Even with the clean bill of health from my doctor, it doesn’t feel real. Even with the airplane tickets, the hostel reservation confirmation form, the passport, and the rail pass on its way, none of it feels real. The fact that one week from tomorrow, I’m flying overseas to spend a month in Europe, it just doesn’t feel at all real.

It doesn’t feel real that I’ll be taking a full month off from work — my first real vacation in over five years. Jennifer and my boss conspired to give me this time off so that I could go on this trip which I’ve dreamed of for years, ever since I took a thirteen-hour train ride to Simi Valley to visit a composer friend of mine who was conducting a concert of his own music.

Sitting here, in the office of this, our new house, which we’ve seen grow from a mere patch of weeds to the beautiful home that it is now, it doesn’t feel real to know that when I leave, I’ll have only been in this house for three weeks. Jennifer said that the house didn’t really feel real to her until we’d spent a couple of nights in it; the house is real to me, but the trip still isn’t.

I’ve planned this trip out; I’ve made my hotel reservations for the first couple of nights, I’ve gone through the guidebooks (I still haven’t finalized my itinerary), I’ve got my Eurail pass and my airline tickets. I’ve gotten fresh prescriptions for all my medications. Jennifer bought me a backpack, and I’ve started a list of things to take with me — I’m still debating with myself on whether I’ll be bringing my Palm Pilot. I’ve made arrangements to meet an old friend of mine in Dublin in front of Trinity College.

But none of it feels real to me.

Less than an hour ago I went to the bank and picked up the IE£85.00 that I’d ordered so that I’ll have some spending cash with me when I arrive in Dublin. Irish currency is colorful and attractive, a lot more interesting than American currency. It looks something like play money, but the fact that it is worn and wrinkled convinces me that perhaps it is honest cash after all.

On her way home from work, Jennifer stopped at a produce stand and bought two bags of English peas. This things are huge! Monstrous! They’re as long and thick as my finger, and break open with an audible *snapping* sound; and inside are the peas themselves, sometimes as big as marbles, sometimes as small as pencil points, and all of them sweet and delicious. I’m sitting at my computer, writing this, seated next to the woman I love and who still surprises and amazes me on a daily basis, and eating English peas by the handful.

That is what feels real to me right now.