I’m finally totally packed up and ready to go. I’ve got all my work squared away, and I don’t have to write anything until tomorrow night when, hopefully, I’ll be blowing off work to accompany my sisters on an epic London pub crawl. I’m already checked in for a flight from London to Nimes next Tuesday, and everything I own is in a plastic box in a closet, garage, or car somewhere in Austin.
I wasn’t, purely for lack of trying, able to hammer down plans to meet up with any familiar (or second degree familiar) faces while I’m on my sport climbing adventure. I have a long list of concerns about that, like not ever getting into a friend groove and being one of those people at a sport crag who wanders around with her rope and harness looking forlorn and never climbing. Sigh. And then I’ll die. Homeless and penniless and no one will ever love me.
Worst comes to worst, I suppose, I’ll drive myself to Switzerland and go bouldering alone. Not the worst life. When I told my dad I was afraid of traveling alone and not finding sport climbing partners, he said “you can always go to London and spend a month on your sister’s couch.” So there’s that.