I think when I returned from spring break in London everything was a haze, a whirlwind, and I didn’t really know what had happened. I want to say the week hadn’t seemed real, but I think it was something more than that. It’s like I couldn’t remember how I felt or what it was like; my observations were inadequate. I hadn’t paid enough attention. Who does that? This was my first time abroad, and when people asked me what my favorite part of the trip was, I couldn’t even answer them. I’d say it was because I couldn’t pick one thing and loved all of it, but really I just couldn’t remember what had happened.
That sounds terrible; it’s not like I didn’t try. I just couldn’t separate it all out. It was a big block of simultaneous familiarity and foreignness. That doesn’t even seem like the right description now, but it’s the closest I can get.
I went through the motions of telling everyone how amazing it had been–because, really, hadn’t it? I’d been in one of the most amazing cities in the world and had seen and done fantastic things. It could be that this was just my mental reaction to something so “unreal.” I couldn’t even wrap my head around it.