Nothing spills fun from travel like watching what one eats and what one spends. Today I pored (poored, poured a beer) over my favourite habits, offering rueful salute to the haphazard way I approach them, tinkering with mid-flight correction, with a 4-day jaunt to Toulouse coming up and, near the end of Feb., a 6-week hiatus from Lisbon to get to Morocco and back, no travel or accommodation arrangements yet confirmed.
Outside, wind has blown hard all the way up to Graca from the waterfront, which this aft I hit with a run/walk, serving notice to knees, mainly, to expect more such treatment.
As for diet, wow, the amount of bread--every three of four doorways leads to more. And breakfast in Portugal, or any form of half-lunch or pre-dinner snack, means sweets.
I've got to hide under Lisbon for a few days, is what this means.
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Nothing spills in Regina--it flakes, layer upon earth until the shovel breaks. Nothing builds like a wind from the west clearing clouds from the sky until there is blinding blue and sundogs fly like flags next to the sun. It skates like an Olympic dream, water pipes bursting on cold nights, triple toe-looping a street corner's bend.
Of course, nothing is the spill that is day getting longer, shadows taller, winter smaller than the beer poured in a mug.
Thanks, whoever you are. In my experience, even the nub a shovel, after the blade and shaft have broken, can get the job done. Keep at it!
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