I’m writing this from Charleston, SC, hilariously juxtaposed against cadets from the Citadel as I’m walking back from Walgreens, having acquired wet wipes for what’s affectionately known as a “tour shower,” an unfortunate and all-too-common scenario where there’s no actual shower, and one’s nether regions don’t wash themselves...

The cadets are clipping along on their daily 10k, clean shaven and buzz cut, slaloming around parked cars and wheezing tourists, and for a moment I envy their day’s structure, the familiar refrain creeping in of am I working hard enough, have I worked hard enough, and maybe it’s too late for me, whatever that means.

But my emo inner monologue falls to the wayside as I settle into a booth at Rarebit, a Moscow Mule and good book in hand. Day drinking, one of life’s profound treasures, I imagine’s frowned upon at the Citadel, and the thousand or so fans lining up outside the Music Farm remind me how privilaged I am to wander this peculiar road.