I have become absolutely band-wagon obsessed with the world cup, to the detriment of many other things in my life, like planning for my trip. I even paid for a 3 month subscription to TSN, so I can watch all of the games whenever I want. The story of Capo Verde has been gladdening my heart; I even cried when they found out that they'd made it to the round of 32. What an unbelievable story. Coming from such a small country, playing their hearts out to a draw on each game so they made it through to the knockout rounds. They might not make it through that - honestly, Canada might not either up against South Africa, also a country who has never made it to the knockout rounds - but they will be seen as heroes to their country in a way that I'm not sure people in North America really understand. Maybe the same way if Canada made it to the semi-finals or finals in some kind of fluke, we would know their names forever, but Vozinha the goalkeeper will be remembered forever for his formidable blocking and world-class stoppages. All at the age of 40! My kind of guy.

Just over 2 months to go. There are so many things to do, none of which feel urgent in any way. I'm currently dog-sitting, doing none of the life-packing-related things I'd promised myself I would do this weekend. Sometimes I wonder at myself, is this on purpose, or an I just getting tired again? I keep forgetting what I'm in the middle of, or (more concernedly), where I am going while I'm driving. Hopefully I'll get some blood work done before I go and clear some of these pesky symptoms up. I am assuming it's a simple case of bottomed-out anemia and B12 below average, like last time I felt like this.

In the meantime, I need to actually organize my life a bit more. I have a place to stay for 4 weeks to start, and have some Spanish lessons planned. I need to purchase health insurance. I have to find a storage locker unit to rent. I have to get rid of my bed frame, kitchen table, and portable AC. I have more books to unload on to the bookstores.

Before all that, I travel to Europe (please please please let the heat wave have passed) for a week. I am looking forward to the coursework and learning, less-so to the unbearable exhaustion that I imagine I will be feeling with jet-lag and this current constant dragging fatigue.

Today I visited M and E, whom I haven't seen in a few weeks. Just two weeks absence and E looks different! Not only some top teeth to give his grin an even cheekier, more gamine quality, but the shape of his face, the intention of the interactions, and the immediate tears at the failure of expectations. He's growing up. I had a realization of the things I would missing by going away. I've been so focused on what I might gain, I haven't given any thought to what I am going to miss. My parents are older, though still in fine health - but anything can happen. My nephew is also growing up, and I see him so little anyway. The people I love will also change, and grow, and have experiences without me.

June 29

Sometimes the fear creeps in. I have a really good, simple, comfortable life. I don't do too much, but every day is full. isn't that what people yearn for these days? I don't have too much on my plate; I am rarely disturbed. My life is in more harmony than disharmony. I live in an incredibly safe city, and have an incredibly safe life. Should I really shake things up by going away again? What am I trying to prove? I don't think I'm trying to prove anything, or if I am, I haven't admitted it to myself. So why am I going?

To be honest, I'm struggling to really frame what this year away is, other than just, away. As far away from work as I can get. But, like, how far is that? Is there anywhere in this world that can be far enough away from a place that has defined my sense of self for 13 years? Again, perhaps I am just tired.

You hear about the post-Olympic blues, where athletes struggle to go back to a normal life after years of dedication, stress, struggle, and cortisol. Working in a hospital is kind of the same (without the great physicality and incredible ability to focus). I worry that I'll be struck down by leisure sickness immediately after leaving town, and that will kick off months of apathy. I don't want to waste months on feeling like crap. I only have a finite amount of time on this earth, I want to take this precious 12 months of freedom from the shackles of capitalism and revel in it. Not necessarily in a hedonistic way, but in a way that truly fills my soul. I've felt so lifeless for so many years. A dry husk, a withered empty plastic bag.

Maybe that's how I frame this year. My only focus, my only goal, is to do things that fill my heart up. Have experiences that bring back some of the excitement about life. Be uncomfortable in ways that drag that grouchy, grumpy, comfort-obsessed old lady out of her zone and make her work for it.

I've played life really safe, for all that I've done some travelling, and taken some chances. I generally don't make too many leaps of faith or decide only on my emotions. Frankly, I rarely let my emotions do much deciding for me at all (except for anger, which I've let make bad choices for me in the past). I wonder what it would be like to actually choose to do something just because it felt good? No thoughts to what the right thing is, or the correct choice. Who care about what people will say or (god-forbid) my mother will think. I bet this is a skill I have to practice. I wonder if a year is long enough to master it?

