I bought a return ticket for the following Tuesday, because three days seemed like the right amount of time to see a small town on the coast. On Monday I changed it to Friday. The change cost very little and I told myself it was because of the weather. The town has one long street, two bakeries and a harbour where four boats are repaired more or less permanently. Nothing happens there. That is not a complaint; it took me two days to understand that it was the point. On Thursday I changed the ticket again, this time to the following week, and the man at the office recognised me and did not comment, which I appreciated. I had been working eleven hours a day for two years. I did not know that until the fourth morning, when I woke up without an alarm and could not think of a single thing that had to be done by a particular hour. The strange part is that I did not do very much. I read half a book. I learned the name of one fisherman and the names of both his sons. In the end I stayed sixteen days. I have the original ticket in a drawer at home. My sister thinks it is sentimental to keep it, and she is right, but she has misunderstood which part I am keeping. I am not keeping the trip. I am keeping the evidence that I was once a person who booked three days.