A couple of months ago Jason and I were discussing possible summer travel plans. Sometime after ruling out Morocco but before Canada came up Jason said, "Why don't you come out here?"
"What?" I asked.
"Come to DC; you can stay with me. You can go to museums or read or whatever you want during the day and we can do things together on the weekends."
How could I possibly turn that down? We batted around dates for a while inbetween saying things like "Ooh! Harry Potter! We can go see that together!" or "I went to another restaurant we should try when you get out here," or "We should sign up for this!" We knew we wanted to do a roadtrip somewhere sometime since Jason deserves a vacation, too. Between Jason moving to a new apartment, Craig coming out to Colorado in July, and other things we both want to do, the length of my stay both fluctuated and grew.
When we finally established a rough timeline I pulled up some possible flight itineraries. And then I found one that worked. And then I saw the "Length of Trip: 42 Days" part. And then I canceled the sale.
42 days is a really long time. I mean, we've known each other for 12 years, we've visited each other and traveled together a lot in that time and I know we get along really well.
But still! 42 days!
I sent another email to Jason to make sure he really was up for having a roommate for that long (He is!), then I squished my fears of being the guest who incredibly overstays her welcome and took the plunge: I bought my plane ticket last night.
I'm really excited. I love having specific travels in my future. Now when high schoolers are whining at me I silently remind myself that I get to live in DC for six weeks this summer and read and go to museums and do whatever I want.
Six weeks. Holy crap.