The trip was (and is) related to what I've been claiming as my "vocation" all these years: literature. I know that my grandmother would prefer me to have a life. I'd prefer that too, of course. But I'm stubborn, as the wealk-willed often are, and I cling to a profession that's really no such thing, even though I may not be cut out for it, and haven't yet shown the slightest sign that I am. I persist in asserting, precisely, that literature does not require proof or aptitude. In my heart of hearts I never felt called to literature, or saw myself doing the work that such a vocation would entail. If I were to reply sicerely to the question of which professions I would have liked to pursue, had I possessed enough viogur to lead a real life; I'd have to list, in this order: ladies' hairdresser, ice cream vendor, bird and reptile taxidermist.