52 DAYS TO GO

I’M SICK: of waiting, of counting down the hours, the days, of travelling in this endless holding pattern. It needs to happen, and it needs to happen soon.

It’s only because it’s winter, of course. Summer in Sydney: a neverending orgy of cheap red wine, of sunlight beating down on pavement, of walking around the house naked. Of getting drunk in parks, of endless balmy nights, of swimming in tranquil bays and muddy rivers. Of fake drugs and fireworks, of rollerskating in the kitchen and riding drunkenly through the park with plastic bags full of beer hanging from the handlebars. Of picking up in the kebab shop, of weekends away up the coast, of making out with pretty much all your friends. Of shit in the hallway, of shitting in your pants, of shit on the bedspread. Lots of poo-related incidents last summer, come to think of it. Of swimming in the surf, of warm breezes through open car windows, of walking to the cafe barefoot and hungover. Of parties ending on a balcony at sunrise with an empty wineglass in your hand, of the smell of storms, of sweaty sex with the fan whirring. Of feeling like you couldn’t remember the last time you felt sick, or had to wear a sweater. Of lying in the grass, all day, in the sunshine.

We’re all going to miss it. Few things can beat summer in Sydney, especially when surrounded by a group of people this incredible – so incredible that twenty-odd of these brilliant friends braved the cold with zero notice to celebrate Erin’s birthday last week, a sangria-soaked fiesta at the best Mexican joint in town, Baja Cantina in Glebe. It was the last birthday any of the four of us will be having in Sydney for a while, and it was a great place to celebrate.

On the travel prep front, Adam and I recently discovered some exceptionally cheap flights from Miami to Guatemala City – $150! – costing the same as a visa, so suddenly the Visa Waiver Program is back on the list of options. We’re going to contact a travel agent tomorrow to iron out the last few wrinkles of doubt that are bothering us, and then we should be all set and ready to go. 

I saw a physiotherapist for the first time last week, looking to get rid of the persistent limp that I’ve been a proud owner of since coming off the crutches in May. I was quickly diagnosed as having an “extremely weak right buttock” and now have a series of daily exercises, most of which involve some form of clenching. If it doesn’t fix the limp, it may at least prevent a horrible accident featuring a long-haul bus and a dodgy burrito. 

And that’s it, for now. There’s still a lot to organize. A hell of a lot, really. But Adam is being worked to the bone right now, twelve hour days, six days a week, and will be for another couple of weeks, and anyway there’s still time, plenty of it, counting down slowly, hour by hour, day by day.