I am lying on the couch reading Neil Peart’s account of the epic motorcycle trip he took after losing his daughter and wife in quick succession and something in his descriptions of hotels is reminding me of places I’ve been while waiting to see if I still had a home to return to after a hurricane passed. There’s a certain tension to that. Am I on a forced vacation? Or am I about to become a refugee, with nothing beyond what’s in my suitcase, and a big emotional wound to heal while I find a new place to live?


I have personally experienced several distinct flavor variations of that feeling...

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