Nostalgia and Hemingway

Way back in January, the city our program started in was Madrid. This concrete-filled, fast-paced city was my first taste of anything European and was full of splendor and excitement.

Way back then, every aspect of my life was new and just blossoming. Seeing a bidet in the hotel bathroom was something of amazement. Hearing Spanish being spoken was weird and made me a bit uncomfortable. I was nervous beyond belief. I was scared in the way a child is the moment they look up from admiring the Lucky Charms and realize Mom isn't standing nearby with the cart anymore.
Every sense in my body was heightened and my head grew tired as I tried to pack it with as many memories and sights and sounds as possible.

When we were in Madrid, we learned that Ernest Hemingway loved the city. He came quite often for inspiration and to admire the Spanish culture. We stopped our tour in front of a large white building; it was the hotel that he had stayed in during one of his vacations there.
I remember it being one of the first "celebrity sighting" moments, where something or someone important had happened or been to the very spot I was standing. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the tour guide was describing: horses pulling carriages, people pulling wagons of produce and bread, markets bustling with crowds, and children playing in the square.

I learned in one of my psychology classes that in order to remember something very well, it is best to look at as many aspects of whatever it is as you can. Take in each word of the poem, each tree of the landscape, every window of the building. Then close your eyes and attempt to recreate that very scene in your mind. Once the picture is painted to the best of your ability, open your eyes again and compare reality to the carbon copy you've drawn. The more times you do this, the better and easier it will be to remember it later.
I began doing this at this hotel in Madrid. After that, at each important and beautiful sight that I didn't dare forget, I went through this process. Mind you, it's not easy to paint mind pictures in crowds of people and when a tour group has left without you, but it really is worth the time.

Anyway, the other day, Tanner and I were sitting at a Burger King in Granada, a beautiful city not too far from Sevilla. I just wanted a Coke that I could refill as many times as I wanted, and he needed cheap food that he knew would both satisfy his hunger and his picky taste.
He demanded I talk about getting ready to go home, something I have been avoiding all discussion of. When the topic is brought up among the others in our program, I physically remove myself from the crowd. When someone at our table or in our intimate group of friends brings it up, I try to find ways to quickly change the subject.
Leaving Spain is not something I am ready to or want to talk about.

"It's time, Tara."

And I did, at least a little bit. And by that I mean that I at least acknowledged that the end is, in fact, a reality, and that this reality is fast approaching.
The realization was like a physical pain to me. Why would I want to re-cut open the wound that is just now beginning to heal? Why would I want to admit that the end of the greatest thing to happen in my life thus far is very near?

I know that it isn't exactly considered healthy to not only avoid, but to actually deny the very existence of aversive things, but this has been my way of coping for a very long time. I am also aware that I should change my ways to even further my healing/growing process. But, like a stubborn teenager, I will hold on to bad and insane habits if only just to spite the opposition.

Once we got back to Sevilla from Granada, I got to thinking further about my time abroad. I really started my "end of the semester reflection stuff" and began to do some research like the little studious one I am.
I reread testimonies of people who had been abroad, did time in the Peace Corps. I looked back on my old journal entires and blog posts. And I Googled quotes about traveling and being abroad.

I was thinking about all that "full circle" stuff, bringing it all back around from how I felt when I first arrived compared to how I am feeling now.
I thought about my mom standing at the front door, waving, and me telling Abbie to, "Go, Go!"
I thought about the feeling I had, sitting by myself on the plane from New York to Madrid, about how I realized that it was too late to turn back now.
I thought about the fear, the anxiety, the excitement, the loneliness, the fulfillment, and the real, pure, stupid bouts of happiness I get each day here.

I also thought about going home. About seeing my mom for the first time in months. What it will be like to hug my dog. To spend time with my brothers.
I thought about how excited I am to see my soulmate after so long.
I thought about how I don't remember how to drive my car or how to use a stove.
Mostly, I thought about how all I want to do is share with everyone my stories and my photos.

I thought about how different my life is now and how different it will be to go back.

