I’m sitting at my desk late at night, entirely restless and not really knowing what to do with myself. In front of me there is a scattered pile of postcards; Florence, Colmar, Berlin, Frankfurt, they read. On the floor in the corner of the room is a bag filled with the most disgustingly delicious European chocolate you’ll ever taste. I look down at myself and see a few stubborn extra pounds that weren’t there a few months ago. It must’ve been that daily fare of beer and bratwurst.
I went, and now I’m back.
After my beautiful, mind-altering summer in Europe, I feel different and better; relaxed but somehow always in a state of waiting. Perhaps this restlessness is some sort of subconscious, permanent jet lag, a defense mechanism designed to fight whatever it is that makes the most vivid memories in life fade, and the feelings associated with them dull.
Let’s rewind to an evening that marked the halfway point in my small ‘journey.’ One Saturday night three weeks into my trip, four classmates and I were walking on the artistic streets of Florence, Italy, fiercely guarding our purses against inevitable pickpockets in the near vicinity. Despite the unique and very Italian experiences of that day
Filed Under: Features