Mates, my arm muscles have completely died after I tortured them into lugging 3 suitcases, 2 of which were in the 50-pound range (didn't have a scale to check and crossed my fingers they wouldn't charge me if I went over - yolo), and a massive tote bag brimming with pastries for the plane and Mindy Kaling's book, through half the whole airport.
Heathrow is disgustingly enormous.
The past week was go, go, go. It was a constant frenzy of finishing up essays that didn't want to be finished, packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking, and then packing everything, popping over to Dublin, Barcelona, and Paris in quick succession, and then fretting over every logistical detail in the process of getting home.
But now, I'm sitting in a random seat in the middle of my terminal, waiting for my gate to show up so I can go and begin a day of enduring 11 hours on a plane. At least I have Mindy.
Now, everything's still and not frenzied. It's finally hitting me that I'm leaving Europe, and there is no knowing when I'll ever be back. It's hitting me that school, real school, is starting next week. That I'll get to see my friends and my family, and that I won't constantly be scratching my head at the tiny but extremely noticeable differences between the US and the UK. It means I won't be the foreigner anymore, the outsider, the visitor.
I get to go home, and anyone who has ever known me understands that to me, home - my bed - my loved ones - mean infinitely times more to me than formative, mind-building academics, traipsing through cities that I've only dared to dream of, crossing cultural barriers and planes and trains and coaches and (attempted) horse carriages. These are all wonderful, these all make my heart fuller than full, but home. Home is everything to me.