Tanner and his dad had a long talk last night that he told me about today over coffee (He had coffee, I drank tap water- it's free).
His dad told him that he might not have cherished the time here as much if there wasn't a deadline, no matter how bittersweet that is to accept.
This also made me wonder about how this might actually be true.

So last night when I was feeling nostalgic and reading about other people's time abroad, I found a quote that stuck out among the many. 

It was by none other than my old friend Ernest, who I became familiar with all the way back on my first day in Madrid. 

On my first day in Spain. 

My first day in Europe.
The first day of my journey.

“It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end.” 

**Updated about 4 minutes later: As I posted the link to this on my facebook, someone on my newsfeed just below my status update had a Hemingway quote as her status. 

The Universe is full of signs. 

Like a Berber Rug

I'm not sure why I was thinking about death during my Flamenco class today. Maybe because that class is so boring and awful that I could die sometimes.
I had many profound and life-changing thoughts.

Not really, but they were super cool to me.
Like about energy. And where people's souls/spirits go when they pass on.
I'm not too sure yet if I entirely buy into the whole Heaven thing. I love, though, the idea of energy.
I love thinking that energy moves around within this huge thing. The universe.
I like the idea that energy is constantly flowing. That my energy is within my physical body, and also in my abstract thoughts, in my wishes, and also in my past as well.

Despite my denial of it, my body will die one day.
But what I like to think is that my spirit, my energy and my stories will be what remains.
So this means that I am not focused entirely on living my life in order to see some shiny gates, or not having regrets so I don't end up as a limbo-lingering ghost, or even not being a shitty person so as to end up in this really hot place called Hell.
My greatest concern, instead, is assuring that the stories people will hear will be good ones, and that the energy I leave behind will be transfered into something great.

I only hope the stories will be ones that are admired. That someone will say, "Wow, she had an awesome life."

I also wish that they will provide inspiration to one, only one, person to continue my legacy.
To do what I didn't have the time and/or means to do.

And finally, I hope my energy can be a sensed and felt presence.
I hope it will be a part of the love that someone in France feels. Or the sadness a tree feels as it drops yet another leaf in the fall.

In Morocco, the Berbers said that a rug tells a story. Each ring that extends outward from the center is representative of a piece of someone's life. Zigzags symbolize the ups and downs of life. Triangles represent a home or a house. The four star symbol represents navigation through life and struggles.

Anyway, according to Berber tradition, fringes are left purposely uncut at the end of the rug. This represents the urge to continue the story.
This represents the hope that the story will continue on, that more children will be born, that more up and down roads will be traveled on.

The thing that I hope for the most is for my energy to be like the loose fringes on a Berber rug.

Loose Ends

I always knew he would never leave me. That was the kind of relationship we had; he told me things, and I believed him unquestioningly, even unsurely. For the most part, he was right and we pushed and pulled on each other for that sick and hungry self-reliance we both so desperately needed from someone. The desperation and thirst for the other person melted in the air like wax dripping freely onto the floor. So, naturally he was there to pick me up when my body felt too heavy and when too many pressures were stacked uneasily on my plate.

Looking back on that long, passionate, and hungry relationship, I can see why the pieces never quite fell into place correctly. There was always one jigsaw cut that stuck up above the rest and wasn’t exactly the right color or pattern. From there, none of these metaphorical pieces seemed to be able to free-fall into place and there was always one empty spot where a piece probably fell to the floor somewhere along the winding road of arranging this puzzle. Now, that’s not to say that this potentially completed picture couldn’t have been a beautiful and inspiring work of art, but I suppose it’s that way with many things in life—there will always be a “what if” factor.

It also is very interesting how I can come to these realizations about something that had been a part of my life throughout some of the most difficult and trying times, but only after I have removed myself completely from it. Of course, in the moment, while I had my head dunked completely under the water, I had no vision to see anything beyond what was directly in front of me; most aspirations seemed too blurred out of sight or would just take too much effort to swim to reach.

Looking back into what I was so consumed with for so many years is such an odd sensation. It’s like being entirely engulfed by a scent or a sensation not experienced for many years; that sense evoking a memory long forgotten about until that very bizarre and unpredictable moment. 

