“Are you nervous?”
“Are you excited?”
“How DO you feel?”
This was the conversation I had with my mom while it was browsing through the airport bookstore. Besides the general Europe Lonely Planet, I’m not taking any books with me, and I can’t get used to that. Looking through the selection the bookstore had made me feel like I had forgotten something incredibly important. Wouldn’t the plane and the prospect of future bus rides warrant bringing a book, any book, my bright orange copy of the Odyssey, the translucent-paged copy of Crime and Punishment, Sherlock Holmes, Seneca’s letters, anything really. I have iBooks with more than enough, and most of the previously mentioned, loaded on it, but since there isn’t a tangible copy in my hands, I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know how I feel. I’m vaguely aware that I’m excited and happy, but none of that’s reaching the surface, and it probably won’t until we’ve reached cruising altitude. I feel somewhat like I’m on a very long commut. I do know this is supposed to be a vacation, but it feels like a pilgrimage or the Tour de France, I have goals and mile markers and a mission.
Why are all you people lining up before they’ve called for boarding? You have an assigned seat.
It’ll hit eventually, hopefully soon. If you’re in Istanbul, I’ll be the one eating pistachio ice cream in January.