Some people have referred to me as a seasoned traveller, and that as such, I’m a good packer which is by many accounts true. I can go on a week’s vacation with a single duffel bag and not feel a pinch¹, I know enough to not attempt to bring a near-empty toothpaste tube on a flight (which, even though it CLEARLY contains less than the allowed 3 ounces, SAYS, say, 12 ounces and is therefore banned), and I always usually manage to bring enough knitting to keep myself entertained.

Well. I’m on a trip to the NC shore for Trevor and Andrea’s wedding. It’s just a few days at the shore, but I decided to extend the trip and see some friends in Greensboro, Chapel Hill, and Durham while I’m here. I didn’t check the weather before I left — I never do (which ended up being a bit of a problem in New Zealand. I froze for the first month, not realizing how chilly their fall weather can be), but just packed generally-all-weather gear that would be good for layering, plus a nice dress for the cenermony.

These are the contents of my bag:
– 4 tank tops: 1 cotton, 3 wool (thin wool is better than cotton in warm weather. Seriously. Wool actually wicks sweat away instead of just getting damp and clammy like cotton).
– 2 pairs jeans
– 1 pair decent-looking trousers
– 1 pair trousers for dancing, which could double as decent-looking trousers
– 2 t-shirts
– 1 sports bra
– 1 dress
– 1 wool long-sleeved shirt for cool nights
– 1 fleece zip-up hoodie for tank-top modesty and also cool nights
– 1 fancy dress/t-shirt in case the wedding guests/I decide to go casual
– 1 pair comfortable but nice-looking shoes (worn all the time, so don’t go in the bag).
– Assorted underoos (I don’t buy into the 1-pair-of-underwear-for-a-vacation nonsense. Underwear takes up very little room, and is the only bit of clothing that really NEEDS to be washed before re-wearing. Bringing multiple pairs involves less washing. Plus, what if they don’t dry in time? The quick-dry pairs I’ve bought have never been quick-dry).

See? Easy. A little heavier than I usually pack (I had my car with me, so that allowed for some decadent packing), but not bad.

What I didn’t realize — because I didn’t check the weather — is that NC this week has been subject to a blistering heat wave. It’s been in the upper 90’s, sometimes reaching into the hundreds, with humidity of approiximately swimming pool percent. Ask me how often I’ve needed that fleece hoodie. (Actually, the long-sleeved wool shirt came in handy as a pillow covering when I stayed with a friend who didn’t use her air conditioning. See: sweat wicking).

That planning is pretty poor in itself, but here’s the best part. Here’s the list of things I forgot to bring:

– 1 swim suit
– 1 pair flip flops, or other beach shoes
– sun screen
– a towel
– SHORTS (save 1 pair of gauchos that were designated pyjamas because they’re falling apart)

Apparently I somehow managed to ignore the whole “shore” aspect of the trip².

Some seasoned traveller I am.

Congratulations, T&A. I love you both like whoa.

“>

¹ Of course, I also don’t mind wearing the same shirt/jeans repeatedly without washing them, which makes for easier packing.

² Although in my defense when I was young “shore” meant the Jersy shore, which had little to nothing to do with swimming.

The post Durham, NC, USA appeared first on Travel Blog.

Turns out you can do the Tongariro Crossing from Taupo, but you have to get up about an hour earlier to catch the shuttle bus. I don’t like getting up early regardless, much less for a 18.5 km hike.

Did I not mention it was 18.5 km? It was 18.5 km. 11.49 miles. 1,967 meters, 6,453.4 feet up. Over volcanoes. Did I not mention it was over volcanoes? It was over volcanoes. Hiking. 11.49 miles. 6,453 feet up. Me. Seriously.

If you mention that you’re interested in going you get buried by various pamphlets that make you think that maybe this hike isn’t such a good idea. There are delightful snippets like “steep volcanic terrain,” “It is important to have appropriate outdoor clothing, equipment and fitness,” “be ready for any conditions,” “weather can change with alarming speed,” “there is no drinking water available between Mangatepopo and Keteahi huts,” “accidents can occur on tracks when trampers misjudge loose rocks or go sliding down the volcanic slopes, so watch your step,” – I could keep going, but I’m pretty sure you get the idea.

