"Live the full life of the mind, exhilarated by new ideas, intoxicated by the romance of the unusual." - Ernest Hemingway
The thought comes to us all at some stage of
our mundane, boring lives; 'what the hell am I doing here!?' Usually this
thought springs to mind whilst watching our middle-aged, balding co-workers
slurp their coffees over their crumb ridden keyboards for their 7th year in a
row or by watching our school friends actually grow up, settle down with their partners
and talk about marriage, houses and babies. All this happens whilst you still
haven't had that promotion, you can't find anyone that wants anything more than
sex with you (and that's on a good week), you still can't find your way home
after a night out (to a house you've lived in for more than 22 years might I
add), and lets face it, if you were to have a baby, you'd probably just leave
it somewhere and lose it. So, some of us push this thought to the side and
plough on, it's just called being a responsible adult. Plus it's not all bad, I
mean two days off a week... the things you could do! Others however (like
myself) act upon such a thought and instinctively throw the towel in within the
next few minutes. This is then followed by an impulsive purchase of a one way
ticket to the other side of the world, which is then followed by a sense of
euphoria of how you've just conquered all life's problems within the space of
24 hours…
Then you realise
what you've actually done. Shit. There's no turning back, your friends now
think you are this new fun, living life for the minute kind of person. It’s a
nice branding; you don’t want to lose it. So instead you get drunk and invite
everyone you meet (be it for 2 minutes or more) to join you on this 'magical
adventure'. You become a travel sales person over night with the logic if you
can just get one friend to come things would be so much less daunting. You find
the drunker people get the more up for it they are, but then when the
intoxications are diffused from their systems the next day the 'joint travel' plan
is never mentioned again and you are back to that feeling...
Give it a week
and it's sunk in. You find yourself surrounded by Lonely Planet books planning
each stage of your journey step by step… or not. You actually never purchase a
Lonely Planet, or any other kind of travel book or map for that matter and
decide its best to 'wing it'. You're this new free flight bird with no strings
attached. Do what you want, when you want.
Then you have
the leaving parties. The goodbye work, goodbye friends and goodbye family
functions. When these begin it dawns on you that you can't just leave for two
weeks you've happened to have milked everything way too much for that. It's
almost like attending your own funeral 3 times over. People are giving
speeches, cards, presents, I mean it's a massive ego boost these people
actually seem to like and care about you, so why are you leaving!? Shit. Again.
But it's too late now there's definitely no turning back, you've got to do at
least 6 months whether you hate it or not after all this fuss you've created,
plus there's those 6 bottles of leaving present sun cream you've got to get
through.
The functions
are over, its time to pack. Your flight is in less than 24 hours and you'd
think you would have started this before now. You look at your wardrobe, then
back at the newly bought (or borrowed if you are unorganised like me, I doubt
my friend will need it for another D of E Expedition in the next year) backpack and you just think 'how?' Packing is a chore for a one week holiday,
times that by 52 and you know what I'm saying. It turns out everything doesn't
fit, and if it does you have to be a hulk to lift it an inch off the floor,
never mind getting it on your back to manoeuvre around the world with. Shit.
There's now the long task of whittling down what you will and wont need, its not like you know where you are going (maybe that Lonely Planet would've been a
good idea), never mind what you will need. Then there's the added drama of
fitting the double bed sheet in, as lets face it, you don't even know what the
word 'hostel' means never mind what they look like or if you will be willing to let any
part of your skin touch any surface in them. If you have to cocoon yourself in
something, this fresh double sheet is going to be the best thing since sliced
bread. Once everything is in (usually after several attempts with different
folding techniques), you take a step back and look at what you have created.
This is where you realise you've made the right choice to leave - you've just
fitted everything you own in life into a 45 litre backpack – it's a pretty sad
thought.
Lastly there's
the airport, the worst leg of the going away journey. It's the goodbyes, the
last coffee or alcoholic shot (family dependent) together for maybe a year. You know its
not going to be easy but you have the excitement to help with this, the family they
don’t, they have the worry of losing what they've created and cared for, for
so long (they probably think too long). They wonder as you pass through the gate if you'll even be able make
it onto the right plane, and if you do whether you will have more than half of
your belongings still with you, presuming they haven't already been scattered around the departure lounge or left in the car. The airport outing brings emotion, there's tears, both
female and male (just saying Dad), there's tissues and sniffling, there's
nerves, then when you're past the security barriers - there's just you – all
alone ready to have that impulsive trip of a lifetime.
