01.10.2010 - 03.10.2010 17 °C
Blogs can be narcissistic affairs with an inflated sense of self-importance. Luckily I'm a narcissist with an inflated sense of self-importance. Here is my travel blog. We're off to India: the subcontinent not George Bush's cat. For the next 8 million seconds. The route is:
Here I, we, will blog and with a little luck, you shall read.
As I sometimes tell people on 50" screens: in this era of 'social' media you can't have a broadcast mentality, it's about conversation. So I will tell you what we're doing and you can interact by feeling jealous. You could also comment from time to time - that would be nice.
As we've spent our final few days in London there's been a growing feeling of Carpe Diem. Is this the last time I visit Leicester Square? Better make the most of it. The last apple shisha at the White House? The last baked potato?
I'm taking 3 months off from my life. Dear 'work', I know we've had our disagreements but I value what you do. To 'cycling', I will miss freewheeling through the leaves and dappled morning sunlight on my way to your friend 'work'. Mr. Coffee, you foam wrapped in emulsion over a colloidal suspension, I am addicted to your love. Being without you will be painful for us both, but I think a little me-time might help our relationship? Alcohol, what can I say to you. You turn a mediocre night into a great night and a great night into a ruinous swirling emotional mess. I love you only a little less, as Mark Ronson might say, than Coffee. Swimming, you are my rock (you are also a pool, so maybe you are my rockpool). You help me breathe and so meditate. I hope I can find a distant cousin of yours - maybe in the Ganges. To computer games, we go back a long way (Repton, to be precise) and the temptations of Mafia 2 and Call of Duty are strong, but we must park our obsession for a time. And to the Internet: we may speak with one another from time to time if we happen upon each other in the backstreets of Delhi, but these meetings will be fleeting and I can't promise you conversations of substance.
As London heads into autumn, I'll miss sitting by the fire in an oak panelled pub with a pint of Landlord, tucking into Sunday roast while rain patters down the condensation-clad windows (this has never actually occurred, not all at once, but remains nevertheless a powerful memory).
We've had the parties, done the hugs, had the send-off from work ('Don't get Malaria', the card screams). The outpourings of love toward us have been remarkable. We must leave more often.
Delhi has 12 million people, but hopefully there's space for two more. Alain de botton warns in the Art of Travel that wherever you go, you take yourself with you. So this isn't a trip about escape, nor is it a trip toward 'finding myself' up a mountain in Nepal. We're just going to go and there the expectations end. We leave 7am tomorrow.