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June 2, 2014

It’s always the same and it’s starting already. I make these grand plans for a trip that I think will be an amazing adventure; I do research on what I want to see, eat, drink, and buy; I check with all my friends for recommendations; and then I figure fate will carry me. I book it all and wait for the day of arrival to, well, arrive. And usually just before that happens, I break a bone, get a cold, schedule an important work meeting or otherwise undermine myself.  Also, I panic.

And here we are again. Less than two weeks before I head off to the Sahara, with nothing purchased or packed, a ton of work to finish up, and a still not healed coccyx from an accident several months ago.  Also, I’m panicking.

I’m not terribly afraid of much, and I though I’ve been warned often of traveling alone, I’m not worried about my personal safety (I’m also always very aware of my surroundings and never drink to excess when I’m alone). So that’s not it. It’s all the other stuff – what am I neglecting? Will the cat-sitter remember to turn-up? Have a left a loose end at work? Will my friends forget me? What if I have a terrible time?

I never have a terrible time though. My friends are still there when I return and the cat always survives. And though inevitably a ball gets dropped, someone at work will have my back, and I’m never more than a few days away from an internet connection.

I don’t know why I panic and each trip I think it won’t happen this trip, but it does. It started today as I was trying to find someone to take my CSA delivery for the week I’d be away. Then I thought “This is stupid, I’m getting vegetables delivered. I can’t go away!”
So, I’m embracing the panic as much as I can (a little red wine might help) and hoping I will manage to pack before the night before I leave, but I promise nothing. I’ll be a wreck til next Friday. But next Saturday I’m going to be in Morocco. And I’m so excited. Sort of.

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