Well, not exactly. Not the literal kind. Feels like it, though, as I think about leaving the US for four months. I stare at the heaps of bags and things (clothes? chipotle? unclear) that surround me and shake the dryer sheets off my leg only to expose the three layers of clothing underneath. It's not even that weird. I like to try stuff on while I pack. I'm trying to consolidate.
In approx. 38 hours time, I'll be cramped on American Airlines on my way to Spain. (If you're reading this, guys, I'd love an upgrade from middle seat coach -- window seat would be ideal but if they're all taken first class will do.) I'm going to Barcelona. I want to learn Spanish. I already know how to ask for the bathroom and how to order almost any given cocktail and, most importantly, that "embarazada" means pregnant and that that, my friend, is what you call a false cognate. Apparently they speak Catalan anyway.
Luckily, I've made friends with my program directors already. I've achieved perfect consistency in meeting important deadlines anywhere from 5 min before to several days after they pass, and I can send a frantic email to make your ulcer burn. I have a host of excuses that range from medical injuries to unlikely tragedies to humbly-admitted incompetency, and they're about as worn-in at this point as my favorite stuffed animal. It's a platypus that I named Googles in 1992, predicting the advent of the Internet mogul at an impressively early age. I look at him now and know that I was doomed, quite undeniably, to social ineptitude from the moment I began to tote the strange hybrid creature around. He may or may not be joining me in Barcelona, but I have already envisioned photos of the two of us on our travels.
"Caitlin and Googles at the Sagrada Familia." (We are wearing matching imitation-Gaudi mustaches.)
"Googles turns 21 -- chupitos all around!!" (We are inebriated.)
...Hopefully I'll make real friends.
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