Drove back to Atlanta yesterday. For some reason, I'd gotten into my head that it was a 12 hour drive. Nope. We left at 8:04 a.m. (well, 8:15 if you go by my Dad's reckoning as that is when we left the gas station after checking the tires) and arrived in Atlanta at 11pm. So, with the hour's time difference, 15 hours as the clock turns. The drive was easy, pretty during the day, and my Dad's company is always good, but it seemed interminable as I had set my sights on a 12 hour day.
And I am recovering from some creeping crud the doctor decided to call "acute sinusitis" so she could justify prescribing antibiotics and a killer decgongestant.
I fly away Thursday. Close enough to count the hours.
Today, tomorrow and Wedneday I am tidying, doing laundry, going to the bank, digging up useful things for my trip (like those 80 euros I've got somewhere in the pit that is my room), buying gifts, meeting people for lunch, packing. I like the days before a big trip. Things shimmer with energy. Then I spend hours on a plane with my skin dehydrating, trying desperately to block out all other passenger noises with my iPod while chasing fitful sleep. But then I arrive, bleary eyed, fatigued and more than happy to be wherever I am not on the plane.
Can't wait.
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