Tuesday, December 07, 2004
International travel sounds scary
so I'm going to New Zealand.
Which, as we all know, is really Australia, just in a bit of a disguise.
A fairly impressive disguise, one might add, what with the different currency, a seperate government, a certain amount of respect and honouring of the indigenous peoples, and a pumping, vibrant and successful film industry.
Yeah. Absolutely the same place.
I've never been outside of Australia, so this is a big leap for me. I'm terribly excited, but mostly suffering from a certain amount of...PANICPANICPANICPANICPANIC *runs around room waving arms in the air going eek eek eek eek*
This panic has slowly increased over time, as each step has taken me just a little bit closer to actually travelling.
Step 1. Telling people I'm going to go to New Zealand: mild panic. (Captain Paranoia sitting in the back of my head and smugly assuring me that there is no way I'm going to do this.)
Step 2. Quitting my job: mild to tepid panic. (Captain Paranoia feeding the "You'll be unemployed forever and end up a bag lady and by the way you're being really silly if you think you're going to travel" doggies whilst they pant excitedly and lick his hands).
Step 3. Applying for a loan: tepid to moderate panic. (Captain Paranoia and the doggies and my self confidence go for a walk, and of course, self confidence ends up with dogshit all over its' shoes).
Step 4. Getting the loan: moderate to persistent panic. (Captain Paranoia has gone on holidays this day, but leaves an answering machine message which outlines all of the ways that I am going to fail, and that we should get together soon, maybe for some sushi, ciao!!)
Step 5. Spending frenzy at Kathmandu. Panic overturned by consumerist lust.
Step 6. Applying for passport: roaring, cyclonic, houses being blown away panic. (Captain Paranoia is still holidaying in Florida, but has updated his blog to include a couple of links to pictures of my cowering psyche clutching desperately at the door of my wellbeing, perpendicular to the ground, with legs flapping amusingly in the wind.)
Thankfully, there are really only three steps left. I foresee these levels of panic:
Step 7. Receipt of passport: panic subsiding slightly in the face of the bloody awful photo, and then reasserting itself at warp factor nine (Captain Paranoia says "Make it so.")
Step 8. Purchasing tickets: "Oh my god Buffy is dead" panic. (Captain Paranoia has brought popcorn.)
Step 9. Entering International Airport and boarding plane: blind panic morphing slowly into acceptance and only mild panic. Until the plane lands. (Captain Paranois is in the shower, and asks me to leave a message after the scream of a shattered soul.)
Travel. It's something everyone should do.
Eep.
Which, as we all know, is really Australia, just in a bit of a disguise.
A fairly impressive disguise, one might add, what with the different currency, a seperate government, a certain amount of respect and honouring of the indigenous peoples, and a pumping, vibrant and successful film industry.
Yeah. Absolutely the same place.
I've never been outside of Australia, so this is a big leap for me. I'm terribly excited, but mostly suffering from a certain amount of...PANICPANICPANICPANICPANIC *runs around room waving arms in the air going eek eek eek eek*
This panic has slowly increased over time, as each step has taken me just a little bit closer to actually travelling.
Step 1. Telling people I'm going to go to New Zealand: mild panic. (Captain Paranoia sitting in the back of my head and smugly assuring me that there is no way I'm going to do this.)
Step 2. Quitting my job: mild to tepid panic. (Captain Paranoia feeding the "You'll be unemployed forever and end up a bag lady and by the way you're being really silly if you think you're going to travel" doggies whilst they pant excitedly and lick his hands).
Step 3. Applying for a loan: tepid to moderate panic. (Captain Paranoia and the doggies and my self confidence go for a walk, and of course, self confidence ends up with dogshit all over its' shoes).
Step 4. Getting the loan: moderate to persistent panic. (Captain Paranoia has gone on holidays this day, but leaves an answering machine message which outlines all of the ways that I am going to fail, and that we should get together soon, maybe for some sushi, ciao!!)
Step 5. Spending frenzy at Kathmandu. Panic overturned by consumerist lust.
Step 6. Applying for passport: roaring, cyclonic, houses being blown away panic. (Captain Paranoia is still holidaying in Florida, but has updated his blog to include a couple of links to pictures of my cowering psyche clutching desperately at the door of my wellbeing, perpendicular to the ground, with legs flapping amusingly in the wind.)
Thankfully, there are really only three steps left. I foresee these levels of panic:
Step 7. Receipt of passport: panic subsiding slightly in the face of the bloody awful photo, and then reasserting itself at warp factor nine (Captain Paranoia says "Make it so.")
Step 8. Purchasing tickets: "Oh my god Buffy is dead" panic. (Captain Paranoia has brought popcorn.)
Step 9. Entering International Airport and boarding plane: blind panic morphing slowly into acceptance and only mild panic. Until the plane lands. (Captain Paranois is in the shower, and asks me to leave a message after the scream of a shattered soul.)
Travel. It's something everyone should do.
Eep.
