I felt giddy. I still get butterflies thinking about it. But why? I’m an adult . My giddiness seems ridiculous. Digging in to examine it now, those butterflies are the unparalleled thrill of embarking on the unknown. I should never stop feeling giddy.

There’s something about crossing a political boundary, taking me outside of all the borders I’d been crossing within my own country, that gave it a wildcard quality. Becoming a guest of another country felt vulnerable and precarious.

How many days would go by before someone happened upon my rotting corpse? I thought about my cat. Would Samus be dead, too? Or on the very edge of her demise when some unsuspecting slob stumbled upon us, retching in horrified disgust over their discovery?

It’d been nearly three weeks. Certainly not the longest I’d ever gone without, although I’m hesitant to admit what my record is. It’s quite shameful, really. The me of a decade ago would’ve denied it was possible.  

The first time is dense with delicious sensations, emotions, and a bit of apprehension. At least, it’s been that way for me. Afterward, there’s the undeniable poignancy that it will never again be the first time. That the thrill, the anticipation, the mystery will not ever reach the same heights. Not in the way it did when it was still unknown and fueled by fantasy.

I explained I was on vacation and planned to drive across the country, estimating I’d be in Canada about two months. That’s what prompted the blink and the pause. Which he followed up with, “But where are you going?”