So, I’m pretty much packed for my trip and I realise now, looking back at the week that has been, I’ve been humble-bragging this whole time about the trip and I’m a little embarrassed about it; but at the same time, I’m not. How often does one go to “the Continent” in one’s lifetime? This is a huge trip and it’s not just some 3-day tourist-y type of vacation. This is a 55-day adventure that spans three countries, 3 major cities, and maybe a few other places here and there in the process.
Why do I have to be sorry that I’m going on this amazing trip?
So, I’m pretty much all packed and everything is set and I’m just jumping out of my skin in anticipation of what’s about to happen. I don’t know and I haven’t been all together and I’m not here, though physically I am, but I’m just trying to make sure that I can leave without anyone left behind screwed over by my leaving.
I can’t believe I’m going. This is amazing. Lisbon. Who knew?
And I’m going to be an ass and the first few poems I’m going to write will have Portuguese words in them or will allude to or reference to something in Lisbon. I’m going to talk about movement and travel and journey. I’m going to be so predictable.
But that’s okay, because once the initial rush and excitement leaves and I’m going to be actually feeling it and really getting my skin and bones into the cobble stoned streets and things become less alien and more familiar — then the true writing will start and then I’m going to start writing interesting shit.
That’s the one I am excited for.
The first few days — maybe even the first couple of weeks — it’s going to be shit and I don’t care. I need to get it out and I’m going to get it out; on twitter and even here. But when that’s done and I feel less and less like a tourist and more like a visitor; then the real work will start to come out. That’s what I’m excited about.
That’s what this trip should be about.
I’m leaving. 5 hours to lift off. I can’t wait.