Hard to Believe ...

So, I left Atlanta for London on August 23, exactly one month ago. In the past month, I have done the following: visited three countries and seven major cities, seen a countless number of masterpieces in world-class museums, made friendships with more people than I’ve met in all of college, visited two of the three biggest cathedrals in the world, spent time with my family, spoken three different languages (however unsuccessfully), had a picnic dinner by the Eiffel Tower, decided I want to stay here a year, spent a substantial amount of time with Kerry—whom I never get to see, cried from pure joy, started to figure out things with Alex, went to the National Gallery three times, ate escargot, read three books total and a newspaper nearly every day, discovered that I can travel alone and enjoy it, and pinched myself on a number of occasions just to make sure that this is reality.

In addition to the best month of my life coming to an end, I have loads to look forward to: school begins Monday, I have plans to see at least two football games, I bought a ridiculously-cheap 20-pound ticket to Rome for November, I’m going to see Pride and Prejudice and eat sushi this weekend with the macho army brat who lives downstairs and has a weakness for Jane Austen, Alex and I are going to see the Decemberists in two months, Middlesex is taking us on a night cruise of the Thames tonight, a Brit named Jason is escorting me to a jazz club, I’ll be heading to Bath and Stonehenge next weekend, Amsterdam and Prague are on my list of must-see places, there are at least two people from Georgia visiting me … and that’s just what I can think of at the moment.

I am lucky. I am blessed. I’m pretty sure I’m undeserving of all of this. Kerry and I have battled with the same issue—we love traveling and enjoying such incredible experiences like studying abroad, but it’s unclear what we have done to deserve such greatness. Some days, I come back to my room bursting with excitement about my life right now and I want to write about it or call someone and share my happiness. Then I think about how I would feel if I were at Georgia State instead, and a friend called me from overseas. Sure, I’d be happy for them, but part of me would also automatically compare my life to theirs and get down about it. And it makes me wonder: can we control how great our lives are? I mean, I chose to come over here. I decided to travel on my own and see the world. I’ve made a point to meet people and do what makes me happy. And is happiness like this attainable back home, or would one have to travel miles away to achieve it? Is this reality, or am I living in a vacation-like dreamworld? Will it suddenly hit me? Once school starts, will I lose it and feel homesick and stressed and like I’m completely lost?

I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that this seems too good to be true. I feel like I’ve lived an entire lifetime, and I’ve barely started. I can’t even fathom it getting better from here. But I’m happy and I’m not going to jinx myself. I’m going to live in the moment and enjoy every second of it.

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And yesterday I ventured into London on my own and just disappeared from the earth for a while. I spent the afternoon in Hyde Park by the river and pretended I was a local. It was fabulous.