I’m currently nestled in a coffee shop, a stone’s throw from my now eerily empty apartment. As of last night, my housemates have all fled the coop, and tonight, the last friendly face on our floor is set to bid adieu. Soon, it’ll just be me, tucked away in one corner, and some mysterious soul occupying the opposite end, with the quiet married couple next door providing the occasional reminder of human presence.
Now, you’d think with all this empty space around me, I’d be packing up my belongings with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine. But alas, procrastination seems to have won the day. Most of my stuff is crammed into a 65-liter backpack, and I’m just twiddling my thumbs, waiting for some last-minute laundry to finish its spin cycle. Tomorrow marks the final countdown: one more sleep until Thailand.
I’ve been buzzing with excitement about this trip for ages, but today, along with the excitement, a twinge of fear has crept in. It’s not the prospect of navigating a foreign country where I don’t speak the language—after nine months in Doha, that doesn’t faze me much. No, my apprehension stems from the idea of not having a permanent roof over my head for the first time ever. Living out of a backpack is a whole new ball game. Sure, I’ve done the suitcase shuffle for a few weeks at a time, but this is different. It’s more of a hopscotch around the map, a wandering with no fixed destination. But hey, not everyone gets the chance to embark on such an adventure, so I’m going to embrace it, fears and all. Once I’m lounging on a Thai beach, I’m sure all this anxiety will be nothing but a distant memory—possibly drowned out by the sound of the waves and the clinking of coconut drinks.
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