Sunday morning, 4:30am a short intense working trip begins. Reviewing grant applications in Durham, North Carolina; meeting some dancers and arts administrators in Accra, Ghana; buses to Lomé, Togo and Cotonou, Benin. Time with a most intriguing dance artist in Lagos, Nigeria.
Keeping a smallish combo backpack/suitcase lightly packed no matter the demands of that extra pair of jeans to go along. But I am leaving my Kindle at home. I do not like it. There must be room for books even if more clothes are jettisoned. A new Icelandic murder mystery—or two. A biography of Alexander Hamilton or my book club novel. The mix should keep me amused on sleepless nights.
Biggest decision. No computer. Just me and my Droid. Who have never really bonded. So back to the days when I spent much of my time on the road in coffee shops writing…by hand…with a notebook…and a pen. Remember that? It was most pleasurable, especially at sidewalk cafes, especially with café au laits, especially with cigarettes…especially in Paris? Never mind. That was then, this is now. No cigarettes, no Paris. Will Accra have a Starbucks?