Departures.

It’s been raining all week: London weather. Dreams of spending my last few days on Brighton Beach, eating briny fish and drinking Baltika beer, have been washed away with the dead leaves. I’ve hardly slept since the weekend. Tonight I’m on a one-way flight to Heathrow - the start of what promises to be an adventurous year abroad. My company’s decided to ship me overseas - partly, I suspect, to get me out of their hair. In the footsteps of Graham Greene, Ernest Hemingway, and National Lampoon’s European Vacation, I’ll be chronicling my mad-cap exploits abroad, hoping to answer any number of pressing questions about America, the global community, and the odds of me causing an international incident by telling some ambassador she’s “got a nice rack.”

The plan - or what passes for it - is to wind my way through Europe and Africa, mostly led by seat-of-the-pants inspiration and the cheapest flights I can find. So far almost nothing’s set in stone: beyond London, I haven’t got so much as an onward ticket to Spain, a fact that might cause more-savvy travelers to at least scratch their heads. But I’m trying to be flexible here; in the event of any unforeseen misadventures - a long bender in Manchester, an unexpected seat in Parliament - I’d like to keep my options open. I suspect, in the months ahead, this sort of free-wheeling attitude will burn me more than once. But as long as there’s an embassy in town and bail money in the bank, I figure things will more or less fall into place.

There are plans and plans and plans to be made. I’ve packed and unpacked everything. I’ve cleaned out my cluttered bedroom, cancelled my phone, turned down trial-free issues of popular magazines despite no obligation to buy. And goodbyes: I’ve said lots of them. Some painful, some insincere, some over the phone while cleaning the coffee grounds from the filter.

Most of my friends have barely gotten used to me being home; it was only May when I got back from my last long jaunt, a seven-month sojourn that took me from Tokyo to Tikal with plenty of stops in between. It all came as a bit of surprise to me: what began as a cross-country visit to some friends in California spun gloriously out of control, each week bringing new places, new faces, and new plane tickets to wherever caught my eye. People slowly got used to the fact that I wasn’t coming home. When e-mails came, they’d usually begin with something along the lines of “Where are you now?”

Back then I did everything on the fly, but now, with a year’s worth of sights and cities tucked into my trip planner, I can’t seem to get my mind around it. Money’s flying from my wallet. I’ve bought a new laptop and a new iPod and an insurance plan that will cover me if I manage to get mauled by big game in Tanzania. No contingency, I’ve decided, should be left to chance. I pack ultra-light thermals. I pack high-tech rain gear. I pack enough duct tape to festoon Heathrow once my flight makes its final descent. It’s only as I’m double-checking the contents of my First-Aid kit that I remember I’ll be spending most of the fall in the great European capitals, where Band-Aids are - from what I’ve heard - not too hard to come by.

I’m doing breathing exercises on the stoop. The neighborhood busy-bodies are huddled behind their windows. Rain is pitter-pattering on the windshields and the sidewalks of the place that I still call home.

The goodbyes are endless. I say a staticky goodbye to my father, who still can’t manage to find a good phone line in Greece. I say goodbye to a friend at his wedding and goodbye to a brother who’s just wrapped up a divorce. I say goodbye to my old barber when I meet him on the street. I say goodbye to the years of fashion foibles that are buried in my closet.

I visit my grandfather in his nursing home. He explains to his neighbors in broken English that I’m going to Europe. “It’s a long way,” he says, appealing to them with his eyes. “It’s not Coney Island.” He’s beaming with pride. He wears the old blue cardigan that has packets of Domino sugar secretly stashed in the pockets.

“Stay close to the Jews,” he councils. “They’re smart people.”

The woman next to me, who’s been making eyes at my grandfather all summer, clasps her hands together. “That’s wonderful!” she says. “Wonderful!” I make a mental note to write them postcards till my hand aches.

I say goodbye to my grandmother, sitting at her kitchen table with a wary eye on the TV. “Don’t trust nobody,” she says. “It’s a jealous world.” She’s been watching her talk shows. She offers me orange juice and ice cream and then presses two crisp twenty-dollar bills into my hand.

“Wherever you go, do the sign of the cross,” she says. “You don’t have to be obvious. Like this.” She makes a small, inscrutable gesture with her hand tucked into her stomach. I lean over to kiss her fretful forehead as I go.


Now and then, between the frenzied packing and the teary goodbyes, the possibilities of the year ahead come to me with a blinding flash. A camel trek across the Sahara; a lazy gondola ride through Venice; a sunrise over the Serengeti. I’m beginning to suspect that people hate me. When I make one last appointment with the dentist, I tell them not to bother with a confirmation call.

“My phone’s been shut off,” I say, waving my hand distractedly. “I’m leaving for Europe next week.”

I can practically feel the receptionist’s eyes pushing daggers through my esophagus over the phone; the next week, they don’t go easy on the needles. I’ve got a mouthful of gauze on my way home, and my jaw feels like it’s been worked over by a couple of guys named Bruno. But I’m happy: I’m numb, bloody and happy.

Which, truth be told, isn’t the worst way to start a trip.

---

---