I have been dreaming of this since 10th grade.
Europe. 5 weeks. My own money.
Master plans of london layovers and amsterdam introductions. Plans of squat dinners and museum trips and lonely train rides and countryside picnics.
I came to New York a few days ago with just my backpack.
Homeless in my home-city.
Living off love and kindness, my large backpack and credit card.
I am practicing for the real trip.
I am getting on a plane so soon I am already imagining my foot falling asleep and swallowing hard to make my ears pop.
I can't imagine countries.
I can't imagine other languages.
Nothing is real and yet, I've never packed so lighltly.
I'm ill-prepared, unplanned, overthought, anxious.
You are there. In your house. Reading this.
None of this is real to you either.
Embracing the uncertain is a tricky sort of intimacy.