Nearly all the adventures I've had in my life start with someone (I can't drive myself) driving me off down this road. The cinema we go to's on it, so I'm there a couple of times a week, anyway... but it's the far end that I'm more interested in. The vast unknown beyond, where who-knows-what lies ahead.
Of course, one could look at a map, but that would be much less exciting. I don't need anything more than a vague concept of where I'm going; for me, it's never been the destination as much as it has been the journey.
And this is the road far too much less taken.
At the start of one of my journeys, my friend (who was taking us to, I believe, the North... although I've never actually been too sure; most of our journeys ended up in the North) had stopped at a red light, just behind a white minibus, from the rear window of which someone (he says it was a white girl; I saw it as a black boy, but who knows?) foldled their nipple and flashed it at us with a grin. Another time, 47 drove off down it with the promise that he'd be getting engaged at some point soon (he did, that day). And then, last week, our hotel looked out onto this road, with the hundreds of cars speeding past - maybe commuters, maybe holidaymakers... but all going on into the myriad of possibilities.
"One for the road", for me, becomes synonymous with wanderlust: the anticipation of what's to come bubbles up inside me, with excitement both nervous and wanton, at the start of every new journey.
There are times, of course, when I could have focused more on where I was going than actually when and how I was getting there...
...but where's the fun in that?
click the image for this week's prompt