An Open Letter

It's 11:45 P.M., Tallahassee time. 

Dear Europe, 

Let me be frank.

I don't miss you. 

Sure, you make a mean croissant, and really, I was fond of your liter-and-a-half-big-mamba-jahamba-bottled-water, but...I don't miss you. It's true that, during my time living abroad, I enjoyed a few glasses of wine and two espressos each and every day. It's also true that I spent four weeks in Barcelona hitting up Buenas Migas and uncorking uncorkables atop monumentos nacionales. It's, furthermore, true that my only class-related responsibilities were taking photos of old people and charming alleyways, but... I don't really miss you. 

You've got a point when you mention my going to Venice, and scoring a genuinely Italian bed and breakfast with Max & Cody. Your argument continues to be strong when you remind me of the gnocchi we ate there and of the breakfasts we lingered over each morning, but...I don't miss you.

I am nearly convinced of the tiniest twinge of longing when you recount my week in Paris, France, where the wildly entertaining Andrew Threlkeld and I had the most fabulous quiche of Julia Child's afterlife, and, yes, I do remember the uncannily-named "Old Man Tea" we enjoyed. It's true that I bought four kinds of coffee there, and it's also true that a French McActualperson recommended a White Bordeaux for a picnic we bought at an open air market, and it's even truer that I got to eat at Chez Gladine twice, Katherine...

But, gosh, I just don't miss you.

Amor/Amore/Aimer

-A.