Today I was going through a mental list of all the things I need to do before I go home. This involves writing a final report, going to a conference, and hanging out with at least 1 group of people, going on a day trip to somewhere, going to the best cantina I’ve been to, hands-down (la Buenos Aires, in case you were wondering), if not more. Also, finding some time to be sad.
As I was reflecting upon these things, I remembered that after I leave Mexico I don’t get to stay in the strange in-between world of the airport. I am going back to Toronto. My past few trips to Mexico have been mostly good, but coming back and not been the best. I chalk this up in part to a less than ideal living situation. Now that I have found a better one, it should improve. Still.
I remember when I came back from Nicaragua. Actually, I don’t. I remember eating out sometimes, taking the subway a lot, and that my roommate had a fully-stocked kitchen and furnished home. That was handy. If I really start to think about it, I remember making new friends, reconnecting with old ones, and trying to write what seemed like millions of essays. I don’t want that to be my life when I come back.
I want to read, and write, but also do things that I will remember afterwards. Not because they are incredibly exciting, but because they are, simply, my life.