The back door is left wide open all day and is closed but not locked at night, just like all the other doors that lead into this shared space. A laminated booklet hangs by the door informing any travelers what kinds of facilities are available and where to find them in the house and what kind of behavior is expected. There's a drum set and a baby grand in the living room among all the bicycles from all the cyclists stopping through.
A spiral staircase leads to the second floor – I wonder how old this house is or what it looked like before it became this haven for touring cyclists. Today, in the afternoon I lay on one of the couches in the sun room. The owner is actually here today but, no one else. He's nice but not very talkative, a person might feel uncomfortable not chatting it up with their host but, I can tell he wants me to feel at home, not like he's doing me this grand favor; so I kick my feet up and doze off or read or whatever I'm capable of on this lazy Sunday afternoon.
This morning I took my bike out for coffee, donuts, and errands, playing some jazz loudly from the speaker I carry on my handlebars.
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