You also get a giant list of things to bring, including “gloves or mittens.” It being early summer I didn’t bring those, but my hostel supplied me with some red, waterproof over-pants. I tried the pants on, and if I pulled the elastic waistband up all the way I could theoretically go out with nothing else on and not get arrested. I didn’t, though. I also decided that my sneakers were good enough (they recommended sturdy boots), brought a band-aid in place of the first-aid kit, and neglected bringing a compass, but I did have 3 wool shirts and lots of food and water. (In the winter you should also bring an ice axe, crampons, and snow gaiters, and you can also consider – in any season! – bringing an avalanche probe/snow shovel and/or an avalanche transceiver).

I settled into my hostel – Extreme Backpackers – one of the few in New Zealand with its own climbing wall. It has a nice courtyard for lounging, so long as it isn’t raining, and some of the most sterile dorm rooms I’ve seen so far. I had a nice chat with a couple who had done the crossing that day, and were celebrating with fish and chips for dinner, They highly recommended it. The dinner, I mean. Well, and the walk, too, but emphasized the fish and chips.

One $35 shuttle booking later, I climbed into bed early and chatted with a roommate who was also planning on tramping his knees off the following day. We woke at 5-fucking-30am, and grabbed some breakfast before climbing into our shuttle bus. We ended up doing the first section of the walk together, noting that the first bit of the hike was supposed to be the worst. I had no idea.

At 6:57am we started our trek.

See this?

That’s a rather far view of the climb. The BAD climb. Unfortunately I was too busy trying to get oxygen back into my lungs to take too many photos of what I later learned is called the Devil’s Staircase, but here’s an idea:

That’s the view down. See how tiny those people are? It should give you some idea of perspective and steepness. Maybe. But it’s a bitch of a climb over loose rocks and dirt. My climbing partner stuck with me for a while, before finally taking off. As I climbed I decided that I probably could’ve lived without the little bit of character that would inevitabely follow the hike, but was too far up to go back.

When you finally (finally) get to the top (they recommend allowing 45 minutes to an hour to get up the Devil’s Staircase, and I won’t tell you how long it took me) you get greeted with this sign:

Mt Ngauruhoe is a side walk up the side of Lord of the Rings’ Mount Doom (really!). It takes about 3 hours return (purportedly), climbing up a path of loose rock and dirt, combined with warnings of falling rocks kicked down by climbers up ahead. When the weather is clear there are, rumor has it, spectacular views, as well as the crater of Mt Ngauruhoe itself. Because it was cloudy (ahem), I decided to bypass the extra climb.

While I was taking a break, trying to regain control of my lungs I ended up in a political discussion with two Irish chaps. We complained together about the state of the American government (and, interestingly enough, what they said wasn’t nearly as harsh as things I’ve heard Americans say). They gave me some shortbread, I said I’d see them later, and took off down this way:

Believe it or not, this picture has not been sepia-toned. It really does look like that. And when I was in the middle I stopped, realizing that no one else was around (I might’ve also been a little concerned that I wasn’t going the right way), and realized it was completely silent. I’ve never been somewhere so quiet.

As I was getting to that short climb at the back, a chap who was doing the four-day hike encouraged me up. I asked if it was worth it. He said yes.

The view back over what I’d done was pretty good, too.

And then I saw that there was more climbing ahead.

Damn it.

After some more astonishing views

is the aptly-named Red Crater.

It’s surrealistically red and has an opening that would make Georgia O’Keefe proud. I just stood with my jaw dropped that something natural could make something like that, and that I was standing so close to it.

Then, of course, having climbed so far up, the only logical next step was to go down. Way down.

The ground is so loose that every step sinks about four inches into the dust and silt. I only fell once, and was pleased that no one seemed to see it. For the first half I took all my years of skiing training under Hans Ze Skiing Instructor (my dad) (who is not, for the record, named Hans) I turned my body towards the mountain, and slalomed back and forth down the hill. When it got a little more stable I was able to stride down.

