Morning of.  Sitting on my uncovered mattress, tired.  Twice I have encountered two old men on the street.  One walked with a cane; I tried to take a picture of him with my zoom lens.  He ducked behind a building before I could click the shutter.  He reappeared in a completely different part of the city.  Suddenly there.

Another while I sat at a corner cafe, sipping wine.  An old man approaches, hands out, wanting something.  I pressed coins in his palm.  He smiled and backed away.  Blocks later, he shows up again, lopsided grin, asking for more.

My arms ache from lugging baggage, and I trade my heavy awkward bag for another.  I donate my old one to the hostel, easily discarded.  I am afraid the replacement–a cheap, polka-dotted-covered plastic sagging satchel–won’t last the journey.  I envision my belongings falling out at a railway station –me staring at the detritus of my life –lotions and creams, books I haven’t read, maps of the places I have been and will go.  A camera to record it all in a blur.  I stand there at a loss, always.

At the cafe the man moves on.