Moving abroad was like being at the mercy of a hysterical driver. One moment, the foot is pedal to the metal. You can't wait to get on the plane, immerse yourself in a new culture, and let the adventures begin. Nevertheless the next moment the brakes are slammed. You begin to realize how much you'll miss your family and friends. You begin to realize that the to-do list (visa paperwork, selling -most- everything you own, learning another language, getting your finances in order, and packing exactly 49.5 pound bags) you're determined to accomplish is infinitely larger than the actual amount of time you have left. And there's really nothing to be done except hold on for your precious life whether life is being sped up or coming to a screeching halt because you did, after all, order the ride.
It was emotional and exciting and confusing and terrifying and intoxicating and exhausting. My boyfriend and I arrived in Bogota at 1:30 AM after several delays, only to find out our hotel's shuttle stopped running at midnight. Stumbling around in Spanglishenchalian (our ridiculous blend of Spanish, English, French, & Italian), we finally managed to find a cab. Except that we had 4 gigantic suitcases, 4 backpacks, and 2 carryons. In a tiny taxi. At 2:30 AM.
Hence why I'm sitting on Aaron's lap in the cab (sorry mom and dad - no seatbelts) and laughing hysterically at the circumstance of it all; we just up and moved to Colombia, and now we're here.
Full speed ahead.