 A full day of departure nerves and uneventful airline hospitality, I arrived sweaty and tired at Newark Airport, cheering “I’ve arrived!” After a really long wait at the baggage carousel, looking like a gazelle fighting for a place at the watering hole, my luggage came tumbling out. (Ever since my luggage went on its own three-week vacation while I was backpacking in Africa, I’m fearful of its sense of independence.) The euphoria evaporated quickly when I realized the next part of my journey from Newark to Brooklyn with my behemoth suitcases was going to be more challenging than portaging a canoe up the Fraser River (okay, maybe not more challenging...). As former carry-on evangelist, there were more than few times when I envied other traveler’s easy-breezy carry-on-only ways. But after tackling 5 escalators, 4 elevators, 2 trains and 1 taxi, I finally arrived to meet my NYC host, #BadBrad002.
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 After a number of teary farewell dinners and one major packing freakout as my loving sister mocked how much underwear I own, (apparently there is a limit, which I defy because of my serious disdain for laundry), I'm off! New York City, here I come!
Best farewell gift: sneaking through check-in without paying for baggage. I'm not sure if the Hogwarts shrinking spell I put on them worked or perhaps I unknowingly acquired an elite airline status... either way I didn't stop to ask if it was a mistake. I just ran through security like the women from the hilarious IKEA commercial who rushes awkwardly out of the store assuming there must be a mistake in price, frantically yelling at her husband to start the car so they can make a quick getaway. SSSSSTTTTTAAAAAAARRRRTTTTT THE PLAAAAAANE! The scariest moment is always just before you begin - Stephen King  When I came home from my vacation to Portugal, continuing my “current life” while trying to simultaneously plan my “new life” was making me feel a bit schizophrenic. It was like having a double life but not the cool superhero kind, more like the two-families-in-two-different-cities kind that you hear about on Oprah. Funnily enough, despite all the years I wanted to be a spy, my experience confirms I’d actually be terrible at leading a double life. So long sexy, leather Avengers cat suit.
Just as my January launch date was looming, I was feeling more apprehensive than I expected, complete with a pit in my stomach, racing thoughts and a heavy heart. So naturally, I had to double-check about whether I still wanted to go through with this or if I was just doing it because I said that I was going to and I was too stubborn or proud to say I had changed my mind. When I paused to reflect, I came face-to-face with the monster that was living under my bed: my own fear.
In the five-ish years, I’ve lived in this apartment, I’ve become soooo skilled at storage that my closets are only suitable for Olympic-level Jenga champions. In fact, I’ve prided myself on my nifty IKEA-hacks to fit more stuff in my one-bedroom apartment. Until now....
It seemed like there were months and month of waiting, scheming, planning, daydreaming (and, of course, trying to keep this whole thing under wraps at work until the timing was right and that takes a loooooottttttt of energy) and then suddenly, it’s almost here! Pop the champers and cue dance party mash-up. And while I'm getting excited, the ups and downs are in full force. Here's a wee snapshot of the experience. Aren't you jealous?  Next up: quit my job (and come clean with all my colleagues who have no idea I've been incubating this baby for months - oh the guilt!). Then it's time to start packing up my apartment. Ugh, so many boxes await... so maybe not quite yet... I'll start in one more week... plus that gives me a week to get boxes... and find a way trick (nay, bribe) my friends to help.
Holy shit! Six months ago, I publicly committed to dismantle my life to go on a "soul sabbatical" & year-of-learning and now I'm a whirling dervish of fear and excitement as launch approaches. Every time I tell someone about my grand adventure, they are overjoyed with excitement (and a wee bit of envy) while they gush I try to mute my (secret) panic-stricken inner voice that is screaming, "What the f@*# am I thinking? My life is 98% out-of-this-world fantastic and I'm going to search for that other 2%? Who does that?! What if I can't get this off the ground?"
 Imagine you are eighty, sitting in a rocking chair and reflecting back on your years. What would you have done more or less of? What advice would you give yourself today?
My 80-year-old self lives to tell stories -- the more outrageous the better, she'll do anything for a laugh. In fact, I think about things in terms of "will this make a good story when I'm eighty?" The story-quality barometer helps me check that I'm living a colourful and creative life. In 2016, when this journey began, my inner 80-year-old had been urging me to go on adventure. She said that I had become a bit boring and she's complaining about having to repeat the same stories. So at THNK Pitch Night in June, I pitched the idea of going on a soul sabbatical and year-of-learning. Curious? Read more about the why of it all here. |
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Nice to meet you...I'm Andi (hence the blog name). I'm a travel aficionado, passionate eater, tireless explorer of internet rabbit-holes, and amateur thinker. Join me as I give it all up (ok, that's a bit of an exaggeration) and go around the world on a mid-career "soul sabbatical" & year-of-learning to figure out what to be NEXT when I grow up. Won’t you grab a cup of chai and stay a while?
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May 2018
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