Dear future hubster,
while I really enjoy road trips in a team (remember, that's what we're supposed to be: a team), often for the destination, and almost always for the journey itself, I also appreciate and cherish my solo drives.
Oddly, considering how many others are on the road with me, they feel like quality me-time. I get to listen to bad French radio and then move on to bad German radio, with all the painful accents; I get to sing along to even James Blunt because I will never have to admit it, for lack of witnesses.
I get to look at the ridiculously pretty landscapes, admire the mountains in the clouds, the lush greens, to doomy dark greys. I get to contemplate on life, the journey, the purpose, the meaning. I get to find some of the peace I thought I lost forever, because I couldn't hear the words of wisdom in the noise of everyday.
See, I don't miss you on the road. I do at the end of the road. That's where I wish you were, waiting for me, laughing at my complaints about my silly fellow drivers, the bad radio, the weather. Making me unpack in less than a week, having my ginger tea ready for when I arrive to that place we share and call home.
