Considering how much I travel, one would really think I’d be better at it. But I seriously suck at traveling. As I’ve recounted before on this blog, I remember standing in the shower the night before my dream vacation of touring through Europe for three weeks with one of my best friends. What was I thinking? “What the HECK am I doing? I don’t want to go!” And of course I went and had the time of my life. When those three weeks were up, I came home for a few days to catch my breath, do some laundry, and repack for Maryland, where I would work as a camp counselor all summer. The night before I left, while trying to find a parking space at Olive Garden with my sister, I had another meltdown. Forget it, I’ll just stay here all summer! And of course, the next day I boarded a plane and had one of the best summers of my life at Camp Sonshine. Before I left for Australia, same thing. And before Norway. Always the same panicked second-guessing of myself, my plans, my packing lists. It’s similar to the pre-party meltdowns I’m infamous for (“What if we run out of food? What if no one shows up? Why do I look so ugly?”). When will I grow out of this?
So of course, on the eve of my outreach to Germany, I feel like I’m going crazy. One single thought pounds through my head: “I want to go home.” I have like 1% adventurer in me, and somehow that part of my psyche always manages to wrestle to the ground the other 99% of me – the boring grandma who hates going out of her comfort zone and would rather watch Gilmore Girls and eat frozen yogurt than fly to a fascinating city. I’m SO glad that 1% is freakishly strong, because I don’t regret one single trip I have taken – from Europe to Israel to Australia to Norway.
Now here I go again, with a different purpose and different hopes and different challenges. I know I’m not alone, I know it will be worth it, I know I’ll come back thankful.
But I wish I could just be there already!