I sleep fitfully in my berth, constantly rocked by the rolling train, and I don't mind one bit. For my money, there is nothing better than a trainride to conjour notions of a bygone era. I wake in the early dawn on the outskirts of Damascus and realise that I don't really have a firm plan.
In fact I have no plan beyond a thread of a name in the Lonely Planet guide that is across from the other older train station that is not near the train station that I am arriving at. I think they call this "flying blind".
As I disembark, I find myself at the side of a road, a taxi stand of sorts. As is my wont upon arrival at any new destination, I hang out and chill at the point of arrival, usually because I don't know where I'm going, or I know where I'm going but I don't know how to get there, or as currently configured, a combination of both.
I linger as the vibrancy of the Damascus dawn unfolds before me, and I remind myself that the beauty of not having a plan is that nothing can go wrong.
No big deal.
http://www.goyestoeverything.com
