In which I question it all but am too tired to find answers

So here it is: my first blog (that is not obsurely linked to a UNICEF theme). I warn you in advance that this may be an exercise in self indulgence but I also figured it´d be the easiest way to keep anyone that is interested up to date.

I left London with an all too familiar sinking feeling that once again I am walking away from happiness and a great life for no other reason than this weird impulse I have to keep moving.

I don´t know what started this restlessness, it may have been my over imaginative childhood games set in the darkest regions of the rainforest, it may have been the tantalisng glimpses of other cultures from the books I buried myself in,or it may have been a natural reaction to growing up in a town where nothing ever happens... the constant desire to escape.

So for whatever reason there I was sat in the back of a taxi at 5.30am making small talk to the driver about IRA bike-bombs while trying to repress my stomach´s screams that I am an idiot and am throwing everything away. Still, I reminded myself, this is exactly how I had felt before Spain and Chile and they worked out brilliantly- plus I have the best possible friends who have proven themselves to be infinitely patient over the years. No going back now, I didn´t have enough for the taxi fare.

The flights were full of fairly bad movies but ok food (I don´t know what the comedians are complaining about, but then my meals were seasoned by a little smugness that as a veggie I got served before everyone else. And yes I realise that it is pretty lame that this made me feel special, but it´s the nearest I got to first class after Hannah pointed out that my plan to get bumped up to business by pretending it was my birthday was inherently flawed by the fact I would be handing over my passport at the same time. It is logic like this that makes Hannah a doctor and me, me. (Plus I was essentially wearing my pyjamas- not my most business-class look, although, actaully, they possible are.)

I´d been told 101 horror stories about US customs but they were fine really, to be honest they could have said I was going straight to Guantanamo because in that brilliant Dallas accent anything sounds great. I looked around to find some typical US grub but the place was full of Irish pubs. Managed to resist the Guinness and carried on to San Jose.

I arrived into the capital at 8.45pm which was about 3am UK time (my super-magic ability to sleep anywhere finally met its match in American Airlines seats which were so cramped I actually ripped my trousers/ pj bottoms getting out of them!) Reunited my aching arms with my 3 huge bags and dragged myself off to a taxi.

My sleep-deprived brain could just about make out San Jose, a blur of star-like lights, dark hills and neon signs for McDonalds. Hostel seemed nice with outdoor pool and hammocks. Had a little chat with a girl who was about to do an internship studying frogs in Panama for 6 months, though at this point I might have just hallucinated all of that. There´d be time to explore the city the next day, right then, after 24 hours of travelling and enough crap movies to permanently damage my brain, all I needed was sleep. Need sleep, must sleep, ahhh.

Lessons learnt:

Getting your entire life in possesions form through Kings Cross and onto the Picadilly line is about as fun as you´d imagine.

Listening to The Tallest Man on Earth in Dallas definitely makes you feel more like a cowboy (The Gardener is a good one to have a private ho-down too while in the immigration queue. Though too much line dancing could affect your chances of getting through. (Villagers also got me through some streeful flight moments- The Pact cannot fail to make you feel good, even in bad turbulence)

Little two-years olds, as entertaining as they might be for 10 mins, are not the best people to be sat next to on long-haul flights.