I sit on the top floor of a three-story house full of creative writing Masters students in an incense-laden room with a tiger poster on the wall and a skateboard for a shoe rack.
Trees line streets and the rain follows the cobblestones. It's Victoria without the hanging flower baskets and with a few hundred year old stone churches (insert hyphens where you will).
They have yoga and vegetarians and a farm outside the city.
I don't know where I'll work and maybe I won't but maybe I'll stop awhile and see.
It's the first day of the rest of my life, and what do you do with a cliche but peg it as such?
Hunter’s “not-so-funday” Friday
3 weeks ago