I’ve never been one for holidays really. I’m a practical kind of kid and tend to spend my downtime in either collapses recovering from excesses, doing tasks that cannot be avoided or spending the time on some activity that I consider to drive my development as a human through education or experience. Not that much of it isn’t self absorption or hedonism.
That said I’ve been to a few countries: Germany, France, Italy, Spain, America, Mexico, Guatemala; even places as exotic as Scotland. I’ve never been south of the equator though, which is something of note. I think however the thing about all these international visitations is that they’ve all been the result of a direct association with another person, the one or the group who was going and with that cause in place, I tagged along. I had no agenda for going other than company, or curiosity. Mostly I was instructed to go, or had no choice to stay behind. Significantly I’ve never gone alone.
So, it’s a slightly strange feeling to have just booked a couple of plane tickets and some accommodation for a solo trip to some mountains. I’ll be sharing a bunk room with three other humanoids, but I’ve never met them, don’t know their names and have no idea if I’ll get on with them other than the assumption that as the delightful person I am they’ll take me straight under their wing and we’ll be bestest friends for life before the first broken leg happens.
So there we are, the longest winded way I could find to say “I booked a holiday, GO ME!”. Also: SQUEEEEEEEE SNOWBOARDING WOOOOOOO!!!!!!!
Bleeding ages till January, isn’t it?