One might think gearing up for goodbye gets easier after watching 6 creatures from my comfort zone return to
it one by one… but one would be wrong.
As it turns out, forging somewhat
indefinite farewells to the people I’ve happily lived on top of for the past two
months remains a pretty emotional feat.
I know, right? Go figure.
I’m sure a nostalgic urge to cry isn’t
exactly the reaction Calvin Harris intended when he released ‘Summer’ – but
I’ll admit, it’s a small price to pay.
With the pleasure of prime company - I’ve
flown, trekked, trained, yachted, shimmied, disastrously dived, scootered
(almost successfully) and, at times, stumbled my way through 9 countries and 17
cities in the past 9 weeks.
From bongo-drummed street dancing to make
the most of a belated bull-run effort, to group fender-skiing (also aptly described
as near-drowning) between Croatian islands in The Adriatic, to gut-guided
taste tours through Budapest and Barcelona (cheers, TripAdvisor)… It’s safe to
say that no bucket list itch has been left unscratched.
For now, my travel train is chilling at a yellow light and gearing up for the second instalment, as I attempt to regain a sense of responsibility and lay some ground work in the city i'll soon call home.
On the agenda awaits a weekend in Spain, followed
by a road trip along the coastline through Portugal and into Morocco... Because reality is totally overrated, anyway. I'd hate to be rude and rush it.
Teaser: said road trip may involve a night or two in a Yurt - (a traditional home of nomadic Mongolians made out of yak hair, obvs) - but I think that bad boy warrants an entry entirely of his own.
Until then x
