Accomodation Number Thirty-Three

Yesterday, whilst waiting for the ferry, we crunched the numbers. Thirty-two accomodations. That’s the number of different beds I’ve slept in this year, since Tokyo. Throughout that period, there has always been a lot of forward planning. Each stay gave way to the next in some short duration of time. The rituals of check-in and check-out became more engrained. There was always another destination following immediately after the previous one.

Now, not so much. Accomodation number thirty-three has a question mark next to it. We don’t have to be anywhere. Of course, we never did. But we felt implored to be on the move anyway. Now, we’re being immobile by choice. It’s nice. Like a holiday within a holiday. Partly, it feels ironic and undeserved. I feel a sense of guilty for contextualising this period as a holiday, when literally I’ve spent the entire year travelling abroad. Perhaps It should’ve all been a holiday, but it hasn’t always felt like it in the relax and de-stress kind of way.

Ultimately, we’re here. On a beautiful Thai island, with ten days locked in staying in a homely bungalow with a sea view. The beach in this area is quiet; the town small. Peaceful. Less decisions, less navigation, less people. We can’t wait. This time around, we’ve allowed space. Maybe we’ll extend our stay by a month. Maybe we won’t. But at least we can. That flexibility—amongst a year that, I know, has flexibility bursting at the seams—feels like a breath of fresh air, plus a chance to settle down and reflect.