Katerina keeps a notebook. Not a nice one, just whatever was closest when she needed it, half falling apart at this point, filled with restaurant names in handwriting that gets messier the hungrier she was when she wrote it.

She adds to it constantly. A place a stranger mentioned on a layover, something a friend posted, a name half-remembered from years ago that finally surfaces again. She has never once used it to plan a trip. She says it's the other way around, the notebook decides where she ends up next.

It tracks with everything else about her. The training as a dancer left her with a kind of restlessness that doesn't sit still for long, and chasing down some place two towns over because a page told her to is just that same instinct pointed at food instead of a stage.

The notebook is, by her own count, on its third cover.