"I'm not even excited about leaving tomorrow," I told Mom.

I held my itinerary loosely. Forty-five minute layover in Amsterdam. Land in Geneva about two hours later. Take a train. A taxi. Make a phone call. At my newest Home less than twenty-four hours after leaving this one.

"Don't you feel like you've lost your footing?" someone asked me three weeks ago, days before my last trip.

"No. I love traveling," I said. "It's like perpetual New Year's," I said. Remember? I've reminded myself often these few days between flights.

I'm looking forward to the plane ride, to leaving behind the responsibilities that stick to me. I feel like a lint roller sometimes, unable to let go of the smallest task.

Mom gave me sound advice, like she always does. Helped me see past the cloud of unpacking and repacking, of moving in and out. The simple, practical advice that eludes me so often. She's traveled more often than I have--younger than I am and carrying more responsibility than I do.

"I always pack too many shirts, too" and "you won't have a difficult time."

Just to remind myself, to make it more real: I'm going to Switzerland. Will be studying current events. Will be living with an international assortment of people. Will be challenged academically.

On top of the latest transition are the memories from the last two weeks burned in my eyes and against my hand and cheek. Memories that will not be cooled by all the water of the Atlantic.