May 11 & 12, 2011
I’m doing this. I’m on the plane. I’m running on three hours of (wine-induced) sleep, two Xanax, a quarter of a bottle of water, and three quarters of a cup of coffee from the La Brea Bakery stand next to airport terminal 21. I’m listening to Explosions in the Sky and I’m pretty loopy. Loopy in the good, euphoric way.
It was a stressful stretch from waking up this morning up until this point. I fell asleep irritated about something tremendously trivial, woke up fifteen minutes after I was supposed to have walked out the front door, endured the cacophony of my disco car’s sounds during the teeth grinding ride to the airport, all after those tiny three hours of sleep. I have about twenty-four hours of travel to work through before I arrive where I’m going and I look like hell in a hand basket (whatever that means). But now I’m here. Here, at this point. On my way. On my way to vacation. My European vacation.
Against all odds I feel pretty good.
My mission for this here vacation:
Read.
Take naps (gasp!).
Drink wine.
Eat.
Take pictures.
Go to markets and purchase food stuffs I have never seen or prepared before.
Cook said food stuffs.
Wander.
Drink wine.
Eat.
Read.
Write about it.
Sounds pretty reasonable to me.
I have made it to Munich at this point. I have the final stretch in front of me: the brief flight from here to Barcelona. And then there’s the two-hour drive from Barcelona to Armissan, France.
I awoke at five this morning. By the time I arrive at my final destination it will be after six in the morning on LA time. Twenty-four hours. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, this is why God invented Xanax.
I believe Emma and I capped off this evening with a bottle or two more bottles of wine while laying in our beds, sighing, giggling, and taking stock of the last few hours, the whirlwind, of our adventure.
