January sixth

About forty-five minutes ago my grandmother inquired the return date of my travels abroad and robotically my brain hit auto-reply: "January sixth." Wait...January sixth? Really?? I have undoubtedly given this answer to no fewer than 100 similar questions in the recent past, but for some reason I actually heard myself saying it this time. Maybe it's because I am currently sitting here staring at a solid layer of clothes over my barely visible bedroom floor and a backpacking backpack sitting in the corner that looks much smaller now than it used to. I am faced with the seemingly impossible task of cramming four and a half months worth of clothing, enough to last me through January sixth, into this constantly shrinking backpack. To anyone who really knows me this will obviously be no small feat for me.

But maybe it's not the packing that really screams the words "January sixth" in my head. Perhaps it is the somewhat apprehensive feeling I have knowing that I am about to depart solo on a four and one half month adventure in a foreign country and culture, and that I am saying good by to an effortless sense of familiarity until January sixth. Sure I will not be alone when I get to Barcelona, surrounded by countless students in the same boat, and aware that thousands do it every year, but the long time separated from friends, family, and familiarity might make me a bit nervous. Right now January sixth just seems so far away from home. However along the way I plan to reminisce and record my adventures on here for anyone interested in following and in a way, I suppose, keep a connection between myself and back home.

Friday afternoon I leave for New York to spend four days with my sister, and then I am off to España with high hopes that in no time I will begin an awfully great adventure that will keep me happily blogging away until January sixth.