17+ boxes, four vaccines, two tattoos and a rash

Transitions are in the one-eye of the beholder.

I like to be surprised, but this wasn’t one.

Packing up Sydney has been a long time coming.

i miss my chalazion!

Re-reading the above, it sounds defeated and monotone-ish, but it’s really not.

I’ve been interrupting each sentence I type here to open a new tab. Housesits in Italy, rural beekeeping in Japan, and to vocally remind my mum that it would be nice to learn how to ride a horse. “No, like cantering!”

I’ve talked (too much) about doing a pilates instructor course in a cosmopolitan city, and that I also want to prioritise ocean. There are tabs on Mexico, Thailand, and Albania. That’s all hypothetical, but the Loire Valley isn’t. That’s where my twin sister and I are going to lie in some thick grass with a fat baguette, drink ridiculously local wine and talk about turning 30 this October.

There’s a lot to do, but also barely anything is certain. That’s probably why, during this transition, I developed shingles. Ecstatic, it’s not scabies.

A weeks worth of rash research taught me that getting four vaccines, two tattoos, packing up six years of living in Sydney, getting scammed by interstate truck movers, then driving 12 hours to Melbourne, while diving off the Hume Highway to pester anyone with a van to pick up boxes, while trying to not over-heat the engine of a 25-year-old car isn’t the kindest thing on the immune system. I also had to get a chalazion removed. That’s a blocked gland on the eyelid, hence the eyepatch. There’s also $500+ car fines, but I think I’ve laboured my sob rock story enough. When it rains, it pours straight from the eye.

So yes, there is sadness in the above sentence, but also 50 other emotions. One of them is ‘excitement’ !!!!

In case I’m doing that thing where I dance around a point: I’m just going travelling, with no direct direction and no end, end. It’s no big deal. At all.

that’s my mum’s blown-up passport photo from when she was 16. that’s a green ottoman I found on the side of the road. both going into storage in melbourne.

Packing up is a familiar thing. And to make sure it wasn’t a knee-jerk reaction to crying all the time, I tried this thing called ‘consideration’. And considering the end of last year threw a mountain of changes post-extensive book release, like work and confronting my brain, I threw back another mountain. Hiking the Dolomites.

But amongst all the fines and topical creams, I haven’t really given myself much time to think about almost six years in a city I thought I’d just pass through. I didn’t expect to meet the loves of my life.

The thought of complaining about absolutely nothing (and everything) with my friends makes me so … melancholy. They became my favourite activities. Catching a stride as we dramatically increase volume to debate papayas while scavenging through street-side council pick-ups. Or letting me dink on the back of their lime bike (again) because my card is overdrawn (again), so we can yell-gossiping all the way home.

Things you can’t do over a voice memo.

Sushi and I got matching tattoos. this is our calming word. needed, obviously.

My reason is relatively reasonless. I want to attempt to drive without overheating the engine. Detach from make and model, and put intuition behind the wheel (I’m so into this car metaphor). That’s why I got my international driver’s license.

I’m going to talk about it here. But rather than recommendations of where to eat (go to Milli Taylor’s When in Rome for that), it will be more about ‘Why I Can’t Part With My Raggedy Underwear’, or ‘How to Always Run Late, But Still Make The Train On Time’. But, again, I don’t know what I’m going to sniff, but you’ll be the first to know.

So far, it’s back to London for a month, then onto France, Portugal, Turkey and Italy, then the rest is dot dot dot …