This morning I had the heart-stopping experience of realising that my flight actually leaves from Sydney rather than Melbourne. The ramifications are enormous. Firstly, there's the blow to my "seasoned traveller" persona - how could anyone take me seriously if I fucked up my international itinerary before I've even left the country? Secondly, it means fronting up at an airport five hours earlier than previously envisaged. This greatly increases likelihood of my journey being one straight from the pits of hell, complete with a 25-hour hangover. On the up-side, it conveniently excuses me from cleaning up the Whitby Street Residence following the going away party. But it's all sorted, I'll get there and it'll be fine. I'm just double-double-checking everything now.
Is it a bad sign to be having misgivings two days out? It just feels my life in Australia has reached a very satisfying plateau. I'm cashed up and employed in an economy on the brink of recession. My friends are intelligent and witty and enjoy a sneaky pint as much as I do. I'm healthy and emotionally stable - there's nothing dark and angsty around, just clear blue skies as far as the proverbial eye can see. My house could just as well be a Californian shack down Santa Cruz way as an aging student house in Brunswick West, Victoria. It's just very good. It's like Berlin has snuck up on me when I had my hands full with this business of living. Hopefully sometime between departure from Tullamarine and arrival into Tegel Airport my brain will catch up with my body and I'll realise the gravity of leaving and how expansive and unknown everything ahead is. But first, to bed.
