Move Over, Elizabeth Gilbert!
So, I know what y'all are thinking... How in the hell will two best friends pull off a backpacking trip to Europe this summer? They must be trust fund babies. Or their employers are funding it. Or they have sugar daddies. *Cue maniacal laughter.*
Answer: Groupon, one year of planning/saving, and desperation.
Let's focus on the latter.
Turns out, the life I planned didn't happen. And I don't care. Well, I do, of course. We all keep on keepin' on. But when you rack up heart attack-level student debt, move into an apartment with your short-legged, squirrel-hunting dog, and adjust to the single life as a non-tenured, lowly "academic," who is a writer who teaches, or a teacher who writes. Or you're not a writer at all because you don't have a book published. Or whatever label "others" give you, you make rash decisions--like applying for a writing residency to become an Artist in Residence in Noepoli, Italy--a program that you know you have no shot at (Behold, the magic of Pinot Noir).
But then you receive the acceptance letter. And you call your best friend. And you speculate about ways to turn down the offer because there's no way you can possibly teach for three universities (all in adjunct/short-term contract, capacity) and just take off across the world to pursue art. You know? The kind that gives you joy (some days), headaches (most days), and a chance to dream (every day).
And, then what about your dog? Thank God for brothers...
But... One month later your best friend is also accepted into said residency. What are the odds?
*Cue fist pumping via Skype*
I'm terrified. Ms. Always-Has-A-Back-up-Plan is freaking out a little. Okay, a lot. We'll live out of backpacks this summer. We'll stay in a hostel or two--and maybe a monestary. Who knows? Some of the trip is planned. Other parts aren't. Which brings me back to the "desperation" theme. Sometimes you have to leave everything you know behind. I mean, everything. So, when you pack all your worldly goods (mostly books by children's book authors) into a 10x15 storage unit without a clue where you'll live come fall--hives are bound to happen.
They're healing. *Sorry, TMI*
Anyway, I can only speak for myself in these blog posts. This trip is necessary. I know. You're probably thinking: "Geez, take a Xanax, suck it up or make an appt. to talk with a shrink..."
Sometimes, though, when you give yourself--the whole of your heart, actually--to 157 students, your recent divorce, your squirrel-chasing dog, and to novels that you have no clue if anyone in their right mind will ever like. Or accept. Or laugh at. Or call you out as a "fraud." Sometimes, you have to take a chance. Sometimes, you have to live. And, sometimes, that means, you stuff a backpack full of works by Roald Dahl, turquoise heels, and mini-laundry detergent sheets (yeah, they exist).
But, don't mix us up with Elizabeth Gilbert (though she seems like a sweet lady and all...). Ours is an Eat Play Write trip. You won't know our itinerary--mostly because we don't know half of it either. But, follow us. I can't promise anything other than you'll experience two friends who will take their lives back.
So, join us. Jyoti will vlog. I'll blog. Let the fun (and tension/conflict/clothes stealing--from each other--not from Parisian boutiques) commence!