My daily walk home is a hour[^1]; it can be split into three distinct phases. The first phase is through a capitalist hellhole, with nothing but single-rise commercial buildings & cars whizzing by & fields for scenery. The second phase is Lidl — think Aldi, I actually confounded the two up until recently — where I usually stop and get (A) a surprisingly good baguette, often warm, often satisfying the craving for something crunchy, for 0.65 euros and (B) some kind of thing I intend to use for dinner. The third phase (post-Lidl, PL if you will[^2]) takes you through four boulangeries in a block radius (I love France); a grove of trees that flank a Monoprix; an elaborately constructed roundabout that only has one exit (thus defeating the purpose of the roundabout). Pass by the famous Yellow House that was once the titular subject for Van Gogh's painting, now home to a pair of classically French restaurants, and I walk on old cobblestoned paths that border the river Rhone to chew up the remaining distance separating me from home. As the walk is done late at night, it is often solitary, and it is always routine. I've reflected on whether I should put on a podcast, or do something "productive" in the time, but I find myself just enjoying the walk and rinsing an artist or two (tonight, Kamasi Washington; would recommend). Yet tonight, outside the little pair of restaurants, right before I was meant to turn onto the final lap of the race, I saw a man sitting alone. A vehement, unyielding desire to say hello and have a conversation consumed me. If you've read the blog before, you're probably expecting that I did say hi, and some magical story transpired, floating through my being and reflecting back onto the digital page. And given if you've read the blog, you probably know my tendencies in real life, which is a double reason to believe a story lies ahead. [^3] There is no story, unfortunately. I kept walking. It wasn't the language barrier — I had done more socially uncomfortable things in French [^4] — and it wasn't any hesitancy. Instead, I had an odd desire to get home and finish making dinner. At that time, for the first time ever in my life, the little satisfaction from cutting a piece of perfectly cooked steak with a chef's knife into charming thin strips on a wooden cutting board had overtaken the normal happiness of a conversation. I've always tried to grab onto connection — no matter how fleeting — and even more so on the solitude of a gap year. Yet now, my priorities were different. I am acutely aware that this is a blog post about nothing happening. I usually record these banal portions of my day — with only some reflection, time permitting — into a now-large text file on my computer. This was a habit that was born naturally — one that lacked any longevity or consistency until some people I respect greatly affirmed it — and it has let me hold onto moments that would've likely been lost forever had I not recorded them at the time. Yet interestingly, what I record is often reflective of what I'm prioritising at the time. The summer was how my French progress was coming along (spoiler: not good), the fall was how I felt hanging out with my parents in Toronto (spoiler: very good), and as the wind has gotten a little more bite down where I am, I've recorded more of how I'm sticking to a relatively solitary, peaceful routine. That's where my mind, temporarily, is at. And if it's true you get what you prioritise, I really am curious why I want to get what I'm prioritising currently. Maybe that's only a question my subconscious will answer for once we're on the other side. [^1]: I walk a hour to do what? Go to the gym. And then a hour back! It's legitimately one of the most idiotic habits I have ever found myself pursuing. Normally, I would never accept this — three hours, sometimes more, just lost to the pursuit of the gym. There's literally no reason for it! I'm not even training for anything remotely important. And yet, even in this interesting city of Roman ruins and modern art history, I choose to walk to a commercial gym. So ridiculous. I have no clue what possesses my body to do it. [^2]: I personally will not. [^3]: I had social anxiety at some point in my life; I decided to throw myself in the deep end. Last three years, I can count on one hand the number of times I have wanted to say hello, and haven't. If I was ever telling someone a story, I never want to be a spectator to it. [^4]: For instance, speak French.