I have a love/hate relationship with the long Summer break. I love the prospect of it: I love the relaxation, rejuvenation and recharging that my body gets as school's pressure is relieved. I love the new adventures ahead, and I love being able to sleep in, eat whenever I want and generally dispose of the constraints of my watch and timekeeping. On the flip side, I always have to leave Andrew - he who does not share the nine-week break. So, as work stress builds and tears me apart, I eagerly count down the days to that blissful flight out of the hot, dusty city that I call home. Yet, as the days count down from ten, I find myself resistant, not wanting to admit that I am leaving. Yes, I hate running in the heat. Yes, there is not a lot to do but see movies and spend money in the malls. Yes, I get bored. But I don't want to leave Andrew. Don't get me wrong, I'm always excited about solo holidays, eagerly booking in flights, accommodation, writing out lists of things I want to see and do MONTHS in advance. I love deciding where I shall lose myself for days at a time, and where I shall take refuge when I am tired of it all and just need a coffee. I often get too excited, leaving Andrew feeling as though I don't want to travel with him, simply because I get caught up in my selfish, textile shopping and museum-filled trips. But again, as the day nears, my excitement drops. People think I'm a spoiled brat because I'm not outwardly ecstatic about a trip many wouldn't have the opportunity to experience, not knowing of the emotional turmoil tearing me up inside. I get to see and do what I want. I get to spend hours on end people-watching and writing and staring into the sky. Then, at the end of the day, I go to a single, cold bed without my kiss goodnight and without that arm around my waist that tells me that everything is always ok.
All that said and done, I am looking forward to getting in to Mumbai in the morning. It will be filled with all those sights, smells and sounds that captured my heart last time. It will be crammed with people, I will get lost, and young child beggars will tug at my clothes, hopeful for money they will never receive from me. I will argue and haggle over the cost of textiles, find the bedspread I've been wanting ever since we arrived in Dubai, and probably take up a whole new suitcase of bangles. I am getting better at packing, keeping myself organised, and not forgetting or losing crap. I am not as desperately scared as I was this time last year, on my first solo trip, and I am calmer when it comes to airport and customs, gently greeting the officials with my limited Arabic. Things have gotten much better, and travelling is getting easier.
I can't help but reflect on how different this is from my trip to New Zealand in October 2008. I had just had my passport renewed for the first time since I was 8 years old. I was heading to Christchurch with Andrew to meet more of his family and, although the borders between Australia and New Zealand were pretty loose, I was worried. I don't know why, but I was. I went ahead of Andrew on the bus to the airport, checking in nearly 3 hours in advance while he still finished up his work day in Richmond. His commute to the airport would take around an hour and he would be pushing it to arrive at the boarding gate in time, but I wasn't aware of that.
I thought he would be there to help me with customs (too many Border Security episodes are not good for one's health) and to take me through the formalities I hadn't seen since I was an unattended minor. He didn't make it for that. He made the flight, but by the time he was at the boarding gate, I had already had to muster up the courage to get myself through passport control and by then I was ignoring his text messages and on the verge of tears. To him, I sounded angry. To me, I had been so terrified of anything going wrong I couldn't even send a message to say how disappointed I was that I'd had to go it alone. When he finally arrived, I cried my eyes out. Why had he left me to do it on my own? Why hadn't he been there to show me what to do? Why did he not just leave work earlier? Because he really didn't need to; that's why.
Almost three years later, I'm sitting alone at the boarding gate, bound for Mumbai, set to arrive at 4am tomorrow morning. I have colleagues in the city, ready to catch me if I fall, a wad of cash and a hefty credit card to burn through if I need it. The whole situation barely rattles a brainwave. Fancy, it only took thirty-four passport stamps to feel that way.
Bring on the monsoon rains!
