night. Then the next morning. The reason I was late leaving San Diego. Enjoying her company.
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