It’s funny in a not-so funny kind of way that some of my fondest and happiest moments with him are also intermixed with very painful and upsetting ones.

I remember the day after I had to paint plain white over the bright and wonderful colors on my bedroom walls. The stupid boxes messily strewn about in uneven piles and suffocating my doorway and overflowing from my closet in an unfair way. That was the night that we turned up the radio in his truck and swayed slowly, arm in arm in my driveway. Mosquitoes were nipping our exposed ankles and the sun was slipping below the horizon. It was cheesy and stupid and it was kids trying on the role of adults for an evening, just to see how it looked. 

I don’t remember the exact tune or even who sang it on that brisk night in my driveway, but I do remember it being a sad song- one with a good beat that made it easy to dance to. 

Snippets from Rome

I saw the Colosseum from the plane. From above the clouds, I watched the sun rise too. This is when I first fell in love
I went into the Vatican. The love here was so rich, it could have been touched.
I accidentally cried at the main alter. The love caressed me while my tears fell.
I couldn't stop crying for about a half hour. Love did not let go.
I don't know why I was crying, but the church was just unbelievably gorgeous. The love for Rome was gorgeous too.
I climbed 551 windy, worn down steps through claustrophobic, anxiety attack-provoking slanted hallways. I sacrificed a lot of sweat and tears for the love of Rome.
I saw Rome from on top of St. Peter's Basilica. The love could be felt from all the way up there.
I waited in line for 2 hours in the rain to walk through brilliant museums of ancient Egyptian relics, old maps, famous marble statues, and beautifully painted hallways. I loved Rome so much then, despite being disappointed in the weather.
I illegally took pictures of the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel through the holes of my scarf. The love laughed at me then.
I went into the Colosseum just before the sun was setting and as clouds were clearing from the blue sky. I didn't think I could love Rome any more than I did at that time.
I took the metro and literally ran through the Piazza de Espana and up the stairs to get the best view of the entire city. Then I saw this and the love only grew.
I stood patiently as the bright orange sun sank below Rome and reflected off the red roofs. The love swelled so much at that moment. It could have overflowed.
I found a favorite sandwich. I loved that sandwich as much as I loved Rome.
I ate about 100 of those sandwiches. Rome's love was so real I tasted it.
I ate one of them at 1 am on the steps of a fountain in front of the Pantheon. I loved that too.
I visited the place a friend recommended to me. He said it was where Julius Caesar had died. After a bit of research later, I found out this rumor was true. Even in the light of death, my love was visible.
I watched the changing of the guard ceremony at the Roman tomb of the unknown soldier. It was a sad kind of love then when I understood the significance of that tomb.
I ate the best gelato in Rome. (Literally it was voted this by other visitors online). The man who scooped it talked forever and gave me samples of his favorite flavor combinations. I loved the gelato. I loved Rome.
I took a picture with this gelato man. I loved that man too.
I asked someone sitting at Trevi Fountain to take a picture of me throwing a coin in the water. My heart was so happy in love.
I forgot to make a wish. Rome understood that I was so in love that I forgot to wish.
I thought for about thirty minutes to come up with my real wish. I won't tell you what my wish was directly, but I will say that I could not have loved Rome any more than I did then.
I threw that wish coin in the water with purpose that time. Rome loved me too then.
I dodged cars in order to get the perfect pictures in front of St. Peter's Square. It is a risky kind of love that I have for Rome.
I almost got hit a few times. This things I would do for the love of Rome.
I fell in love with Rome a thousand times over. Over and over and over.
I slept on a train to Florence instead of getting a hostel that night.
I made a promise to Rome just before I drifted off to sleep that I would see her again some day.

Morocco- مغربي

A few weeks ago I went to Morocco.

After traveling a thousand hours by bus and making pee-stops literally in the middle of nowhere we finally landed in a gorgeous city called Fes. 