Normally, I don't care about this excruciatingly corrupt world event. But the pageantry and extant joy that permeates the group stage, when everyone is just trying to get to the next level, has such a sweet charm (tarnished, it's true, by "hydration breaks" I SEE YOU, FIFA AD BLOCKS). Today I watched Curaçao have an amazing historic moment, and the nail-biting finish between Japan and the Netherlands. The excitement, joy, laughs, and analysis (from Zoe) have made the watch party a vital aspect of my participation in the 2026 cup.

Interestingly, the interactive chat adds an uncomfortable element to the watch party. I've never done anything like it - I don't watch commentary-type shows, or have ever participated in interactive chats with celebrities before like AMAs etc. It's never been an interest of mine. But watching this party and then getting the chance to speak directly to the people in the room, be part of that conversation, feel like I'm sort of there...I see why people get sucked into those parasocial relationships and begin to think celebrities are their friends. I really enjoy the banter, the conversation, and the hot takes of Ryan Harduth, Eugene Khoza, Zoe Clark, and Joe Opio and whatever guest shows up. I want to be there, but honestly? Would add very little to the conversation, I'm sure. I know even less about football than Eugene, though probably enjoy it more (that man is an expert hater). I kept trying to get them to see my funny joke about Joe, comment on my hot takes about the game, or respond to my questions (they did none of those things, I was buried in the avalanche of comments from the 6500 people who were participating). My urgency peaked about 70 minutes in, frustrated by people who were drowning the chat with repeatedly posting their country's flag emojis. Didn't they realize I had actual comments to make? That I had a thing to say? That I was more interesting than their patriotic fervour?

Then I took a deep breath and realized, I am a guest here. Firstly, I have never participated in a group chat like this before, maybe this is normal. My inability to follow the threads could just be my inability to utilize the program properly. Secondly, I never participate in the world cup. Patriotic fervour, even to an outsider, is a pretty standard response to this event. Should I be annoyed by people waving their flags online, too?

I did catch, from one other commentator, that you can block/mute people (such a relief) and report inappropriate posts (useful tool). I figured out how to respond directly to people.

And then I remembered to just let it all go. This is for fun, and Trevor, though piped into my headphones once a week for 2 hours at a time, is not my friend. He doesn't care what my take is, isn't interested in my joke about Joe, and has no responsibility to answer my questions. He is a famous man who seems less problematic than the rest of them, and that's it.

I am pretty good at keeping a cool head about celebrities. I don't see them as anything more than people who either luck, money, or talent that has gotten them into a place of fame. I wouldn't want to be them. I wish many of them the best, and some of them the worst. When one of them, whom I thought was fine, ends up being a terror, I add that to the list and move on. None of them are my heroes, I'm not in love with any of them, and remind myself that they're humans who make mistakes.

The one time I've been smitten and made an utter idiot of myself was with Bertie Gregory, when he was a VERY young, up-and-coming cinematographer who just got his first big break as an adult with Nat Geo. I, a grown woman likely a dozen years older than him, was so weirdly shy (for the absolute first time in my LIFE) that he could barely hear me when we talked after the event. He, kindly, kept trying to move closer to actually hear my questions and answers. I finally put him out of his misery and ended the conversation, walked away, and realized I'd been an absolute horror. Imagine, making a young man move closer to you! Using social norms to get him to move into my personal space! Wretched. I still feel bad for about it. Though not my intention, I was still putting him in an awkward situation. Unfair.

These last two watch parties, though, have really pulled me into that parasocial sphere. I am sure I am not that susceptible to it, given how critical I am of most cultural phenomenons, but anyone can be convinced of something. Especially if they think it's harmless, like I see this watch party. I know that many celebrities rely on the fans for their income and cater to these fans especially, but it must be a very fine line to walk, being both close and also distant. I couldn't imagine allowing people to feel like they had some right to me, or my time; I can barely handle when the people in my life put expectations on me (thank you, mum and dad). It makes me want to run far, far away in the opposite direction.

My joke about Joe was really funny, though. But you needed to be there.

No, no, I know I am outclassed by the likes of Naipaul, Murphy, and Theroux.

