To measure the time remaining in days feels almost like a prison sentence, but tracking it in Sundays transforms it into a series of manageable weekly milestones. Instead of a daunting countdown, each Sunday becomes a tangible instalment, marking progress towards a significant change.
I have sixteen Sundays left. That’s sixteen mornings where I need to get up and behave like a well-adjusted member of society, fulfilling all the expectations that come with it.
Until the big day arrives, logistics dominate Sundays, searching for cheap flights as if I’m a contestant on a game show called Where Can You Go If You’re Not Rich. Each week brings a fresh round of searching, hoping to snag a deal that will make a memorable escape possible.
My fiftieth birthday is approaching, and I want to celebrate it somewhere special, somewhere outside Darwin, not in the fluorescent limbo of a dealership, nor in the comfort of my lounge room.
Bali is the obvious option: it’s close, affordable, and familiar. Ba Na Hills in Vietnam, with its quirky French village vibe, has an offbeat appeal that’s grown on me; plus, I can never resist a good bowl of Pho. Or sip my way through the red wine peninsula of the Balkans.
The plan is straightforward: travel like Anthony Bourdain, eat whatever is served, say yes more often than not, and capture it all with my Fujifilm camera, documenting each moment with the dedication of a war correspondent.
For now, the countdown continues, each Sunday marking the passage of time.
I’ve been rewatching Parts Unknown, and it’s convinced me that the answer to most problems lies in the sharp, bitter precision of a Negroni. The cocktail bar opens at 6, and that ritual offers a brief respite from the countdown.