See the ground in the bottom right corner? That’s the grade and consistency of the trail. But once I did, finally, make it down (and without killing myself!), I got to see the Emerald Lakes.

It being cloudy it wasn’t quite as spectacular as it would be on a sunny day, but it was still pretty good.

I caught up again with the Irish chaps and spent the rest of the hike with them.

It being foggy there wasn’t too much to see.

Once we got under the clouds again the views opened up again.

We stopped for lunch at the Ketetahi Hut, which is near some more volcanic (or at least thermal) activity, where I ran into a woman that I’d met in Taupo.

She eventually joined the two Irishmen and me for the remainder of the hike down, down, down the hill.

And down,

and down.

We made it down in good time, half an hour early for the 3pm bus, and sat and chatted for a while.

But OH! Let me just tell you about what happened on the bus ride home. Well, first I couldn’t figure out which bus was mine because I couldn’t for the life of me remember what the outside of the bus I’d climbed into at 6am looked like. How could I possibly be expected to remember that?

I did manage to find the bus, and found myself behind someone who I can only guess is from Europe somewhere (he may have told me from where, but I can’t remember). He got into a conversation with the gentleman in front of him, an American. This, it turned out, was a mistake. Y’see, they started talking about the environment, and it turned out that the American was a stereotypical caricature of an American. Not by looks, per se, but certainly in attitude. He wasn’t sure that global warming existed, and if it did, he wasn’t entirely sure that it was due to humans, and if it was due to humans he wasn’t entirely sure it was a bad thing. Not only that, but he read this book, and it turns out that species aren’t going extinct as fast as they (“they” being scientists, I suppose) say they are – it is, as he put it, “bullshit.”

The chap in front of me tried to disagree, and eventually the American decided he couldn’t continue the conversation, and even put his hand up to show he was done. When the European tried to bring up sports as a safer topic, the American held his fist up, said the name of some (American) football team, and refused to say more. The European tried to ask the American’s young companion (either daughter or girlfriend) her opinion on the environment, and she smiled, shrugged, and said she didn’t know.

When they got off the bus I told the European that he’d done an admirable job. He told me that all the Americans he’d encountered had been like that. I assured him that I wasn’t, and promised that there are some people in my country with some sense in their heads, or at least a capacity to disagree civilly.

I would also like to note that the American couple went on the trip with just shorts and fleece jackets, no food, and one bottle of water between them.

I always like knowing I’m not the least prepared.

And the fish and chips were delicious.

The post Albert Park Backpackers, Auckland, NZ appeared first on Travel Blog.

After having the owner of the Laughing Kiwi explain to me very slowly and with much repetition how the aqua taxis worked I had her book me on the cheapest one. Kayaking is not only hard, but expensive too.

I’d get picked up by the bus at 8am and taken to the aqua taxi in Marahau, which would shuttle me up to Anchorage Bay, and then I’d do the 4-ish hour walk back to Marahau and get the bus back home.

Problem was that the taxi was at nine and the bus home didn’t leave until 4:30, which left me seven hours to do a four hour walk. The Laughing Kiwi owner winced when she saw that, and told me to take it “real cruisey.” The woman at the Aqua Taxi office said the same thing.

I don’t think I’ve mentioned the way I tend to walk. When most people, it seems, hike, they keep their head down and power through. When I was walking to Bob’s Bay with C in Picton I noticed that she sure didn’t take her time. She just went. I like to loaf my way through walks, to make sure I don’t miss any views or neat moss or anything. While I wasn’t sure I could fill up an extra 3.5 hours with my moseying, I at least had that advantage.

First thing I did, while walking barefoot on the beach, was to step on some gorse. Gorse, if you didn’t know, is a bitch of a plant brought over by the English ages ago for hedge purposes. It’s all thorns. All of it. Horrible little needle-y thorns. And I stepped on it. Why they think or thought it would make a good hedge I certainly don’t know (though I suppose it’s some kind of security), but it loves this climate and is everywhere, including, at that time, lodged in the bottom of my foot.

