The day immediately prior to departure is a strange one.
There are moments which are lost in a flurry of excitement, and then others which are lost to the silence and the still.
But it is a day of certain activity, whether this activity be physical or emotional. It is a day which fills one with bubbling anticipation and intense fear that you might accidentally leave some important document behind.
My pre-departure week was a sad anti-climax. Rather than the hours of laughing and farewells which I had expected to pass with friends and family, most of my time was spent alone at my desk, tying up loose ends and checking various types of phone/bank/media accounts. Or alone upstairs, filing through all my clothes and changing my mind about what to pack for the hundredth time. Or at the dinner table, silently lamenting over the fact that it would be a long while until I was able to taste my mother’s cooking again.
And just like that, the week flew past.
And then I was in the car, then trudging through the car park, my father pulling my luggage along the tarmac.
And then I was in a plane, on my own, but surrounded by strangers who, just like me, were taking an international leap. Just like that, my pre-departure musing were gone, rushing past like the ocean below us, replaced by the expectation of arrival and the promise of in-flight entertainment and complimentary wine.