I am awake before the roosters, long before the light. I close my eyes again. See, it isn't so different.
Does that mean darkness is like sleepwalking?
These cusp months are the hardest, the trade-off. In my perfect world, we would spend the in-between seasons somewhere mid-way--in Caracas. Or I think about the Canary Islands. I have always wanted to see Tenerife.
I asked about it a couple of years ago, during one of the longer flights, with night pressing up against the airplane windows.
"Won't work." The Chief didn't waste his words.
Before I could ask why, he continued, "Three months is not enough time to join a community, to find work, to be trusted. We need to be trusted--and we're already looked upon as a little odd. But we've spent years building the trust and the relationships."
I shifted in my seat. An interim stop would also mean less traveling all at once, and my butt was getting sore.
"Misha, this is one of the trades we make. It isn't perfect for me either, for anyone." The Chief went back to reading his magazine, something about sailing. Again, I felt like the fish out of water.