Every single time I go somewhere, I go through this same thing: waves of profound homesickness. I miss Emmy already, and all my family and my friends and my house and my bed and my pillow and my garden and my washing machine and my shampoo.
I’m waiting for Syd to get here to join me in waiting for the airport shuttle. Alas, she is stuck on a train that has no gas, behind another train without any gas, somewhere in Sacramento. It will be a close call even if the train starts moving soon. Poor Syd. I may move the shuttle pickup time from 4:15 to 5:15 to give her a little more time. Unfortunately, there’s a BART strike on and the traffic to SF has become a multi-hour ooze. The 5:15 might be yet another close call.
I’m waiting for the mini-tarot deck and the mini-backgammon set that were supposed to arrive today. Alas, no sign of these travel toys either. Maybe they’re on a train in Sacramento.
I had to buy a lot of new stuff for this trip but one thing I didn’t consider were pants. I have three pairs from my last trek so I thought I was all set, until I put on a pair this morning. The waist is down on my hips. I’d forgotten about the weight that’s gone missing in the past year. I look like a little girl playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothes. An old little girl.
Yesterday I had a wonderful visit with Emmy. She requested eye makeup and I tend to oblige her.
Why did I think this trip was such a good idea? It seemed okay back in April when it was an abstraction. Now I’m filled with dread. Come to think of it, I remember only one time in my life when I didn’t feel homesick upon departure. It was my second summer at Teton Valley in Wyoming. I’d been there before, I knew people, I had nothing to fear. My fourteen-year-old self felt cocky and confident as I drove out to the train station with my parents. I glibly tossed them a casual hug goodbye before climbing up the train steps. I waved out the window as the train rolled away, and then promptly sunk into the worst gloom of my young life, one that didn’t leave me for a minute until I was home again five weeks later. Every minute of every day, I missed my family with agony in my poor little old heart. So I guess I’d prefer pre-dread to during-misery. I hope I don’t do both. I’m such a frail emotional flower, aren’t I?