This morning I woke up, sweating, with my headphones tangled around my waist. Iron and Wine was still playing on my iPod. I could tell my fever had broken and I was feeling better than I had yesterday, having spent the entire day in bed.
Yesterday my dad called to tell me they have a new line of Range Rovers available. This is typical of my father and only made me more homesick. I miss him a lot. It's funny. I'm more homesick knowing that I'll be coming back in three weeks. The days are so slow. But I know as soon as I'm at home, bored, I'll reminisce about drinking beers in Southern France, traveling every weekend, and eating baguettes and cheese with my host family.
But the first thing I'm doing when I get home? I'm going to demand my family take me to Lusara's Mexican restaurant for some nachos. Then I'm gonna go home and sleep soundly next to my boyfriend in my purple room with the Eiffel Tower mural. We've both seen it now.
I still can't believe I'm going home so soon. 19 days? It seems incorrect. That can't possibly be right. But the calendar isn't lying. Holy shit. How do I say goodbye?