Take-off

It's one a.m. and I'm not sleeping because I'm making my little sister a "goodbye playlist" and frantically jotting down some Spanish curse words. At 8 tonight I will be on a plane bound for Madrid to begin a semester in Burgos, Spain. I am not yet sure whether I am more excited or terrified. I'm excited about the loads of travelling I will do, and let's not kid ourselves, Spanish men. Yet I'm also scared that taking classes in a foreign language will be impossible and the kids won't let me sit at their lunch tables and I'll end up eating in the bathroom, just like in Mean Girls.
Mostly, I can't believe the day has finally come. It took four very painful visits to the Spanish Consulate in Boston and four very painful dealings with a moustchaio-ed clerk (who resembled "Cookoo Face" from the Madeline movies and books) to arrange my visa.

I have lived with my parents for the past six weeks. I repeat, I have lived with my parents for the past six weeks.

I have gone to the mall more times than I would prefer, trying to find weather-appropriate attire that would also lure aforementioned Spanish men.

And I have read the fourth Harry Potter book (as well as the entire Oxford Spanish-English Dictionary) in preparation, and I can now discuss wands and house elves with everyone at the University of Burgos.

I have no idea what to expect. I've done little more than the basic research about Burgos to feed my imagination. I have no idea what I want either, except one thing. There's one book I bring with me whenever I leave home, The Beach by Alex Garland. It's about travellers, appropriately enough. Anyway, I think the narrator sums it up pretty well when he says, "What else do you need to know? Stuff about my family, or where I'm from? None of that matters. Not once you cross and ocean and cut yourself loose, looking for something more beautiful, more exciting and, yes I admit, more dangerous."

I'll take that.