I leave for Paris tomorrow. I’ll do two weeks of mild, worry-free travel in France and Italy – areas I’ve been through before – and then I’ll move into a ground floor, furnished apartment on Sardinia right on the beach, where I’ll edit for four months, as a 19 year old, dark haired, attentive village girl in an ill-fitting peasant shirt attends to my light house keeping and meals while slowly falling in love with me, like in the movie “Love, Actually”.
So why do I feel like I’m parachuting into Darfur with a week’s worth of beef jerky and orders to assassinate someone important?
This bloody pre-travel anxiety happens every time. I don’t know how many trips I’ve been on… at least a squillion. You’d think I’d be pretty nonchalant about it by now, but no. For days before each trip, whether I’m traveling for a weekend or ten months I get all bent out of shape. I can’t sleep, I’m antsy, I babble (more so).
It’s like a corner of my brain – an important one, with hard disk errors – forgets that I’m a hardened traveler. Without fail, I’m a mess all the way up to the trip and maybe a few days into it, but then I somehow remember that I’m perfectly capable of doing the things that need to be done to survive on the road and everything is fine for the rest of the trip.
The upshot is that the DHL guy just delivered to my door the greatest geek productivity tool in the history of the universe, which, if I ever figure out how to make it work, I intend to flaunt during the entire flight over the Atlantic (can you use Bluetooth technology on a plane?), driving the other geeks into an unhinged frenzy of envy and causing female business travelers to throw moist panties at me.