My name is Joe

If I'm being honest, Monday was a complete false start. Eagerly springing from the blocks then trudging back sheepishly (though not sluggishly) for another attempt. Driving back to Port Townsend, I felt I could reconcile myself with the wasted day if I did something or went somewhere I wouldn't have otherwise. I didn't.

I didn't because I didn't have to. Having found a motel in Port Townsend, I then found a bar, and at that bar I got talking to the guy sat next to me. We had plenty to talk about since he had lived in Chile in the sixties and travelled extensively throughout South America. We talked about travelling, about travelling alone, and the places we'd both been to and how they had or hadn't changed.

Just before I left I asked him if he wrote a journal - he said he'd kept diaries, but that they were erratic and probably indecipherable. But also that maybe one day he could try and transpose them. And you know what, I got the feeling that, with memories reawakened by a passing stranger, he just might. Offering my hand as I left, I told him my name, and he replied with his. It was easy really, since they were the same.

I wonder if that will be me one day.