And then I broke a blister. I hobbled to the start of the trail. Only a four-hour journey to go. Well done.

The first clamber from the beach to the upper path was a little rough, but it was fairly smooth sailing from there on out.

They don’t tell you about the flies, though. Not so much the sandflies, which get enough (just about) press, but on open, dry paths like this:

the flies just swarm. They didn’t bother with me (they did bump into me every now and again), but it was pretty gross.

That being said, the walk was glorious, and I was really happy to be doing it alone. I liked moving at my own pace, and stopping every four or five seconds for another picture.

The problem with pictures of, say, the beach was that there were usually trees in the way.

And yes, the water really is that color.

While it’s the smallest of NZ’s national parks (I think that’s what I was told) it’s also one of the most popular. I’m really lucky that I got to be there before the crowds – I can’t imagine what it would be like with more boats and more people.

I didn’t get passed too often, but always made sure to let people go by, and give them plenty of time to create some distance between us.

This is where I had lunch:

And it’s also where I met the biggest danged seagull I’ve ever seen. I don’t have any pictures with scale, but its body was about the size of a football.

A guy came down and had lunch a few feet away, but we maintained respectful silence.

We caught up later and ended up walking together for a while. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I preferred to walk alone, but managed to ditch him after not too long. Nice guy, to be sure, but not the right time.

Near the end of the walk I ducked down to one of the beaches, got into my swimsuit, and ventured into the water. With partly cloudy skies and the shade of the woods I wasn’t really warm enough for it, but I’d brought my suit the whole way, and I was going to use it, damn it. Besides, the water was just too pretty to not get in at least once.

And holy hell it was cold. The water was very shallow for the first dozen or so meters, and I couldn’t bear to just dive in. Too shallow. Yes. That’s it. I crouched down once or twice, but often popped up so quickly my suit was barely damp. Finally I managed to submerge (mostly – my hair stayed dry), then, gasping with the frigidity, paddled a meter or two, then booked it back out to my towel and dry clothes.

At the last stretch I acquired another companion, a French chap. We finished off the trail and practiced our respective alternative languages for a while, then I was off to my bus (I’d managed to mosey away the time very well – only had to wait about a half hour).

I don’t know if there’s something in the water in Abel Tasman, but everyone with whom I had business – the guides, the kayak office women, and my bus driver from that day all remembered my name. I’m sure they had it written down somewhere – their hands, maybe – but it was still a little surprising.

Unfortunately, it didn’t rub off on me. I still can’t remember names to save my life.

So I did get to see more of the park – sort of. While I was hoping to get to browse through the inlets and beaches the path that I took doesn’t really venture down to the beach terribly often. In retrospect a slower kayak trip might’ve been a better bet. Hindsight. You know.

The post Rainbow Lodge Backpackers Retreat, Napier, NZ appeared first on Travel Blog.

This trip doesn’t feel real (I checked my plane tickets – it is). Maybe all the short trips I’ve taken lately have disguised the reality that I’ll be gone 3 months. Or maybe it’s because I’m going to California first, so it doesn’t seem like I’m actually going yet.

Either way it’s an interesting departure from the major dose of adrenaline I’m usually feeling now.

(Is it wrong that after feeling the cool fall air I’m a little disappointed to be heading into spring weather?)

The post Philadelphia, PA, USA appeared first on Travel Blog.

“Well, we’re going to be in… hhhhhhh… Snuffelupagus¹, right? So that’s where… Bredafjorder?² is. And there’s Helgafell near — oh for the love of god³.”

It’s been very entertaining.

Meanwhile it’s going to be a high of 50-some degrees Fahrenheit during the day (down to the forties at night) (plus mostly cloudy and maybe rainy!), so I’m stocked up on woolens.

We’re spending 2 nights in Hellissandur, which, with its neighbor Rif have a whopping population of 580 people. According to Lonely Planet: Iceland it has a petrol station, a post office, AND an ATM. And a maritime museum.

Sweet! Love those maritimes.

