Secret Number One

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Given the title and purpose of this blog, this entry should strictly be written by both Lizzie and I whilst pouring over maps and travel guides, sitting on the floor in my bedroom and talking routes and visas. We should be uploading equipment lists and travel plans and writing about how many litres in there are in the rucksacks, which injections we plan to have and the theats posed by the upcoming elections in Lebanon.

As it is, it's only me. Lizzie is at work in the Marks and Spencer and I have cast my attention over the vaugue prospect of packing for our Middle Eastern adventure because my other option for today is revising for a law exam tomorrow afternoon - this can be pushed to the back of my head for the morning whilst I fantasise about wearing floaty dresses whilst walking in flip-flops and make indistict piles on my bed of not-to-take or to-take. The rucksack (80 litres - the man in the shop was loathe to sell it to me but I insisted that I am unable to pack lightly) is still under the bed. It has been there since I returned from Ghana last September. Lizzie has just brought hers and found it a most unpleasant experience. They are very serious in camping shops and we are not serious girls. We are all about dresses in the sun and geography quizzes. Not dried food and unflattering breeches. Not Leki-sticks and mini medical kits. No Sireee! I will be eating bulky foods such as falafel and climbing no hills.

We are unprepared and still need to book somewhere to stay. We arrive in Beirut on the 10th of June, around six in the evening. I have found a nice-looking hostel but we are yet to book. I need to reel Lizzie in with a credit card and get the job done, but there have been other things on our minds. We do both have passports, however. Having previously visited Israel, we needed to get new ones. This made us feel like seasoned travellers - casually in the thick of things, taking risks and being a bit 'out there' - and we liked it, in the predictable way that those absolutely not 'out there' would.

Today I am writing a pre-departure entry in the hope that it will kick-start me into pulling things into place; reorientate my mind to believe that yes, I am going to be in Damascus in two weeks time and yes, I do need to consider how I might finance this trip. And what to wear. The discussions on this topic are endless. On Friday I am marching to Walworth Road to go through Lizzie's wardrobe and find appropriate Middle Eastern garb. I imagine her wardrobe to be a swarming mass of garmet goodies, all vintage dresses and elegant splurge-purchase clutch bags. But she tells me she has no clothes. When it come to specific items - she demands: " What vintage dresses? Which clutch bag?" - I am stumped. I agree that she may be lacking in practical summerwear. I am sorted in this respect because I work part-time in a clothes shop and have no self control. The summer collection was gorgeous and I am now the proud owner of many a smock top. And a pair of sturdy Birkinstock sandels which make me look biblical.

On Friday I will sit down with Lizzie and we will introduce ourselves properly, for the benefit of browsing strangers choosing to tune into what is likely to be an ongoing tirade of triva. We can also write out our travel plans. Make a few things certain by putting them in writing. For now I will consider which 80 litres of can't-live-without clutter I am going to drag around with me for the next eight weeks.

Mary x

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