Oxford’s days are drawing shorter, and Paris is slowly rising east across the channel. In seven days I’m jumping on the Eurostar with a suitcase into which I’m expected to pack 9 months of life. I really should stop whining though, I’m on the train with a friend who’s doing the exact same thing, at the very least we can try to stem one another’s international travel paranoia: Fuck! My passports not in my pocket? Oh wait it’s in my other hand.
Apparently the entire French tertiary education system is already in motion, and we are the Johnny-come-latelys. Our rooms have been booked though, and they know we’re coming. Worst case scenario we’ll arrive too late to get our keys and sleep as god intended… on top of our suitcases in the middle of le Jardin de Luxembourg.
Packing is another nightmare, I’m trying to cut down… but I keep worrying Paris won’t sell cummerbunds/rice cookers/complete works of Shakespeare. I think I’m going to have to settle for a suitcase, a travel bag, and a back pack. It’s going to be a long trip. I wonder if I can somehow trick Travel Buddy into carrying all my things.
At the moment everything feels a bit like a philharmonic orchestra tuning, leading up to some unknown performance. I know something’s going to happen soon, but I’ve got no bloody idea what to do until it happens – so like any easily flustered Englishman, I’m pretending to read my program and playing with my mobile phone.
H is a 25 y/o New Zealand born ex-pat, pursuing a PhD in Artificial Intelligence at Imperial College in London
