The day before: packing, anxiety, and saying goodbye to mom

I woke up earlier than planned this morning, despite setting no alarm. My body seems to know what's ahead - tomorrow at this time I'll be at the airport, waiting for my flight to Amsterdam.

The cloudy skies outside my window match my slightly anxious mood. I've spent the morning triple-checking my packing list and reorganizing my backpack for what must be the seventh time. Each item gets questioned: "Will I really need this for the next 494 days?" The answer is usually no, and my pile of discarded items grows by the hour.

I've managed to whittle my life down to 65 liters. It's strange how liberating and terrifying that feels simultaneously.

My visit to mom is scheduled for 2pm. I arrived at 1:50, of course, and spent ten minutes sitting in the car outside her apartment building, watching raindrops race down the windshield. When I finally went up, she had made my favorite cardamom buns. The apartment smelled exactly as it has since I was a child.

"Are you sure about this trip?" she asked several times. At 89, she worries, though she tries not to show it. I assured her I'd call regularly and that her neighbor Kari would help with any technical issues. We spent three hours looking through old photo albums - not what I had planned for today, but somehow exactly what I needed.

I showed her how to use the video calling app again, patiently demonstrating where to press and how to answer incoming calls. She pretended to understand, but I know I'll have to walk her through it again next week. It's our little ritual.

"You've always been restless," she said as I was leaving. "Even as a little boy. Always looking at the horizon." I hadn't thought about it that way before.

I hugged her goodbye longer than usual. We both pretended it was just a normal visit, but the weight of 494 days of separation hung in the air between us.

Back home, I'm now sitting with my almost-packed backpack, the contents spread across the living room floor one final time. The apartment feels different somehow - like it's already preparing for my absence.

The reality is setting in: tomorrow I leave. For almost 500 days. The enormity of what I'm doing hits me in waves. Am I crazy for doing this? Is 50 too old to be backpacking around the world? What exactly am I hoping to find?

I don't have answers yet. Maybe that's the point of going.

One more sleep in my own bed. One more Norwegian morning. Then... everything changes.

496 days until I turn 51. 494 days of unknown ahead.