Itinerary for tomorrow:

Ass early: Wake up, shower.
7am: Dogs to boarding kennel.
8am: We get picked up.
Forever: Drive to the New York airport.
2pm: Fly to Iceland.
Forever: Continue flying.
Some horrible hour: Customs etc.
After that: meet up with Iceland Air person who should hopefully be there to meet us and get our rental car.
A freaking hour later: Arrive at hotel in Rakey-a-vik⁴.

(Though to be sure there’s no easy way to get to Iceland from here).

¹ Snæfellnes
² Brei∂afjör∂ur
³ Stykkishólmur
⁴ Reykjavík.

The post Philadelphia, PA USA appeared first on Travel Blog.

Yes it would be, I would respond if I were a quicker thinker, except that I’m paying for this myself. (also, I might add, why couldn’t it be a mommy who funds a big trip? Huh? Huh?).

And then, since we’re in dreamland, I blow a big ol’ raspberry in their face, kick them in the shins, and settle comfortably into smug superiority. Suckers.

A lot of people have told me that I’m so brave for undertaking this big trip alone, and what I try to explain, and what they don’t care to listen to, is that for me, trotting off on some big trip is MUCH less scary than the thought of staying somewhere for longer than, say, a year at a time.

Paying a mortgage? Getting a pet that lives longer than six months? Having some variety of career? No, no, no. No thank you. I will take my rented apartment, my temp job, and keep my browser on travelocity. Yes I will.

So I might have some issues with long-term commitment. The concept of owning a house is both terrifying and more depressing than I’d care to contemplate. I’m hoping I’ll eventually break out of this.

I still don’t know what I’m going to do when I get back. It’s looking likely that I’ll come back to NC (if for no other reason than my friends just might kill me if I don’t). My great plan, you see, is that while in NZ I will have an epiphany (did you know you can plan them? I have decided that you can) as to the best career direction ever. Then, when I come back to the states, I can get working on it.

That is my plan. It’s foolproof.

Also, today I purchased my plane tickets for California. Oddly enough it was cheaper to buy three one-way tickets than it was to book a multi-destination trip. Go figure.

The post Winston-Salem, NC, USA appeared first on Travel Blog.

I should maybe start at the beginning.

The plan, post-Scotland, was always to get away again. Everything I did was temporary — 6 month rental agreement, temp job, lackadaisical housecleaning habits (I might move at any minute!). Then somehow I’d been working at my job — my mindless, sunless, corporate, well-paying job — for a year, my driver’s license said I was a NC resident, and I didn’t have a damn clue about where to go next.

Because nowhere sounded interesting. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was excited about the prospect of going to France, briefly. And then Italy, briefly. Enthusiasm waned — I wanted somewhere warm, and at the end of it all nowhere sounded exciting.

Really. Nowhere.

I’d stayed in one place too long, my job drove me crazy, and I was depressed. Am depressed. I’ve been swing dancing once in the past six months (outside of my trip to Scotland) (this may have more to do with the quality of Greensboro dancing than my mood). I still contra dance every Tuesday, but I sit out plenty of dances (it helps that we haven’t gotten many exciting bands lately). Lately I’ve even stopped answering the phone for most people.

While Greensboro felt dull and confined, I couldn’t find anywhere else to tempt me. Finally I just settled on New Zealand. My grand reasoning was that I knew it was beautiful landscape and with the immediate searches coming up with 24 hours worth of plane rides to get there, there was absolutely no way I’d be going for a week’s visit.

I emailed Lizza, who was spending a year abroad there. I emailed a Kiwi knitblogger. I browsed Lonely Planet. I’m still not excited.

In the end I knew I just had to pick somewhere and go. And so I am. New Zealand, fine. Tickets, fine. I don’t know where I’m staying — or even in what city. And that’s fine.

(Though I am feeling nervous).

Yesterday I turned in my three weeks’ notice and announced to the litigation support staff that I was leaving. The reaction was mostly shock, sadness, and envy. Since everyone else has families, pets, and houses they can’t really pack up and leave for four months.

To be in NZ longer than 3 months you need a visa. I’ll be there 87 days.

