A checklist. And then some more. Running to the nearest working printer to get two copies of the measly tickets. The inevitability of the last minute packing, be it a backpack or a suitcase.
The taking of public(or almost public) transport to the airport, bus or train station. The long hours where you are in between both destination and source. A kind of Limbo. That very limbo, that disconnection, that almost ephemeral feeling which is priceless. Just like the mastercard advert, with wrinkled old ladies riding elephants and watching the sunset with their equally hoary spouses.
It feels strangely like boredom, but not quite. There is something special about it, that doesn't push one over the edge and into a dull stupor. A strange elation. The unfulfilled anticipation of new encounters with fascinating people. Never fails. As reliable as the German trains. Just the journey validates the excursion.
But touristing is a whole other world altogether. What can only be described as lust. A happiness so complete when the map is deciphered, the tiny kitschy cafe is found, the cliched photos taken. Right from the constant checking to see if the camera was left behind, whether the wallet was safe, to the annoying of passers by to take pictures of me, you, us.
The cramming of a million activities in the almost niggardly number of vacation days. The debate of which places to skip in the itenrary that exists only in my head. The irritation when you get too tired from all the adventuring, the hunger and refusal to compromise on food. Crashing and burning on the hotel bed at the end of the day. The wanting to extend it all by just one more, just one more day.
And when it's all done, turning the key in the lock, and feeling, like a stranger in your own home.
