Today marks Max’s 35th birthday. It also marks 3 months since I hoisted my pack, closed the door to my empty apartment, walked the few blocks to decend into the C train and made my way to JFK, leaving Brooklyn indefinitely, maybe forever. I had said my last goodbyes to my family the week before, and to my friends in the previous days. Max was in Argentina with his family with plans to meet me in a few days, so my departure was a quiet, anticlimactic, almost lonely affair, filled with exceitement, nostalgia, anticipation, second thoughts, and wonder. It seemed a perfectly fitting way to leave a city as anonymous and filled with possibility as New York. On the subway I found myself wanting to listen to every song on my iPod all at once but I couldn’t concentrate on any of them.
And then the train got stuck.
And then the plane was delayed.
And then my phone died.
And then I was (finally) gone.
And here we are in Namibia three months on.
I’ve got to admit, I was a little nervous about this endeavor. It all happened very quickly, with exactly two months from the decision to leave until the actual departure. To give up a perfectly good apartment in New York City (Suicide! some would say), quit a perfectly good job (in the middle of an economic meltdown, no less), and leave seven years behind in the blink of an eye (or the length of the take-off line at JFK).
I was also worried that about this time I would be wanting to go home, whatever that means. But for three months, the one thought that we keep on coming back to is, “I’m so glad we’re doing this.” The experiences we’ve had, people we’ve met, things we’ve seen, the opportunity to see firsthand so much of what we read about in the newspaper, these are experiences we could not have in a lifetime of vacations. And, we spend barely $20 a night on accomodation – that would be like less than $600 a month in rent. You can’t beat that.