Cats tend to help me tell the story of a place in their always-masterful inhabitance of it. Plus, I just like snapping cat pics.
And so, I give you, the cats of Bermuda — the rascally little nuggets who roam the cobblestone roads as if they own them, boldly mewling for attention from tourists or skirting into bushes at the faintest sound.
“You always told me I wasn’t allowed to pet the strays!” my teen sister said, indignant. “What about all their ‘diseases?'”
“Sydney’s lived a good life,” my mom replied.
And I have. That good life is made noticeably better by the presence of cats.
“Travel” has come to mean a very different thing to me since I moved home after my college graduation and started my first corporate job.
I still daydream about sandy beaches, glittering city skylines, a backpack full of dirty laundry, and that rounded rectangular view out an airplane window. But for now, I settle for weekend getaways to old haunts that are within a reasonable driving distance.