What does it take to get a drink in this place?

Two conflicting images stand out in my recollection of today: the assertion, on a friend's couch, that there is no such thing as enough travel, and the sweat collecting on the back of my neck as I sat in traffic on Route 17 North.

An old friend once told me that the thing about the world is that for all their differences, people all over the world are the same: same issues, same vices, same needs and wants and faiths. Four years steeped in the post-modern academy, and I have to say I've never felt it to be more true.

This weekend, I returned to my academy, sought out old girlfriends, old professors and others, and made what peace there was to be made. In a few weekends, I travel southward to a current girlfriend. I've come to realize that home is not places, home is people. And I feel that the process of growing older is the process of adding to the things that count as home.

That this should keep me inside my small volvo, darting about such that I am kept for great lengths of time from that place which is "home", the physical location that has such a connection that I cannot help but write about it... well, I'm not yet old enough to tell whether or not that's apt.