3 Minutes to Salford

Today something significant happened. Although I cried a bit (harder than I thought I would), I now realize that I can move forward. I'm trying to pass it off as a giant relief, after two years of uncertainty and periods of manic depression. Now I can reap the sweet rewards that come via the stupidity of the Greater Manchester Police. I'm hoping it will all balance out somehow.

“3 Minutes to Salford” is an acceptance—the acceptance that comes from sitting on an overcrowded train on a rainy morning in Northern England, heading into the grim heart of an industrial city. I know when that train pulls into Manchester Victoria, it's only three minutes to Salford, where I will disembark and slosh through the puddles to work. I accept that I've been on automatic for quite some time now, and I wish for anything I could be three minutes away from a better place.

Yeah, I guess it's all symbolic. This is essentially going to be a travel blog. I still have a good five months before I meet my husband in Paris to begin our travels. I have a few more things to sort out until then. In the meantime I'll still be taking that train into Manchester, walking through those miserable puddles—but I just might be somewhere else during that time.