We have 13 days left in Melbourne. We’re at the point where we bring up at least once a day how many days we’ve got left in this sunburnt country. This is the first time in my life where I’ve said, “But…I don’t want to leave”. When I ride the trams I look out the window and observe every person and every shop that passes by to create the perfect mental picture. When I wake up in the morning, I take a moment to listen to the rest of the building waking up and the city coming to life outside the window. I think about evenings with out Tim Tams, breakfasts without perfectly toasted and buttered crumpets and nights without the scurrying sounds of Citrus and Sofia as they dash about in their bed of woodchips.
Yesterday I woke up and though to myself as I lay in bed staring out the window, “Quite soon I’m going to wake up under a mosquito net…far, far away from this eggcrate lined king-sized bed in a room designed for a double bed. Far, far away from friends, the familiar streets of Melbourne and this wonderful city we’ve come to call home”.
I’m beyond excited about the new adventures that El Salvador holds, but at the same time I feel like I’m going through the motions of some sort of potentially messy break-up. We’re breaking up with Melbourne and it’s starting to hurt.
What is the best cure for a broken heart? Time, I suppose.
The Chronicles of a Dirty Flamingo in the Kitchen 