I am afraid of:
-Not having enough money
-Being out of touch with people (it’s a 12-13 hour time difference)
-A 12-fucking-hour plane ride
-Making friends that I won’t be able to easily visit
-Heights.

I don’t know:
-What to do about my driver’s license
-What the fuck I’m doing when I get back.

I’m excited about:
-Sleeping in
-it being springtime when I get there
-Sunshine.

Current plan:

August 11/12: Leave NC for Philadelphia.
August 16-23: Iceland with my folks
September 16-21: California
September 21: Leave for NZ.

Spend some time in Auckland. Visit Wellignton and Christchurch, pick a place to live.

December 19: Return to CA
December 20: Back to Philly.

January: Back to NC?

Quality.

The post Winston-Salem, NC appeared first on Travel Blog.

Doctor: Mrs. Vanderboodle, you seem to be suffering from acute internal amusement. I’m afraid you have 20 minutes to live.

Chapter one, in which I am a little punchy.

Or whatever. I’m at work. I’m running on adrenaline and 2 cups of coffee. Be quiet. Also, someone broke the internet and I am Miffed. But that’s why I’m finally writing this and not reading the complete archives of another knitting blog in that way that I do, um, constantly. Hee.

So. A little over a month ago I was bored at work (like today!) and perusing the internet (like I WAS doing, stupid computer) and had a whim to check what it would cost me not if I went to Sweden for Herrang.

For those of you who are not In The Know, in the month of July the tiny town of Herrang, Sweden becomes a mecca for swing dancers worldwide. There’s a camp there that is flocked upon by crazed dancer types. Classes are held, famous people (well, in the swing world) are flown in – it’s chaos. I, personally, knew about 5000 people who were going. But, alas, I didn’t sign up because, when everyone else was making their plans in May, I didn’t have a job. This meant:

1. If I got a job by then there’s no WAY they’d let me just take a week off immediately upon starting work, and
2. If I didn’t have a job by then I wouldn’t be able to afford it.

Finally I did find a job, and I became chief file monkey of the second floor of Giant Law Firm. I listened to my friends make their plans for Sweden and felt Envy, but was pleased to have a job. I heard that some of my Edinburgh-based friends were going. I lamented (lament! There was repetitive head-to-wall contact) not being able to see them, particularly since many of them are looking to move soon. That = not getting to see them all in one place again which also = bad. There would be North Carolina dancers there, too, but that, well, was less of a concern.

Which is when we return to a month ago! Looking up what it would cost me to go to Sweden and see lovely people!

Turned out that for all my travel and living costs (here to there, plus their “limousine” fare from the airport to camp and back again, including camping or getting a bunk there which, technically = free) would be about $1100 (slightly less than what my friends were paying months ago). I had $6500 in the bank. This was totally plausible. Holy sheep.

I wouldn’t take classes because it’d be an extra $500 and I wouldn’t be there the whole week, with flights working out the way they do (arrive before-god-early in the morning on Sunday, leave just-kill-me-now early on Friday morning). BUT for 200 kroner a night (about $30) I could social dance from about 9pm until 8am (after 2am it’s free). This is fine by me, because Annie sent me an email today reminding me of that fact, and that the dance floor’s too crowded to move until 4am anyway.

I will just remain on east coast time! No jet-lag for me!

The trick, of course, is getting that time off work. This was infinitely harder considering I’d just asked for the second week of August off for the yearly family vacation to Colorado. What kind of company would let me take another week off work?

This company, apparently. Their attitude is that because I’m temp and Low on the Totem Pole of Law, I can take off any time (within reason), so long as there don’t appear to be any major crises on the horizon.

And so it was that I got the first week of July off.

Dear Job!
I love you, and your vacation-enabling!
Love!
Emily!

BUT WAIT, you type in the Capitalization of Excitement! It is now well past the first week of July, and you are just writing about the beginning of… the trip… is – is that right? What’s going on. Damn you.

Calm down, internet.

Here’s how it went:

I needed someone to convince me to buy the tickets, because it’s skeery to 1. spend assloads of money, and 2. go to Europe. So I called my folks.

