I am thirsty.  I have been thirsty for many, many miles.  I can taste how good a cool drink of water would be right now.  I think of how much I could drink as I swallow some spit that doesn’t satisfy the dryness in my mouth.

            I look out the window.  It is dark and water droplets are chasing each other down the glass.  Normally I would watch them race and try to predict which one would reach the bottom first, but now all I can think is that I would like to lick the drops off the glass and feel the wetness on my tongue.

            The bus begins to slow, and I know we are coming into the town of Gisborne.  I put on my raincoat and wait on the other passengers ahead of me.

            When it is my turn, I descend the steps.  I watch as the other passengers are greeted by friends and family who are expecting them and happy to see them.  I don’t feel the usual pang of regret that nobody is waiting for me.  I am getting used to it.  My main concern is finding my backpack.

            I see it sprawled out on the damp sidewalk, waiting for me.  I resent the driver for putting it there and hope that water hasn’t soaked the clothes inside it.

            I pick up the load and struggle to get both hands through the straps.  It is almost too much for me and covers most of my back.  I realize that I look like a turtle with such a big backpack.

            I consider asking the bus driver for directions to the youth hostel, but he looks busy.  So instead I consult my map under the station light, and then I strike out on my own.

            At the first street I come to it is too dark to read the sign.  I miss the street lights that are so common back home.  I walk on.  The mist turns into a steady drizzle, and I find it impossible to put my hood up.  It is trapped beneath my backpack.  I stick my tongue out to try to catch some drops but with no luck.

            After walking several blocks, I realize I have no idea where I am or which way to go.  But still I walk on.  I am beginning to get worried that I will not find the hostel and will have no place to sleep tonight.

            At the next block, I peer both ways to see if there might be some kind of clue that will help me in my search.  And lo and behold, there like a beacon burning bright, is a Kentucky Fried Chicken in the distance with its candy stripes beckoning me.

            I walk toward the light.  I am sure someone there can give me directions.  As I enter, the warmth and the smell of fried chicken remind me of home.  Since I am so thirsty, I figure I can kill two birds with one stone, so I order some juice because I don’t have enough money for any chicken.

            The girl at the counter says to me, “Just juice?”

            “Just juice.,” I reply.

            We chuckle since “Just Juice” is also the brand name for the juice I just bought.

            “Well, not really.  I do need something else.  I also need to know if you can tell me how to get to the youth hostel on Cook Street.”  I show her my map, and she points out the way.  It seems complicated and a long way from the KFC.  I think of how my boyfriend back home would laugh if he knew I was trying to find my way by reading a map.  But I don’t see that I have any other choice, so I decide to head out.

            As I am leaving, the girl behind the counter says to me, “Your shoelace is untied.”

            I look down and see that I better take care of it before I go.  So I bend over to put my juice down so I can tie my shoe, and my backpack knocks me over.  I know I must look like a helpless turtle on its back as my backpack is so heavy I can’t get up.

A couple who have just come in feel sorry for me and help me get the backpack off so I can get up.

            “Where you headed?” the man asks.

            “The youth hostel on Cook Street,” I reply.

            “We’re headed that way if you want a lift.”  The woman volunteers.

            Relieved I say, “Thank you very much.  I would really appreciate it.”

            So I wait for them to get their chicken and then venture out to their car with them.  The man carries my backpack for me.  As I get in the back seat, two poodles climb all over me, but I figure it sure beats walking on a rainy night.  And as we pull away from the KFC, I know this is as close to home as I’m going to get for a long time.