Just a thought.

In two weeks, I step on my flight to London. Two weeks. 14 days. March 27.

That's surprisingly hard to grasp. I've wanted to go to London ever since I was a little boy, when my father brought back a flag from the UK after going on a business trip. The flag used to hang over my bed.

I've tried to go to Europe before. When I was in the Atlanta Boy Choir, I was too young to go, then it was too expensive for me to go.

Then, when my high school arranged a trip to Europe, I signed up to go, but, unfortunately, no other boys signed up to go, and the teacher thought I was a bad seed. So she gave me my deposit back.

And in college, the guy I had the most fun dating - the one I loved the most - was my penpal from Wales who came over to Athens for two weeks only, which I've often described to people as the best two weeks of my entire life. I was going to visit him, but that fell apart - as long-distance romances often do.

So, two weeks before my trip, I'm willing to finally accept that I am going to London. I have my plane tickets. I have my passport. I know where I'm staying. I know when I'm coming back. It's tangible. It's real. I can keep my hopes because this is happening. It's really, really happening.

I am really, really looking forward to it. I don't have plans. I think I'll wander around the city most days just amazed that I'm there. Really there.

I've not allowed myself to accept that yet. But it's real.