But I love thinking about how they saw the poetry around them. What did they observe in the moment? How much did they embellish later; are they like artist, sketching outlines en place, and filling in gaps at home in a quiet studio?

Take Jan Morris, for example. I'm currently reading Locations, a collection of articles previously written for magazines through the 80s and 90s. (Our very own Ottawa gets a fairly kind review in 1987 - nothing much has changed). Wading through the jingoistic imperialism was a slog, but she has a such distinctive way of describing people. "The movements seemed to me kind of airy, as though tending towards weightlessness." She states, enchanted and also sickened in Oaxaca. "He clenched his modest muscles, he moved his head this way and that like a woman trying on a wedding hat." She stares, in suspicious Paris. She likens Vermont residents to Russians, without using the word "Russian" until the end of the paragraph. Her character sketches are always sharp, but not always unkind.

Jan Morris' view on Empire, culture, and indigenous people is problematic, so I wouldn't necessarily recommend her writing. Interestingly, she's probably one of the first trans women living an unapologetic life, transitioning in her late 30s (in the 1960s!) and staying married to her wife for (essentially) the rest of her life (I want Elizabeth's biography). I picked up a few of her books in a used bookstore months ago, not really knowing what to expect. What I've gotten is a complex woman with a sharp eye for detail, blindness about her own sense of superiority, and a riotous sense of irony. I think she would attribute that last part to her Welsh heritage.

I've also received a series of lessons in the importance of looking around your surroundings and actually watching the world around you. Getting my head out of my phone or book, and see what the world is doing. I think that will be the most important lesson from Jan - ok, maybe also, the reminder that you can like a place and still criticize it. You can also dislike a place and find some grace for it. Nothing is all good or all bad. It's an important lesson in our age.

Today, for example, I'm at the cafe down the street. I have 2 hours before an appointment, so I'm taking my time to write, drink a latte, and devour a donut. I can assume that one of the FIFA World Cup games is playing soon. Four young men in futball jerseys patronize one of the cafe tables, brimming with excitement. Guatemala, Japan, and ?Curaçao were represented, I couldn't see the name on last proudly emblazoned shirt. Snippets of conversations circled players I do not know and plays I have not seen. This is a vibrant time for soccer in Canada. The baristas are excited for the game, too; asking follow up questions and laughing at quips. I understand very little and care less.

Next to me, a generically beautiful, young, blond, thin woman has been speaking loudly about an instagram drama. Her companions, equally young, were quietly reading books after sharing a sweet loving kiss across the table before she arrived. She dominates the conversation, punctuating her story with gesticulations and exclamations of surprise. I hope she does well in this world, but is deeply boring the way all 20 year-olds are deeply boring.

Not that I have much to say about a boring life. I wake up, work, come home, read, scroll a bit too much on substack or instagram, and go to bed. Sometimes I cook a wonderful dinner, but lately I don't. Once a week I have dinner at my parents'. My anecdotes circle injustices in the world, personal grievances, and books I've read. Sometimes something reminds me of my 20s, but I've forgotten so much from that time...and I don't even have drugs to blame for the memory loss. Middle age comes for us all.

My inner life is rich and varied, my dreams at night are colourful and often include aspects of space travel. No one will know the details of these things. Sometimes, in my navel gazing, I think of the billions of other people's complex inner lives and imagine how vibrant our world actually is (except for Andreessen's, I imagine the inside of his mind is like watching off-white paint dry).

I would like for my external life to be almost as vibrant as my internal. The purpose of my Abroadessey (Oh, yeah, no) is looking more and more like a year where I find some hobbies I like, that I can stick with, and improve enough in my own time and on my own terms. Tennis seems to be a contender, and guitar. I might look for a choir to join, if that's something people do. I'm open to other things. Cooking again, maybe. I'll need to make sure I have kitchens to use. Should I branch out to extreme sports? HAH. Finding what I want to do, that can translate back into my life here, has been harder than I thought. It's complicated when you no longer feel like you have to follow the a prescribed path.

But while away - always reading. Reading reading reading reading reading. I'll never stop. I'll guess never not be boring.

