It's been a marathon of goodbyes, this last week has. I can be much given to the sentimental, and I spent the last 14 days or so thinking, "This is my last walk in Trafalgar" (except I never go to Trafalgar), or "This is the last time I'll go grocery shopping in Hampstead," or "This is the last time I'll walk home past midnight and miss the H2." What is it about the mundane that makes me a weeping sap of a girl? No idea.
Of course, what struck me most about my life in London were the people I met. I have a feeling
Derek will do better justice to the last night our program met than I will, but suffice it to say the evening was hilarious, decadent (I had mussels, escargot, shrimp, lobster, scallops, sea bass, whitebait, frites, rock crab, and two really amazing mojitos), and -- on occasion -- utterly American. I left earliest to catch the Tube and understood the party raged beyond everyone's proper bedtime. The next day, I said farewell to Daniel and Sophie (cue the shout-out to
Sophie!) of
A19 fame and hurried home for a late but delicious dinner with Caroline, Darius, and Natalya, aged thirty-something, 8, and 6, respectively.
The next morning found me in Brussels, unearthing the third key to Bryan's oft-attacked apartment and taking a much needed rest. He, being pretty much the kind of guy you'd really want to date were I not already doing so, had left a series of food-and-drink-related comparisons expostulating on the merits of our relationship. Lentils, grapefruit, and the largest bottle of tequila I've ever seen starred in this dramatic retelling of all things Us, as did a roll of toilet paper. Choked with emotion, I extended my ticket home to May 27, rounded up a ride back from JFK from Aimee, and promptly forgot to make the Rod Stewart mix that was to accompany our drive in Ireland. That evening, we flew out of Charleroi for Shannon, Ireland, unintentionally accompanied by his HR manager who made the timely announcement that he'd been granted an extra week of vacation for the year. After another night near Killorglin spent shivering in the car, we climbed
Carrantouhill, Ireland's tallest mountain. It was great fun, albeit exhausting, and seven hours later we had our first mishap as I slid down--well, a bump, really--for no good reason of all and into a pile of droppings kindly left by the sheep that mocked our human laboring over the rocks they climbed so easily. We set up camp that night near Killarney and tucked in just before the rain began to fall, spent a leisurely day in one of the many national parks we'd driven through on our previous trip, finding fabulous places to eat along the way. Chinese food in Ireland, you say? Aye, and 'twas delish! Other highlights: waking up while floating on an airmat, not showering, getting all consumer-y in Killarney, my sympathetic boyfriend on someone else's girlfriend issues: "Oh, did she love to shop?", bluebells, allergies amock, the desolate quiet of higher places.
In a moment, I'll go throw in the millionth load of laundry we have from the weekend, set up for dinner (stuffed tomatoes with sausage, sundried tomato and bacon risotto, garlic bread, and absolutely nothing healthy), and try to screw my head on straight. Between planning an impromptu vacation next week (the lot is tied between Cairo, Italy, and Athens) and looking on to the future months, I'd say the summer is shaping up to be its own kind of wonderful.
