One of the best things about travel for me is the journey in getting there.
I’m about to leave on Friday, and I won’t be home for 65 days. And the anticipation is the best and worst thing I’ve ever felt.
I’ve planned for weeks, months, maybe even a year for this trip.
I’ll be seeing London again, and hope she’ll welcome me home like an old friend, enveloping me in her arms and showing me what’s changed and what hasn’t.
I’ll set foot for the first time in France, and though my French is rough, and unused I hope to marvel at the beauty of history.
Rome, Venice, Florence. An art history buff would die to see those places, and I’m going to get to be there.
I’ve booked a WWII walking tour for myself in Amsterdam, where they’ll talk about the resistance of a resilient people, war crimes and my country’s contribution to the war.
Friday can’t come soon enough…