De eerste avond

Met de koffer over het donkere strand gelopen vanaf het vliegveld naar mijn bungalow. Allereerst was ik vergeten dat er hier niet overal mooie Nederlandse fietspaden zijn. Daardoor een halfuur een 15 kilo zware koffer met eerst vier en daarna drie kleine klote zwenkwieltjes over een grindstrand moeten slepen. Gelukkig was het grotendeels een rechte lijn, dus ik hoefde niet lang te zoeken.

Maar he, ik moet niet zo zeiken. Ik heb een douche met warm water, schone handdoeken, twee bedden zodat ik de minst krakende kan kiezen, een koelkast met een fles ijskoud water, een mooi terras beschut met grote olijfbomen, en een stuk of tien lieve katten en een stuk of honderd muggen als gezelschap.

De tweede avond

De hitte, de zengende hitte, het zweten, of vooral het continue klamme gevoel op mijn rug, nek, armen, gezicht, oksels, kruis. Ik neem het voor lief. Duizend tjirpende krekels. De vijgenboom zonder vijgen, de grote boom met vlierbessen, die met limoenen in de voortuin naast die andere met die diepdonkergroene bladeren en vruchten die we niet kennen. De veranda bovenaan de trap die naar de grote houten voordeur leid die piept als je hem opent.

Dit zijn van die dingen waarover je zou zeggen als je het over 10 jaar zou doen, “goh, ik wou dat ik dit 10 jaar geleden had gedaan.”

Tomorrow is my birthday, but I ain’t busy with that at all. A birthday is just one of those obligatory formalities that have to be managed and sat through. Though I very much like parties and very long diners with lots of wine, good food, good company, and good talks. But I don’t like those occasions to be forced upon me. It ruins the spontaneity. I want to throw a party whenever I feel to. The birthday reminders I now have are the early happy birthday wishes from my old aunts (which I still appreciate very much though).

I lost track of my story… again. I started this “cold water” post already five times before. Alright, where was I? I don’t like birthdays or something. No, about me being busy with other things… I am not busy with my birthday because my mind has other occupations. I am nervous. Nervous for the journey I’ve long been dreaming about. The internship I’ve always wanted. The work I always wanted to do. It is the book I always wanted to read. The story that I want to read first-handed. I actually want to be able to write the story. Write the story I wanted to read. Man, the less days there are left to the departure, the more freaking nervous I am becoming. The closer I am to the water, the colder it seems.

Wednesday is the day of departure, calling it Saturday today. Then I’ll be flying to Greece, to the island Lesbos. I am going to work as a volunteer on the refugee camp. What can I expect? Other than that I’ll be working as a support crew member in the medical/psychosocial mission of this organisation. I have heard and read all the available information. But still, how can I form a realistic expectation about something that is incomparable to anything I have experienced before? I am reading and reading, packing and unpacking. Check, check, double check. And still I have the dominant feeling that I am completely unprepared when I arrive there.

It is not the first time that I do something that is initially far outside my comfort zone, or far away from my usual experiences. Hence, too large to create an overview about or even to plan. The general plan I usually follow in those situations is to mainly neglect the things I can’t understand or comprehend. And to prioritise. I look at the first tiny steps, and manage those. So that is about five or ten procent of the whole journey. For this journey this five to ten procent contains the first level of administration, forms, contracts, plane tickets, sleep accomodation, physical and mental preparation and training (i.e. to be in good shape), and luggage. I don’t know how to prepare for the rest, as I don’t know about the rest. I try to think about it, but I am by far not sure how it really is. And of course it is possible that the ten procent I prepare, turns out to be fifty (or even two) procent when I evaluate the journey. I don’t know. For now I can only do this. And when the journey is at ten procent I will improvise and prepare for the next ten procent, and so forth.

So my general plan is to prepare what I can prepare and improvise the rest.

For now I wish for the best. I hope I am as prepared as I can be, that I can be of good use or even mean something to the people over there, that I am able to cope with the unexpected or unpredictable other 90 procent of this upcoming journey, …

and, that the water isn’t too cold.

This is the first time I’m having a real blog. I’ve kept a diary for a couple of years already though, but I’ve never really shared any of my notes. I’ve always thought and dreamed about sharing some notes or thoughts. I just never dared to take the step.

The only way of going somewhere is by starting with a single step. Every kilometer starts with one meter.

I can’t plan what I’ve never done before. So the only way to do it is by just starting it. And from that point improvising I guess. And I quite like to improvise. Just eyes closed jumping in a new project and then seeing how it develops. I love new experiences. The experience of something new to learn, to read or to taste. I still remember the first time I drank red wine. It was in Spain with friends I met on the way. Or the first time I tasted those bright green delicious olives. Hmm, I loved it. The same journey. The same way. My life-changing pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostella. I can promise you I’ll write much more about that journey in future blogs.

So much to write, so much to think, to do, to dream, to taste. And I want to do all of it.

I will write. But I won’t plan. I just do. And improvise.

Open for input.