Ten hours till departure

A year out of high school, I spent a semester studying in London. A few years later, I spent a summer working in Miami. I spent the next summer in the Sierra foothills, living at an all-but abandoned sawmill in a cabin which didn't have doorknob when I moved in. But for the first time, I'm a bit anxious about the next journey. I leave for Mexico tomorrow morning.

After spending a week in the hallway outside my bedroom, my belongings are packed into a weathered brown bag that is likely older than I am. It's filled with cords: one for my camera, one for my cellphone, one for my iPod. My cellphone has been prepped for international calling--this is no Christopher McCandless trip. My iPod has been prepped for immersion--I've stripped it of all but Spanish songs. And I'm ready to prep on the plane for immersion--a bag of dusty flashcards from years of ineffective Spanish classes is ready in my backpack.

I found the insect repellent--with DEET--that my program demanded. I, against my nature, assembled a small pharmacy in case of burns, bites, coughs, colds, putrid water or other horrendous calamities I have never before feared. I packed a book on Mexican history and two choice selections of Fuentes. I've even got my passport. Wait, where did I put that thing?

The thing is, I'm going for less than five weeks. A blink of an eye. I'll be back for Christmas. But I'm still a little nervous. Even with all those cords.