I've never been particularly good at change, or rather, the time leading up to a large change. I've bumbled around quite nearly everything this week, charged by a current of anxious anticipation. Though my notebook is quite full of numerous to-do lists, I find any activity quickly stalled by the merest loss of footing: one pair of gloves, or two? Is it necessary to bring my own ethernet cable? Packing a beret would be stupid, right?
Though I've been working on brushing off such trivialities, like a cloud of gnats they peskily persist. As the time until my flight quickly disappears, I'm caught staring at the half-filled suitcases on my bedroom floor, not quite able to process that these bags will be sitting in an unknown room within the week.
And yet, though I'm clearly all too susceptible to being overwhelmed by details of travel, behind all of the worry is a blooming excitement, an exhilaration at living more alone than ever before, at having an apartment to myself for the first time, at plunging into a language that is beautiful, and at times, still maddeningly elusive. To think: a week from today, I'll be heading to my first day of orientation, doing my best to navigate the Métro and the streets that fall decidedly outside of grid formation. Even more: by then, I will have been out to eat several times, cooked for myself, begun to unpack and even decorate my little, own space. It seems an impossible vision now, but here's to its impending realization. In truth, I can't wait.
