So this is it.
In the midst of emptying drawers and packing bags, it hit me that yeah, I'm ACTUALLY going home. Like for real. After months of anticipation, then months of great times, and hours of talking about what and who we miss from home, it's finally here. I'm dreading the 30 hours of traveling, but before I know it I'll be sitting watching ESPN and eating pizza and wings. My mouth just started watering.
Everyone keeps asking "so what are u feeling? happy? sad? relieved?" I couldn't even tell you. It's such a mix of everything that it's almost impossible to describe. This has been my home for the last 6 months, and now I'm putting my life in 2 bags and heading back to a place that has moved on since I left 6 months ago. The world didn't stop when we all left home, so going back will definitely be a little weird.
Castaway is a classic, and one of my favorite movies. When Tom Hanks leaves the island, I could never understand his attachment to it...until now. I feel exactly like he does, albeit to a lesser extent (I had technology and other people here!).I've become attached to this place, the people and what it offers. It's exceeded my expectations and then some, except I wish I had Wilson here.
I really am going to miss this place though, it's treated me far better than I deserve. From late night walks on the beach, to lounging with kangaroos, to paying more than any human ever should have to for beer, this place has been great. I'm putting the final touches on my masterpiece packing job, and then it's off to the airport tomorrow morning at 7am. Gonna be a long flight, but at least America is on the other side! I'll update and put a finally wrap on things once I get home.
It's been a good run Australia, it really has. I'm gonna miss you.
Mr. Quinn,
ReplyDeletePlease go back to Australia. We don't like your kind on the sands of Snyder Beach. Your flimsy frame, jump shot built for the WNBA and carelessness on the open seas aboard a jet ski are too much for any of us to take any longer.
The weather was far form ideal this past summer, but it was probably the best summer in the last 20 years because you were not a part of it. In no way, shape or form did any of us miss seeing you splashing around in Lake Erie like a disoriented Lieutenant Dan. Nor did we miss your daily full moonings of the beach, as tying a simple knot on the draw string of your swim trunks seems to have alluded you all these years. Perhaps Velcro is the answer.
We were all hoping you were punched Tyson style by a kangaroo or chomped by a croc, but if you avoided your inevitable fate, rest assured the Natives will push you into a fire first chance they get. The smell of roasted S'mores and Genny Light will keep us all in good spirits as your spirit fades into Farnham along with the Westerly winds.
If for some inexplicable reason the Snyder Beach chiefs decide you are allowed back in town, please be advised it will be strictly on their terms. Your normal routine of inhaling a steady diet of Bison dip, wings and freezy pops will be replaced by a vigorous regiment of manual labor, including cleaning out the shed for the first time since the FDR administration, treating every day as "Beach Clean-up Day" and mowing the lawn in a timely manner. You will also be given a Merriam-Websters Dictionary, which will include the phrase "timely manner." In the past, you have misinterpreted this phrase to mean "untimely manner." Mowing the lawn in a timely manner, though, does not mean saying you will mow the lawn on June 1, then get around to it on Sept. 1. Mowing the lawn in a timely manner simply means getting off your fat can and cutting the freakin' lawn before it grows waste-high. This will help pave the trail for visitors to walk up to good ol' 57 without feeling like they are sifting through the weeded jungles of 'Nam.
If you return to Snyder Beach in 2010 and beyond, please be advised we have a strict anti-Aborigine policy. If you bring any of those Australian backcountry mannerisms or dreadful backwash known as Fosters onto Snyder Beach, be prepared to suffer a beating complete with bow and arrows and tomahawks. The tribal thumping will leave you as wobbly as a blind, spotted Cleo Cavanaugh. But who knows, a few whacks to the dome may actually do you some good.
So in the coming summers, please work on something other than your pasty farmer's tan. I look forward to spying on your every move from my porch chair.
Worst wishes,
Tweety Bird
P.S. Wash me!