"When good Americans die, they go to Paris." - Oscar Wilde

Monday, May 2, 2011

Spring Break in a Paragraph

I can't tell you about Spring Break. I can't tell you how happy I am to not be riding ill-fated ferries in the Mediterranean or how I loved jumping the turn-styles in the Paris metro with my boyfriend. I can't tell you how friendly the Greeks were, how delicious the food was, but how sick it made me feel. I can't describe how beautiful Santorini was, how every sight sucked the breath from my lungs. I can't express the awe I felt attending late-night mass on Easter in Greece, how the city lit up with candles and dynamite exploded in the street. How comforting it was to sit on a heated porch and drink the most incredible wine and eat roasted lamb, potatoes, salad, and feta until 3 AM. I can't explain the exhilaration of riding on the back of a moped through Athens. But let me say how happy I am to be out of that dirty city, where protesters followed us with spray paint and scrawled FUCK USA on the sides of buildings. I can't tell you how my trip to Paris with Dylan was the best time of my life or how I loved seeing him run toward me in the CDG airport. I can't tell you how much I missed my mother's voice or her enthusiasm. I can't say how I cried on the train from Paris because I missed Dylan so much and I couldn't fathom another month away from him. I can't tell you how much I loved being back in Angers, to ride my bike under blue skies after leaving the Parisian rain. I can't say how excited I was to eat dinner with my host sister, to go to class with the internationals, and to drink coffee with my friends and our favorite café. I can't tell you. Oh, wait...I just did.

Oia in Santorini, Greece

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