following the yellow arrows

Even though it's been a couple of weeks since I arrived at Finisterre, I'm still looking for those telltale signs pointing me in the right direction.

I've become a loyal customer of Shell gas stations. I appreciate the irony of choosing to fill up my gas tank with a product because it reminds me of a nice walk.

I smile every time I see a yellow arrow that has been painted for some construction purpose. Today, while I was driving around in a parking lot with fat, yellow arrows, I felt a bit of peace.

Before I left for Europe, a friend, exasperated by my endless questions about philosophy or religion or politics or whatever I was being difficult about at the time told me, "Bridget, sometimes it's okay to just follow the rules." It's not. I assured him. It's just not. What kind of a world would it be if I didn't question every little thing?

After 500 miles, I can tell you. It turns out that I can be pretty good at following the rules. I loved following those yellow arrows. For once, I loved mindlessly doing as told.