An intermission of sorts

One might think gearing up for goodbye gets easier after watching 6 creatures from my comfort zone return to it one by one… but one would be wrong.

As it turns out, forging somewhat indefinite farewells to the people I’ve happily lived on top of for the past two months remains a pretty emotional feat.

I know, right? Go figure.

I’m sure a nostalgic urge to cry isn’t exactly the reaction Calvin Harris intended when he released ‘Summer’ – but I’ll admit, it’s a small price to pay.

With the pleasure of prime company - I’ve flown, trekked, trained, yachted, shimmied, disastrously dived, scootered (almost successfully) and, at times, stumbled my way through 9 countries and 17 cities in the past 9 weeks.

From bongo-drummed street dancing to make the most of a belated bull-run effort, to group fender-skiing (also aptly described as near-drowning) between Croatian islands in The Adriatic, to gut-guided taste tours through Budapest and Barcelona (cheers, TripAdvisor)… It’s safe to say that no bucket list itch has been left unscratched.

For now, my travel train is chilling at a yellow light and gearing up for the second instalment, as I attempt to regain a sense of responsibility and lay some ground work in the city i'll soon call home. 

On the agenda awaits a weekend in Spain, followed by a road trip along the coastline through Portugal and into Morocco... Because reality is totally overrated, anyway. I'd hate to be rude and rush it. 

Teaser: said road trip may involve a night or two in a Yurt - (a traditional home of nomadic Mongolians made out of yak hair, obvs) - but I think that bad boy warrants an entry entirely of his own. 

Until then x 

The prologue

Well hello, old friend. It's been a while.

The past 18 months have been consciously consumed by my need to do some career-buidling in the brilliantly fast-paced world of PR. I can happily say that box has been adequately ticked (for now) and i've set my restless sights elsewhere.

I’m not quite sure what compelled me to peace out from a perfectly respectable standing in the Sunshine State in pursuit of an open-ended and anonymous adventure abroad…

But somewhere in between the nine-to-five people pleasing and nights out that were marked by seemingly mandatory (and far-too-familiar) boozed banter - wanderlust won.

Once the decision was made the shamelessly idealistic Gen-Y within was quick to kick into gear. Notice was given, a UK working visa was sorted and social outings were sacrificed to fund future memories.

I have all this freedom, you see, so I figured it would simply be rude not to exploit it and yolo*** my way through Europe.  

That’s not to say it was a simple ‘catch ya’ upon departure; bidding farewell to my dearest and nearest wasn’t easy. 

Fortunately, there was a screaming infant seated across the aisle on my first flight, whom I could (sort of) share my sorrows with. He was missing his mother’s milk, I was missing my mates… close enough.  The mutual moment of discontent was much appreciated, little man.

And now, we’re commencing our final descent into my next chapter.

First stop, Paris.

***Please note: the use of that acronym as a verb - rather than a two-syllable justification for poor life choices commonly verbalised with a cringe-inducing air of unintelligence - is far more acceptable, in my opinion. Yolo-ing is totally a thing.