June 8, 2022: Blink and I'll Miss It

I've got two weeks to go before takeoff. Crazy, how quickly it's snuck up on me. For months, time seemed to grind by, but the last six weeks feel like I missed them entirely. I blinked, and suddenly it's June.

It's been interesting trying to prepare. I've got this paranoia that I'm going to forget to do something vital, but when I look it over it seems like everything's covered. I've got the days counted out for the tourist visas, renewed my passport, got my international driver's license. I made sure to go in for my medical and dental checkups. I decided what to do about my phone and my car. I researched and bought travel insurance. 

As far as packing goes, planning for a whole year poses some challenges. You want to be prepared for summer, winter, sun, rain, snow. Formal and informal situations. Beyond clothes, you think about the things you use often enough to warrant bringing along: does the curling iron get used often enough? Even if it does, does it bring me enough joy that I feel it's worth the space and the weigh in the suitcase, or will I be just as happy without it? Even if I don't use it every day, does it bring me enough joy when I do use it to make it worth bringing? Do I think I'll use it more often when living in Europe, or less?

I run through questions like that for everything. Some things are obvious (I love my Starry Night mug and it brings me immense joy and I use mugs on a daily basis, but there's no way I'm bringing it to Europe), other things are more difficult. There are always choices, too. I'm going to bring a book (ok, ok, probably more than one) but which one? A longer one or something more manageable? A great beach read or a popular classic?

Then there's the part where I have to get everything into one suitcase (weighing less than 50 pounds), a small carry-on, and a small backpack. It seems like a lot... until you start filling it up. I tried just packing the clothes I thought I wanted to take and easily hit 50 pounds. I think it's going to be an odd sort of game, getting everything into those three bags and keeping the big one under 50 pounds. I'll have to be really strategic about the weight and density of each item. Put like that, it almost sounds like a science experiment.

I thought I would be more nervous by now. But after a brief bout of major nerves a few weeks ago, I settled into something a lot closer to excitement than nervousness. Part of me keeps thinking I should be nervous, so I go through this cycle, couple times a week, where I try to feel nervous. All I feel, though, is eager. I'm itching to go, explore, write, meet, ask, observe, learn, grow. I feel on the precipice of possibility. In the coming year, anything might happen. I could go skydiving, or finally finish writing a book, or meet someone famous, or fall in love, or get picked up by an immortal time lord traveling through space and time in an old-fashioned London telephone box (Doctor Who reference, for anyone confused). With so much possibility, so many options, so much hope for the coming year, how can I be anything but excited? 

I think if I'm nervous about anything, it's that I'll somehow let the year slip by without taking advantage of the opportunities in front of me. Part of that is a result of it happening before. I made the mistake of traveling solo when I was struggling with depression, and I did what depressed people do: namely, very little. I've regretted missing out on those opportunities for a long time, and the idea of repeating that mistake worries me a great deal. Reminding myself that this is a different situation, that I've changed and grown a great deal since then, can be quite the trick.

Surprisingly, I'm really not nervous about the traveling, or living situations, or navigating foreign cities. That's the nice thing about traveling with a friend: I don't feel like I need to worry too much about the logistics, because I know Nicole has my back.

I'm looking down the barrel of the gun, now. The next two weeks are jam packed with visiting family, a memorial service, a handful of social events, a few community events, my last therapy appointment. I've got a couple books I'm in the middle of that I want to finish before I leave (who wants to bring a book halfway around the world that they're almost finished with?) and my mom and I have been watching Gilmore Girls: we're on season 7 and want to finish it before I leave. I'm trying to bring writing back into my daily habits and need to get my room packed up in an orderly way so my parents will be able to use it while I'm gone. I'm baking for all the social events next week (trifle for a family BBQ, hummingbird carrot cake for Father's Day).

I think part of me is already there, in those dark, quiet hours on June 21st, after everything's been finished and checked off the list, and I'm lying in bed looking up at the ceiling and trying to sleep because I've got an early morning, because in seven hours I'll be twisting around in my seat to watch the house disappear as we start the pre-dawn drive to Reno, when the streetlights are lonely guardians of us lonely travelers, the start of that day marking the start of a grand adventure as the world sleeps on, the motionless quiet of a town about to come to life. The first ray of morning light will peak over the mountains as the car comes down into the valley Reno is nestled in, and the airport will grow larger, the first flights of the morning breathing life into the city, a vision of my near future. I'm looking up at my bedroom ceiling and thinking of morning, of adventure, of new beginnings, of all the days that came before and all the days still to come. I'm already dreaming with my eyes wide open, listening to the crickets singing in the front yard, to the cows crying in the fields, so a coyote yipping to its mates somewhere in the distance, to the frogs calling goodnight in melodic voices from their hideaways. I've blinked and missed the last two weeks, and tomorrow is the day that I leave, and start my life all over again. Start from Day One.