I meant to write my second entry well before I departed. Alas, leaving Ireland turned out to be much more work than I thought it would be, I simply didn't have time. So you'll have to make do with this retrospective version.
The title of this entry relates to the first time in my mind when this fantasy that I was abandoning my cozy Cork life to travel started to become a reality. When I was young, I used to feel a tinge of excitement when the fresh milk carton had the letters “Dec 25th” printed on it. Seeing the date on a milk carton meant it was time to get really excited. So you could say that some of my feelings in the final couple of weeks before departure were akin to my feelings at Christmas as a child.
Coupled with this huge excitement were feelings that can best be described as mild terror. “What the hell am I doing? Six months of dirty hostels, filthy clothes, poor personal hygiene and impenetrable languages? Who's idea was this?”. For months the trip had been abstract, the thought of it made me smile. But now I was actually doing it, introducing apprehension and anxiety I hadn't felt since I left my home town of 19 years to move to Cork. But that change turned out very well in the end. I think this one will too.
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