I've been happily wading through the culture here, gleefully rediscovering gastrinomical delights like Hrismjólk and enjoying the clean architecture and tidy pools for the past 10 days. Just now though, it made sense to me that I am NOT going to be going back, and that plane that might have had me on it will leave on Monday while I am still at my desk in Kópavogur.
Suddenly all I want to do is hide from it all, bake something familiar and listen to my music from home, except even doing something like that requires translating everything from avoirdupois on the cake mix box. In the kitchen, the daily free newspapers are strewn across the corner table, all that news I can't read, and the houses outside suddenly look alien, even though I stared at them every day for two months.
The difficult thing about it is that I don't really want to go home, because I am certain to feel just as out of place there now. I don't know where I fit in anymore, and I knew this feeling would happen at some point. As I have learned this past year though, knowing something in advance like this does not diminish the effects whatsoever.
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