The Big Ticket, a First Class Kennel, and some Orthopedic Foam

I did it - I bought "the big ticket." You know, the one that will carry me from the USofA over the pond to the UKof...the UK. It was terrifying and exciting and nerve wracking, but I did it, I finally hit "purchase now" and I'll be on my way come September 18th at 6:55pm. I chose to fly out of Seattle for a few reasons: first, so that my dad could help me as I will be a mess with suitcases, a cat, a guitar, and just a head full of worries; second, because it was the most logical choice, considering I will be spending the last few weeks of my "summer" with my dad in Washington state; third, because (strangely) the shortest possible direct flight from the West Coast is from Seattle to London (a mere 8.5-9 hours, compared with the 10.5-11 hour flight from SFO or San Diego, my other two options), and this shortened flight time is actually really important considering I will have a fluffy ball of Q cargo'd in the hold; and finally, because I found a really cheap-ass ticket (75% off!!!). So, obviously, my priorities are in order.

That ten minutes working up to the "purchase now" moment were honestly awful; a million second-guesses were streaming through my head, the mouse practically drenched in palm sweat. Maybe I needed a bit more than two weeks to get settled in? I should go earlier... But, then again, what if I'm there all alone and scared and bored and there's an Oxford serial killer on the loose and I don't know how to buy eggs at the market, or use the bus system, or oh-my-god I'm going to die in England, and it'll be in an alleyway of cobblestones with a cape on (I revisit the cape later, promise). JUST DO IT, GOD DAMMIT JUST HIT - oh-my-god-i-bought-it. There is a date. It is real. I am actually moving to England. 

The rest of the weekend was a flurry of planning; spreadsheets, google docs, board-room-meeting-like phone calls with parents to coordinate logistics. And it was all kicked off through the ample research and purchase of Q's new international-flight-approved and first-class-quality travel kennel. It's a snazzy black and grey-blue (see below), and most importantly Quiggles actually fits inside (he's put on a few pounds, what can I say). I had to make sure it had ventilation on all four sides, had a food/water feeder, etc. etc. I also bought him a super comfy pad to go inside, and later discovered it was made out of orthopedic foam; pretty much this guy will be traveling first class in an air conditioned and mood-lit hull while I am stuck above shoved against a humming engine and probably sitting next to the "smelly food" guy (you know exactly what I'm talking about).

But, it's a first-ish step, and that is how everything begins, with a first step, a first click, a first purchase...or two, or three, OK or four - I also bought a paper shredder (I have super-top-secret documents, I swear...). But it's beginning - it's all beginning - and while I still have the occasional freak-out or second-guess or stomach flutter, at least I have solidified my choice and am moving towards it, inch by inch, purchase by purchase. 

Until next week...

Interwebs of Fear

I've never written a blog before; hell, I've never written anything on the Internet before. OK, that's a lie, but seriously the Internet scares me. It's vast and vague and I can't comprehend how it works, how it began, where it ends, and why the hell it sporadically disappears and forces me to have hour-long chats with a wholly disinterested Comcast veteran at least twice a month. But I digress...

I'm moving to England in September, and the thought of it produces tummy-flies of two sorts: those born of giddy excitement and those hampered by nauseous fear. Living in the UK has been a dream of mine since I was a "wee tot" (as they say). I developed a creepy interest in British history on my very first voyage across the pond when I was eight years old. I spent all my pence on dumbed-down guide books to Europe's churches, castles, death towers (Hello, Henry VIII!), and proceeded to be that pint-sized prodigy who corrected 25-year-old History major tour guides, mid-tour. Seriously, I acted like it was a personal game of Jeopardy and the other tourists were my audience, the guide my Alex Trebec. "What is, The Bubonic Plague?!"

As an undergraduate at a California university whose name shall not be revealed (but whose colors are blue and gold and mascot is the bear), I finagled my way into the British education system by studying abroad not in Spain or Chile or Zimbabwe like my peers, but at the University of Cambridge - that place of cobblestone streets and formal dinners and a stringent rule against walking on grass. It was the best three months of my life to date. And I have always wanted to return.

Now is my chance - a literal "once in a lifetime opportunity," if you will. I have been accepted to Cambridge's cousin - the slightly older but equally as wise University of Oxford. It's a chance to sell my "stuff," pack two suitcases of life, and buy a one-way ticket across the big ol' Atlantic, cat in arm and guitar in hand.

But first comes the planning - oh, the planning! When to move? When to quit my job? How to sell my stuff? What to give away? What to convince my parents to store for me so I don't get caught in a storage locker scheme ("$1 a month storage offer super exciting act now" my foot)?

There are lots of questions, and even more lists, and through this blog, I'll try to sort through them with your help, or maybe just your non-committal, silent, visual support. Either way, I hope it helps, because: Dude, I'm moving to England.