While wandering through only few of the thousands (actually thousands) of windy, twisty roads of the Medina, I was struck with familiarity by this market place. Obviously having never been to Africa (OMG, I was on an entirely different continent!!), it was odd to feel as though I had see this place before. 

There were endless stands where locals came to sell strawberries and tomatoes and beans. There were bakers putting out piles of freshly made bread and sweets covered in sugar (the flies liked those). We all held our noses as we passed piles and piles of fish, sting rays, and crabs that were dead, and snails that were still alive. We cringed as camel and goat and lamb heads swayed and bumped into one an other on their ropes hung from shop awnings. We watched our step as stray cats weaved in and out between our feet, and as we stepped over poo and other mini-mounds of disgusting things. And the hecklers and shop owners- Oh. My. Gosh. 

When you merely linger at a piece of jewelry for more than 30 seconds, someone would approach you, hounding you with questions, messing with your mind. You're not even certain you want it, but just want to know the price.

"How much is it?"

"I give you best price. Hand-made/painted/crafted/carved/woven. Real Silver/gold/leather. The best in Morocco."

"Yes, but how much is it?"

"400 Dirhams."

[Do the math in your head... 400 Dirhams... that's like 40 euros...which is around 60 bucks...]

"No, sorry. I can't pay that". You turn to walk away. 

"I make you good price. How much you want to pay?"

"Ummmm...uhhh.." By this point, you still aren't even sure if you want the damn bracelet, but if it's real silver, hand made, he seems nice enough... "I can pay 15 euros. It is literally all that I have in my purse."

"WHAT? You crazy. I never see that price in my life. This is real silver. You be crazy, girl." 

He snatches the bracelet from your hand and turns to walk away. Now you think you really want it. He has successfully convinced you that it truly is the last legitimate silver bracelet of its kind you will see ever again. And, on top of that, this generous man is giving you the deal of a lifetime. At a price 3 times what you would pay normally for something similar under normal circumstances. 

"Ok. I can pay 30 euros. That's it."
"35?"
"30." 

"Ok. Shake my hand. It's a deal." 

It makes my head hurt just remembering how stressful it was to barter with those people in the Medina. 

It was weird to me how attracted to the Arabic culture I was. I loved the sounds, the feel, the environment. I loved seeing written Arabic, I loved the roads, the houses, the landscape. I was mesmerized by the colors, the decorations, the architecture. Everything about it was so beautiful to me. I would love to go to other Arabic-like places and experience those cultures as well. I have also decided to learn how to read and write Arabic as well.

Our tour guide in Fes was amazing. He helped us sad-looking folk who were too nice to barter with the proper force necessary to make a good deal. He was extremely informative and I learned a lot about Moroccan and Muslim culture from him.
He also told us something really awesome that sparked a long, intense conversation between Tanner and I and also got me thinking about many big and tough stuff as well. 

He was answering questions about the robe he was wearing, one that many men in the city were seen wearing as well. Then he got to talking about being Muslim, because the robes were related to Islam in a way I can't remember, and I will never forget what he said:

"Even though you have your God, and I have mine, and I might not like that you take a different path to get to him, He is still the same God. He loves everyone. Islam teaches us to love everyone that God loves. To accept everyone as brothers. We are all brothers."

Anyway, I just thought that was super awesome and I had to share. 

Soooooo,

After we left Fes, we traveled another 100 million hours on the bus to get to the Sahara. We drove through snowy mountains, passed by a Switzerland-looking city, and discovered the Grand Canyon's long, lost twin. 

After bumping our heads on the ceiling and holding on as though the car doors would fall off, we hopped out of the 4x4's, surprised to be in one piece and glad to be alive. We had made it to our camp. In the middle (ish) of the desert. Of the Sahara Desert. Like, with sand and stuff. 

Omg. 

It was literally like nothing I had ever seen in my life. I mean, who can say they looked out Westward and saw nothing but sand. Sand literally for miles. And miles. and miles ... 

We arrived just in time for the sunset over the snow-capped mountains WAYYYYY in the distance. It looked like a sunset out of Lion King. 

And in the morning... The sunrise. 

It was like the sun just crept and crept. