The Journey

Sitting in Paris’ Charles de Gaulle airport I have officially embarked on my lengthy trip to China. After a quick return from a birthday beach break I have made elderly relatives, and the not-so elderly weep and worry and have set off with an enormous pink suitcase and a back pack that threatens to send me over backwards every time I put it on.
I find myself in the city of love, waiting for my flight to Hong Kong seemingly surrounded by what I’m sure I will soon find out not to be, the majority of the Chinese population. I sit wiping pain au chocolate crumbs from my shirt and wondering what on earth would convince the guy opposite to purchase a novelty t-shirt where the Eiffel tower is wearing a beret and holding a baguette. I kinda want one.

For the past few weeks I have answered the common question “aren’t you scared?” with a considered nonchalance that I felt suitably conveyed the cool and collected world-ready and cosmopolitan traveller that I felt myself to be. And I genuinely wasn’t scared, at all. Until last night, when I laid in bed barely able to breathe thinking “honestly, what the f*** have I done?” I freaked out, badly. I had to be tempted downstairs and away from my tightly stuffed case with the odd culinary mix of black Russians with sausage and mash just to stop myself from throwing away all my clothes and filling my case with books, pillows and nostalgic cuddly toys. Would I really need a large fleece tiger print onesy in China? I was asked, OK probably not.

Later . . . . .

Finally arrived in Wuhan a mere 25 and a half hours after i set off from home. I was happy to be welcomed into my new flat with a Mcdonalds and the chance to get a bath and sleep.
I managed not to get lost or get on the wrong plane so I'm actually pretty happy with that, the new room is pretty nice & reminds me of halls, I’m hoping to recreate freshers as much as possible.
I just need to unpack now, then tomorrow is my first lesson.