butterflies

These are familiar sensations: the exhaustion from planning, the triumph of crossing items off a list, the pang of loss looking at the magpies, at the sheets of my bed, at the marigolds I grew this year from seed. I am going away.

And every time I go away, I find myself in the ironic predicament of wishing I could stay. This, after all these months of craving change, suddenly I get to the cusp of it and I want to cancel the whole trip, make a nice cup of coffee, sit on my side of the couch, and practice my Portuguese for a few months.

But London is calling, and won't be denied. The last weeks of summer in the UK will give way to an Italian spring. Stu and I have packed for the heat of London and Tropea as well as the cold of Thurso and Milano. This trip has a quality of repetition - we are spending almost identical days in the UK - but also of reversal - instead of starting in Italy, we will end there, as the weather cools.

We are ready, I think. We have assembled the money and medication, the documents and the electronics, the garments and the trinkets, the books and art supplies, the toiletries and perfume. Life in a bag on wheels.

I have gotten through the feelings of remorse that I have not transformed sufficiently. In many ways, I'm cured of my fantasy that Europe is intrinsically edifying or maybe I mean: that I am capable of being edified. I have formed my own relationship with the place at last. Whatever giddy feeling I have now, it's not a fear of the unknown.

Somehow, sitting up in my bed, listening to the familiar soundscape, I feel like I'm already on the plane.Read more