Turning Point

Back in Europe. Lost. My mind can’t decide what language to speak. Spanish falls clumsily.

I cling to the Moroccan side streets around the port. Oujda Bazaar makes me smile.

I am overwhelmed by my hotel; toilet paper and hot water at all hours. My room is over furnished.

As I walk the streets they feel familiar but… was it only ten days ago?

I call a friend who recently jetted between Communism and Capitalism. “How do you do it?”

We talk about lives making a difference. As if to punctuate this, a fellow Australian screams out of us dead from the papers in the Dakar Rally, Morocco.

That night, I dream of giving back to every country that made me smile. I decide to leave rallying. I make a plan to see VSO. The world turns.