"Only a few things left to do. A whole lot of clothes-drying and ironing (right before I stuff them in bag? That's logical.) I still have to write down all the important numbers which identify me and my bank and credit accounts. And books: I have to sort through the mountain of books near my bed and pick which ones are worth toting across an ocean. I don't even know where to begin. I will otherwise...."
This is not the update I expected to write.
So we're not off to Spain. After a month of this trip being the focus of my attentions (and feeling like I've been incredibly boring to talk to during that time), it's frighteningly quick and easy to call off. Hotel reservations that we labored over? Gone in a few mouse clicks. Flights cancelled in a phone call. I've cashed some of the traveller's checks already. That whole afternoon hoping Mauricio would call me back for the incredible hotel reservations I could make? I just faxed a cancellation notice over to him. I've unpacked a rashly purchased bag, for which I thankfully saved the tags. It's all the work we did for the month before, except backwards, and at 500 miles an hour...and collapsing like a building. Like everything this past couple of days.
I linger over pictures of the Boyfriend and I on top of the World Trade Center from last year. He just developed a roll or two from that trip; we were looking at them just last weekend.
But, to abuse a platitude, life goes on. We'll reschedule the trip to Spain for the spring. We've done the research already. We may be able to do some things next time which were booked this month; we'll have six months more lead time to make reservations. My Spanish will be better. Things will be different.
A friend of mine called to suggest that the next time I don't want to go on a trip, perhaps I should find a slightly less dramatic way to avoid going on it.
I'm still sick. I managed to give The Roommate a(n) (un)healthy dose of this so he's sick along with me. The Boyfriend still seems unaffected by this cold, and I hope he remains so. I'm not feeling like I've been beaten anymore, but when it hits I'm coughing something fierce. Sympathy coughs for the people of Manhattan.
Lots of reasons why I'm feeling so emotional right now. I fought through a very tough week at work, where we're still waiting to hear about layoffs. Then I had an emotional night, slightly sick and disturbed at and after the Laurie Anderson concert on Friday. Even now on "vacation" not getting enough sleep (only about 4 hours before I was woken to hear about the terrorist actions.) And on the same day as all this, I got word that my grandmother was "failing fast" and that my mother had rushed out of town to see her and take her to the doctor. (This turned out to be one of our relatives overreacting, so it seems. The doctor is running some tests, but Grandma is certainly alive and active.) But that was the last bit more that I could handle yesterday, and I ended up sobbing on the phone to the Boyfriend (confusing and worrying him) but making me feel a little better. I hate crying in front of (or in earshot of) anyone. I'm supposed to be strong. I'm supposed to be steady for other people. Yeah, that's crap, I know. It was good to get some of it out.
Even a couple of days later I occasionally find myself on the verge of tears as I read some people's reports of the situation in New York. I hate feeling emotional like this. I know this is just being human. But I feel, as my mother described someone once, like an emotional twit. No one I know was killed. My grandmother is OK. I don't think I'm going to be laid off, and even if I were, I would survive. But the weight of that uncertainty all at once was hard to handle.
So we were thinking of going to Disneyland.
No, seriously, we were. The Boyfriend has never been. Even with domestic air travel starting again, we figure crowds will be small there, from people cancelling their trips. Sure, I'm looking for a place to get away from the tragedy for a little while. I'm not going to find that sitting at home in front of my computer. I feel a little guilty thinking about it; I mean, I don't want to be disrespectful of the gravity of the situation. But mostly I want life to go on, as we know it will. Maybe if I was working, I'd have that structure of life-going-on in place and this would be a little less strange. But on the whole, I'm glad I'm not there right now. I don't think I'd want to try to feel like this and be a productive member of the workplace.
And that's basically the biggest problem with planning any sort of vacation: I don't feel particularly festive yet. This is a sort of sickness and sadness that I don't think even the "Happiest Place on Earth" can fully lift yet.
But life will go on. It has to.