So we'll start with an apology. I jumped the gun and decided to begin telling my story the night before I quit my job, instead of beginning with some sort of trite story about our first flight from New York to London. Here is a hypothetical snippet of said hypothetical story:
"She was nervous. Not for the months to come, but simply for the minutes: the takeoff of our first international flight was bumpy. There wasn't enough Xanax in her purse to keep her from yelping when one of the overhead compartments burst open, spilling our Tortuga backpacks into the aisle. As the bell tolled to alert us that we had reached our cruising altitude, the ride became smoother. She looked at me. I looked at her. We were off, and there were clear skies ahead."
I have to apologize for not giving you that moment (although we may get there in about six weeks), and for leaving you wondering what has been happening for seventeen days, so let me give you a synopsis.
I quit. The discussions happened quickly and were relatively painless. The reactions were, and continue to be some amalgamation of the following questions and statements: "What!? Where are you going? When are you leaving? Where are you going to stay? You're going to be gone for how long? Did you get your shots? Holy shit, I am so jealous. I wish I could do that!" So let's answer those questions one by one, for both the folks asking me constantly at work (I'm looking at you, Keisha James) and for the readers at home.Read More