Study abroad wasn't about the people for me. I didn't make too many friends on my trip because I was more into adapting to the culture than having it adapt to me.
Study abroad wasn't even about the places for me. There was no real satisfaction to be found in putting another tack on a map or wrapping up another flight itinerary on Expedia.
It was the jangles from the gypsy's accordion on the tram to school. It was picking a strand of lilacs from a churchyard because they smelled good and looked beautiful tucked behind the mirror in my bedroom. It was bile rising in my throat in the medical experiments room at a Berliner concentration camp. It was champagne fizzling in my throat with my neck cast back to better ogle the Moulin Rouge dancers. It was a cigarette on a Spanish night bus. It was pasta so rich and delicate it kind of turned me on. It was fear and love and passion and sex and heat and my fingers on marble and canal water lapping at my heels and unwashed hair and burning.
What to do now that I know just a little bit more of what is out there for me to clutch onto with my fingernails and ravage?
Strangely, coming home has been alright, because my body was tired and sometimes I need traffic to stop at a stoplight because that is the law.
But this whole generic predictable unpaid internship downtown blah Google blah El rides blah notepads thing is going to kill me slowly. So I might as well do something productive with my nights in my room surrounded by album covers and dusty books.
I've gotta write my own to pledge my allegiance to exploration and unbridled cravings for new territory. Besides, I've already picked out the title.
Roam.
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