I’m shifting back to drive, hailing an Uber to Hayes the whole half mile away when Alexa informs me it’s 50–55 with sun and dutifully fueling up on $9 juice that doesn’t contain juice but is surely the most intelligent and energizing form of algae and almond. I’m archiving Trello tasks by the minute: making 6:30 reservations four weeks out, obsessively checking my Betterment, hunting Poshmark for an Alexander Wang Prisma tote, and…oh the mail. I’m calculating convenience:cost to Shyp the souvenirs — it’s not that I won’t brave the USPS line armed with Pocket content galore, but there’s the certainty of broken car glass lining Geary and the possibility of scratching up my soles.

Neat and efficient, I am device propelled through the days… click click click. I am home.

But before the last six months fade into the familiar, I owe it to my backpacker self to do a little journaling. Pretty sure there could be a meme that says “life is a book and those who don’t travel read but a page…and those who stop, write about it on Medium.”

Hours I’ve been away from home — 3840

Currently listening to Heaven On Earth — Sinclair