One thing no one tells you about endlessly traveling the world is that eventually, weather loses its meaning as a marker.
Spend enough time flitting between the Northern and Southern Hemispheres, and you forget if summer means June or January, if winter means December or July.
But even more than that, when you've spent years working not around a regular employer's schedule, but around the events at any place you'd like to burgle, holidays lose their meaning.
My mind recognizes that November 11 means Armistice Day, but my body has forgotten. More often than not the past few years, I've spent that day planning a robbery, or carrying it out.
No solemn observation here.
I was reminded of that this morning, standing on the balcony of my hotel room, sipping my coffee as the lightest snowfall drifted down.
Some part of me thought it was strange to see snow in Nashville, if not unheard of, but I hadn't taken that much note of it.
Nashville may as well have been New York or Montréal, or Stockholm, or Ulan Bataar, as far as I was concerned.
But it was an unusually slow day for me, forced to lie in wait for my actions the previous day to take effect before I could continue my plan.
And so I aimlessly turned on the television to see local news reports on the citywide panic over a few flakes. I chuckled to myself: this could do us well, I thought.
The more the local cops were focused on digging people out of inch-tall snowbanks, the less heed they'd pay a shadowy figure or two around the Opry.
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