Halfway through December last year I was sat in pretty much the same seat I am now, sinking miniature cans of Grolsch and waiting to board an aircraft for an impossibly long flight. At the time, I felt that the tingle of anticipation and excitement that should have accompanied a five month jaunt to Australia was curiously absent. If that was the case then, what the fuck is happening now?
The few possessions I have deemed worthy of accompanying me on my year long round the world adventure have been checked in. I've said my goodbyes, sent a consolation text to my mum, and refuelled at Gordon Ramsey's Plane Food (which I will talk about later). I'm here, all set, ready to go. On the cusp of a great adventure. But, somehow, it doesn't quite feel like it.
I can only think that I am half scared. Or nervous, or anxious. Something must be stopping me from embracing that which, at my own behest, is about to embrace me. Or maybe I am just hopelessly unprepared for spending a whole year on my own, on the far side of the world from all the people I hold dear. Either way, it makes little difference now. This time tomorrow I will be in Buenos Aires; my Latin American Spanish phrasebook tucked in one pocket, a few pesos in the other.
In the past I would have allowed myself to paint over the nerves, but of course they are there. They are part of what is going to make it all so magical, and the cause of that moment, whenever it comes, when the enormity of it all sinks in; when the world screams out loud at me, and I smile and scream right back.