It was a hobbit-hole, and that meant comfort.

I would not have agreed to go, had I realized that we would actually go.

There. I wrote it. In the 'sphere. There's a record.

About seven months ago I called my undergraduate advisor, Andrea, with whom I am still friends. She mentioned that she was heading to China with Dave (her husband), to adopt their fourth child from the PRC. She is taking the other, pre-adolescent children with her, she tells me. Do I want to come along to help keep track of them?

Sure. Sure I would, says I. When are we going?

December. After finals. That is when we are to leave. But that trip falls through, as I thought it would. And a similar plan existed for May, right after finals. But by the end of April, I knew we weren't going to China, so I didn't worry about agreeing to a similar plan for June.

Because we weren't going to China in June. This trip was like waiting for Godot. It just wasn't going to happen.

But then it was May and a plan came together and the next thing I know we have tickets to fly from Columbus to Newark to Hong Kong. So the trip shall happen. The trip shall happen tomorrow.

Oops.

I am, at my core, a Hobbit. Adventures are dirty, nasty things. They make you late for dinner. I like the idea of having gone on an adventure, I like talking about the adventure I am about to go on, but I do not like going on adventures.

There had better be some damn fine stories that come out of this, or I shall be sorely disappointed.