It's late and my bags are half-packed. Actually, they aren't packed at all; I have stacks of things laying about, sorted through and needing to be further sorted and then pared down into what actually goes. I am getting rid of many, many things and the rest is packed into Rubbermade bins, which are all various shades of purple. I am not really sure how that happened; I don't much care for purple.
My plans seem to be changing daily, and every once in a while the half-thought, "what the hell am I thinking?" begins to creep into my mind. I should have done some better planning, saved some more money, decided something concrete. But I don't feel any real fear yet, only the excitement about the vague idea of what I will be making my life into. (The fear will come, when I am alone in a foreign airport and beginning to care that I don't speak the local language). Perhaps I have idealized it a little bit. It would be hard not to, I think, when my plans really boil down to moving to the south of France. It sounds ideal. But more than anything else, I want my life to match the picture I have of what it should be. I might fail miserably, have a terrible time, and run out of money just a few months in; I might. But I have failed before, and I figure if it's going to happen again, it may as well be in France. I am ready to be doing something I have been wanting to do since I was sitting in a little sandwich shop in the middle of rural Spain, already in the middle of traveling and writing down future travel plans on a napkin: traveling again.
