The Last Day

Don't make me go home. Really. I'm going home tomorrow. Dreading getting on that plane. Dreading the whole rush/run/stamp/hurry thing.

Today is either Pere La Chaise cemetary or the Louvre again or maybe both. My first visit to the Louvre was so overwhelming, I think I need another day. I didn't even see the Vermeers.

I drank orange juice out of a coffee cup this morning. Current score. America: 1. France: 0.

I realize now that these blogs must seem so scattered to you, like I'm running around Paris like a crazy person. It's been hard for me to say it all, to begin to say it all. These entries are just the skeleton of this trip, the vague, rushed, early-evening or -morning ramblings that happen to be sitting on my tongue while I'm at the hostel or before bed. It's not really what's happening here. I'll write more when I get home, when I can sit with my iBook and just let the words happen.

For now, it's too real to fully capture. It has been more fun to do it than to write it.

One part of this trip that has met expectations: I'm going to want to travel all the time now. I'm already imagining Italy and Greece next year and India and Japan and Argentina. I had always thought that only rich people did this. No one here is rich. Far from it. By here, I mean the hostel. And not everyone is young. They are old, young, and in between. Mostly they're just curious.

As a side note, I've met very, very few Americans this week. Lots of Canadians and Aussies and Brits, but Americans are scarce. It made me wonder. Are Americans reluctant to go to France, or is there just too much to see at home first? Home is lovely, don't get me wrong, but there is more to the world than America.

Part of me is ready to come home. I'm missing some very unabashedly American things. Like my Mom. And Rockapella.

I'm off for today...

And then some and then some and then some...