What?

How can it be that I’m bored with my travel story?  This makes no sense.  I was outrageously excited to be there and had an exceptionally good time for a lot of the time.  Concern about my mother dominated a lot of the actual time there but it was beautiful and different and I like both beautiful AND different.

I live in a largely flat city by a big lake. It doesn’t look like this ’round my way.

So why am I stalled in writing about it?  I know that there are some amazing experiences coming up in my story.

I’m pretty sure I’ve expressed the undercurrent of anxiety … but there’s more.  There was the flight … but then there was the first night in Edinburgh when I couldn’t sleep because I was practically paralysed with anxiety: literally crippling anxiety.  My muscles were tensing in waves throughout my body, starting in my feet and all the way up to my neck:  one muscle group would contract and only release when  the next group tensed up.  All night.  And again the following night but only for a couple of hours.  There was my mother being so carsick and sore en route to our happy western highland hideaway … but there was also the thing she said to me in Inverness which I can’t even repeat.  Suffice to say, it was not directed at me and it was not happy.

I love my mother but I really enjoyed my time abroad after she went home.