I don't know how to feel about my trip. I'm separated from it by a sheet of glass. I can see it, I know how I should feel about it, I see how others feel about it. But I don't really have those emotions. Maybe I'm riding the edge of burnout again, I can't really tell anymore. Numbness and rage are my two most loyal bedfellows, and they just cover most of everything else. Grief pries its way through fairly often, otherwise I wouldn't survive the migraines. (Learning to cry was one of the most valuable skills I've learned in therapy.)

I wonder sometimes if I'm doing this trip for myself. I've been talking about it forever, wanting it. But was it just a fantasy of escape? Is that all this is, just the absence of work? I want to do something with this year away that gives me strength and builds colour and vibrancy into my life. Right now, I feel flat and grey. I don't hate things (I do hate things, but they are very, VERY specific) and I don't love things. I just exist with emotions twisting through me once in a while. For example, I feel flickers of enjoyment when I play tennis badly (smashy smashy!) or when I play guitar badly. Time slows down (in the best way) when I watch little E play in that repetitive, exploratory way only 10-month olds can do.

Late last year I realized I say yes to everything, because I honestly just don't care one way or another. I'm not flexible, it just doesn't matter. Of course, I'm drained after 13 years in healthcare; 5 of them in a pandemic, the rest in a system of austerity. The motto "plan for the worst, hope for the best, and take what comes" is etched on every organ in my body by this point.

So the question is, why am I going to Montevideo? Do I really want to go to South America? I don't hate the idea. I would like to learn Spanish again (relive my ill-gained modern languages major). I don't like the summer. Sun, beaches, tanning, hot weather; that is not the trip for me. Other people are imaging my trip and I am recoiling from that image. So what am I going to do? I love the ocean; I hate the beach. Sailing fills me with terror. I've never gone diving. So why am I telling people that I'll be chasing the summer all year? That is their fantasy, not mine. Why do I care about their dreams in that moment? I know they truly do not care how I live my life; the same way I truly, deeply, do not care how they live theirs. The fact is, no one listens anyway. I am frequently asked about my trip to Paraguay.

Maybe my existentialism is showing. Today I learned that my union doesn't want to support my grievance for fair pay. I leave the country in 3 months and now I might be in a fight with my own people about their duty to me. The enormity of the--- you know, I think I'll save my words for the lawyers.

I guess I am, again, surprised at how hard each organization around me commits to the bit. The bit, being of course, that I am not valued. You would think that the time, effort, money, and energy that goes into the making of my job, in my niche, would be worth extending the lifespan of my employment. All they need to do, honestly, is work together. I am showing them a gap exists that swallows people.

The loss of human potential in healthcare is the true tragedy.

Whatever. This problem will be here when I get back. Perhaps by then I'll have the head space be the sharp end of the wedge and tackle the AUDACITY----

I learned recently about philosopher and Catholic thinker Josef Pieper. Pieper argues that leisure is not the absence of work, it is "an attitude of non-activity, of inward calm, of silence; it means not being ‘busy,’ but letting things happen." Leisure, as we consider it (lying on a beach, chasing summer) is "something that has been built into the whole working process, a part of the schedule. The ‘break’ is there for the sake of work. It is supposed to provide ‘new strength’ for ‘new work,’ as the word ‘refreshment’ indicates: one is refreshed for work through being refreshed from work."(1) I've known of Aristotle's meaning of leisure (purposeful flourishing) since my ill-advised philosophy minor, but that was not how I used my time off (protestantism loves that shit and I'll do anything to avoid fulfilling that family legacy). Also, I am so tired, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. All I want to do is lie down and read a book so I can get up tomorrow and slog through it all again.

Maybe this is why this trip feels like an ill-fitting shirt; a year of lying on a couch (I'd never sit in the sun) reading, how is that different from my current life? How is that better? How does that feed me? This year away needs to be about me, not not-work. Who am I without healthcare? Do I like that person? Are there parts of me left, or has this system of wreckage, pain, grief, injustice stripped me down and cannot be rebuilt? B says I should write a list of how I want to structure my day, and what a perfect day would look like on this trip. Sitting down to write that out gives me heart palpitations. Last week, I even started sweating. I am fascinated to see how terrified I am of dreaming. At what point in my life did I learn that dreaming was dangerous?

Maybe that's why I won't let myself get excited for this trip. I'm not completely sure I'll like what I will find.

(1) https://maxfrenzel.com/articles/josef-pieper