April 24, 2011
Day 12: St. Augustine, FL
Today I rest. I sleep in until 10:30 and spend the day writing, doing laundry, cleaning the bike, talking to Desiree, and eating pizza for the third and fourth straight meals.
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I also take some time to talk to Charles, the guy who runs and partly owns Casa Yallaha. He manages the place tightly and efficiently, which makes perfect sense after I learn that he was a Marine for more than 20 years. I make sure to remember the instructions he gave me when I checked in last night, follow the rules listed on signs all over the building, always turn off the lights, and push in my chair every single time. Charles is a friendly and pleasant guy, but he runs six-foot-three and more than 220 pounds, shaves his head clean, has some fierce-looking tattoos, always wears black t-shirts, and could beat my ass or kill me in at least 18 different ways. That's who you want running a hostel filled with young guys who pass through for a day or two and don't care what the place looks like.
I sit in front of the TV and watch hockey with Charles, who has a bit of a Philadelphia accent. All of a sudden it gets quiet and he looks over at me.
"Do you realize what you just did there?" he asks me.
"What? What did I do?" I have no idea what he's talking about.
"Really, you don't know what you just did?"
"Seriously, I have no idea. What happened?"
"Man, you just peeled a piece of skin off your arm and then dropped it on my floor!"
He must be in a good mood, because he lets me live to tell about it.
In the evening I take a walk, sit on the porch swing, relax with my legs up in front of the TV on the recliner, and think about the days and weeks to come. My legs, my ass, and my mind all feel better after staying completely off the bike. Tomorrow's my last full day in Florida before heading off into the wild unknown of Central Georgia. I can't wait to leave.
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