Thu June 10th: Win some, lose some

All this work week has been surreal. The word of my sabbatical spread fast and colleagues I normally just “Hi” and “Bye” came up to me, asking where it is exactly that I’m going. Coffee breaks, walks to the printer, or just the occasional canteen encounter: all were deemed well enough an excuse to grab the overly busy big guy (me) by the arm and demand a detailed account of this trip’s destinations, or the progress of its planning. No worries: Everyone can be my paparazzi; I’m an equal opportunity chatterbox. I really get the feeling that the vibe of this trip is getting to my colleagues too, this feeling of “Wow, this guy actually managed to leave this place behind for a while, for bigger and bolder adventures”, so there’s hope! And that’s what it is, really.

This last day at work was exactly as hectic as I expected. Actually it was worse. I had planned to dedicate the morning to finish off one documentation project, then concentrate on sorting out a second one in the afternoon for a clean handover to my colleague Sonia. I’d be home around 8PM to join in on the frenetic packing exercise and in time to finish preparing the house for our long holiday break. The day flew by like a concord, mainly because there seemed to come no end to last-minute updates. At 5PM I still hadn’t got to my second project, so I knew I was in for another long night. Around 10 PM the worst that could happen became reality: the system decided to boycott our delicate friendship and simply locked and refused to let me do anything anymore. All the late-night efforts of the last months, desperately trying to make something of this documentation project under undue pressure seemed in vein. A prime example of the classic almost-made-it-to-the-finish-then-burst-into-flames scenario that can put any stressed out IT-guy to tears. With no one around to fix the database, I knew I was screwed, I knew I had to let go. Worse, I knew I had to involve other people to fix this mess. What a bullshit system!

It would turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I had plenty left to do before our departure by train on Friday afternoon and trains don’t wait. So I jumped into my car and made it home just before cars turn into pumpkins. “Pumpkin” isn’t the right word, but close enough to “lemon”: my little blue passion wagon is about to round the treacherous cape of 220,000KM and every day I make it home safe is a day of relief.
I threw open the door, only to find the house deserted. Was it a trick from Blandine? Had her patience with my coming home extremely late over the last few weeks worn so thin that it had exploded in my face? With a matter of hours to go and with luggage in dire need of packing, a house in need of last-minute cleaning, bills in need of paying, a garden requiring some tending, and - most of all – my woman deserving some companionship, I considered the worst. I was witnessing a second crash landing right before the finish line. Hang on, she had called me around 9PM at work, to say she was going to quickly hop over to Brussels, to drop off the remainder of the gifts for the kids in Cambodia at her good friend Roberta’s, who would arrange to get the goods to Paris by mid-July. Not a trace of anger in Blandine’s voice. Or was it faked? That was 3 hours ago. Shouldn’t she have been the stressed out person I know her to be right before we set off on a trip? Was it an elaborate plan to make me feel as left alone as I had done to her over the last weeks?  I called her GSM, but it jumped on answering machine right away. Yes, she had grabbed her backpack along with all the other things she needed to go on this trip, had negotiated to stay overnight with Roberta. She would cross the threshold of our house in the morning, all packed and ready to go and, and in a defiant and self-assured voice she would say “There! That should teach you how I felt the last two weeks while you were supposed to help me prepare for this trip. Ha!” And she’d be totally in her right to say that. Fuck. I shouldn’t try to call her again; she would probably laugh her head off each time my number flashed up on her GSM. And then, to my great relief I spotted her passport.

Dead-tired and emotionally still worked up from the messy finish at work, I made my way to the fridge. Food would bring solace.  I jerked the fridge door open with Pavlovian determination, and stared into an almost empty fridge. How could I forget time and time again that over the last week we’ve purposely been emptying it, so we could unplug it during our sabbatical? Like Willie Wonka in front of a chocolate store, I considered my options: a quick run over to the local frites stand? Or should I lower my culinary standards just once, to stick a spongy sandwich from the Mechelen MacDonald’s behind my molars? Just then a shiny package at the bottom shelf of the fridge hit my eyes: pork pies, the only food item left from last week’s goodbye party. Hallelujah!

After a whirlwind dinner, I used my last energy to get up and start a frantic cleaning frenzy. Had to be done. About a half hour into it, coming back from putting the garden furniture in the shed, I noticed movement in the house: it was Blandine, a pleasant surprise lighting up her face as she noticed a cleaned kitchen and a tidied living room. Hallelujah again.