Jazz Hands Travelogue, Day Two.
7am. Post dawn, Tuesday.
Northerly Northerners are still fast asleep. Southerly Southerners are stirring, but not with haste.
Our rent-a-room-by-a-loud-road-but-close-enough-to-hear-ocean-waves-crashing-on-the-beach smells of fresh brew, single serve coffee and anticipation.
Today's forecast calls for a 30% chance of tired, complaining children in the morning hours, making way for a more tolerable form of youthful resistance by mid afternoon.
As with most forecasts, 'tis a game of odds. The smart money is not wagering at all, hope for the best and just accept what the day ahead brings. There's a whole world out there for us to explore rain or shine. Impressive stone fortresses, an exhausting haunted lighthouse climb, historic districts with cobblestone streets and campy souvenir shops filled with neon slogans scribbled onto hooded sweatshirts on our horizon (literally, our destination is 3 miles from where I am currently sitting).
But first, I will enjoy my hot-water-poor-excuse-for-a-cup-of-hotel-single-serving-coffee whilst absorbing the ambient sounds of rolling traffic crashing onto the shores of my eardrums...and half of a leftover meatball sub. I'm starving.
Today's Jazz Hands call for 100% chance of enjoying the forthcoming adventure.
Day three-hundred and thirty complete.
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