Day 195

Woke up in Madrid on the vacation that just won't quit. I don't know my holas from my bon gournos from my bonjours anymore. Or my por favors from my sil vous plaits. I think that means it's time to go home. I'm down to my last toothpaste. My last euro. My last underwear. And probably my last artery. 

My head is spinning. Was I really dancing on top of Tuscany a couple weeks ago? Ziplining through the Alps, playing cards with Russians, skinny dipping in the Mediterranean with two of my best friends, slamming whisky with Spaniards, and dangling my feet over the Seine? 

Hell yes. And I'll do it again. (Once I replenish my devastated bank account.)

But right now, all I want to do is walk up my little stoop, up to my little bed, in my little apartment on my little brick-paved, tree-lined street. God bless America. With it's predicable toilets and resistible pastries. 

VIVIR BIEN