Two weeks until I hit the road, heading for London as a gateway to the rest of Europe. I'm daunted. It's happened. Nerves, anxiety, a quiet little dread at what is in store.
I've been awake the last two nights shitting some imaginary pickpocket, leaving my stuff behind in a Slovenian hotel room, losing my passport or getting sick with a language barrier into the bargain. Eek.
What if I run out of money? What if? What if? What if?
I have never travelled alone outside of Ireland. The prospect is both intoxicating and terrifying, wondering how I'll pass my hours. I'm not a man for great preparation, so I still haven't got those allegedly vital Time Out city guides, I've still to increase the limit on my laser card (still E130 despite many, MANY importunes to the bank to upgrade).
I remain in need of a backpack, though Austin is taking care of me on that, of somewhere to hide my tickets and passport, of accommodation after the first four days.
I will miss home, and will be nervous of 'the bad things' happening in my absence. It's only eight weeks or so, but still longer than I've been away from this town.
Paris and Florence and Verona and Ljubljana and Berlin and Rome and Pisa and Budapest and Krakow and the Czech Republic. Better than a kick in the balls, no?