Dad first, and the conversation went approximately as such:

Me: I can go to Sweden for a week for 1/6 of what I have in my bank account. It would enable seeing awesome people and dancing awesomeness and also, hi, Sweden. Should I go?

Dad: Um, YES. Omg, hawsome. Go now.

And with mom:

Me: I can go to Sweden for a week for 1/6 of what I have in my bank account. It would enable seeing awesome people and dancing awesomeness and also, hi, Sweden. Should I go?

Mom: I don’t understand. Why is that a question? Are you listening to yourself?

I love my parents.

Travelocity was sought and tickets were purchased! I sent out an email to Scotland-related folks and said “OMG I’m going! Who else is going to be there the first week??” This is, of course, when the universe laughed and me, and I got responses from all of them saying, “That’s great! But um, I’ll be there the fourth week.”

Shit. The main reasons I’ll be there and I’ll be missing them by three weeks. No doubt it’d cost me $100 to change the tickets, and [expletives deleted because it’d just take up too much space]. Travelocity was called and I was connected with a very nice woman in India, where it was 5am. Ouch.

I said I wanted to change my tickets, and she said it’d cost up to $250 plus the additional cost of the new tickets.

Heep! I love my friends, but is seeing them worth the additional $250? Is… is it? Oh dear…

Painful shudder!

She pulled up my records, and lo, the universe smiled upon me, and she said that since it was less than 24 hours since I’d bought the tickets she could just void them and I could purchase new ones. It’d just cost $10 for the nonrefundable Traveocity fee from the original purchase.

I made her repeat that  5 times and then got it in writing because it sounded too good to be true. Buying $1000 plane tickets twice in two days and being wrong is a terrifying thing. I checked my bank account many times over the next few days, though, and it seemed to work out. Phew.

Excitement abounded! New camera was purchased! Emails were sent! Bragging commenced, which led to gentle haranguing (get it? It sounds like Herrang! Ah-ha!) from co-workers, with my excessive vacationing in exotic locales!

Here it is, then, a month later (it’s today, even). I leave tomorrow.

HOLY CRAP I LEAVE TOMORROW.

Okay, breathe, Emily, breathe. HEEE HUGHHHH, HEE HUGHHHHH.

My parents were good enough to send all our camping equipment, dutifully purchased a decade ago and used exactly never. (Side note: why the hell is camping stuff so huge and bulky? What is WRONG with you people?). They also sent little gifties like a super-absorbent towel and a keychain LED flashlight which is little but mighty like a rambunctious kitten. Turns out the flashlight, while appreciated and delightful (har! DeLIGHTful! It is TOO funny, shut up) will not, um, be much use. It being Sweden, and it being summer, it’s dark from 11pm to 3am. Which is when dancing happens. Ha! I laughed. And bought an eye mask for sleeping.

(I just realized I’m having mac and cheese and apple juice for lunch. Hi, I am four!)

After many discussions with C4 at work about camping and what to bring (she lent me stuff! She gets a t-shirt!) I have made stacks of post-it note-style lists, brought the wrath of my debit card down upon Target/CVS/Great Outdoor Provision Co, scrounged the internet for some (ANY) relevant information, and made piles of “to-bring” stuff in my apartment. When I was not hiding from it all by burying myself in the couch and knitting.

See, I’m not totally sure what to pack because while there are approximately infinity number of pictures on the web of Herrang, none of them involve 1. the campsite, and 2. any of the buildings! I-do-not-know-what-is-available-to-me. So do I pack everything? Or nothing, and then buy what I need for many many dollars kroner? (Kroners?)

Conclusion: I DON’T KNOW. I will pack what fits, and leave whatever doesn’t. I will pack my knitting first.

Tonight’s agenda: run around my apartment as adrenaline replaces the water in my body. Pack things until totally insane (estimated: seven minutes), then give up and go traveling super-back-to-nature-style with my passport and debit card. All will work itself out later. What? Debit cards = nature. Shut up.

Actually, that’s sounding really good.

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