I’ve been back in the US for almost a month now and I still need to post about my month-long excursion to Europe, but I just can’t sum up the courage to look through my hurried chicken scratch. Yes, I filled up memory cards and notebooks and iPods with photos and thoughts, but I find it hard to just sit and gather them in an orderly manner. 

What the Hell have I been doing then? Reading. Seriously. I was glad to get back to my home because I had so many books that were waiting to be consumed. I’ve also been attempting to teach myself Spanish and get ready for graduate school. Exciting shit. 

I’ve gotten to hang out with a few friends from my undergrad days, but I feel odd talking to them. They want me to talk about my trip, but I can’t find words to describe most of it. I can’t even tell them “my favorite part.” How does one compare the awe of standing in from of the Colosseum to having my first sip of Pimm’s on a warm Welsh day? The Mona Lisa to playing in a Medieval Castle?  I miss the daily insanity and hustle of wandering a new city almost every day. I always knew I wanted to spend my life traveling, living out of one bag and this trip has just confirmed my suspicions. I don’t think I was made to stay in one place for very long. 

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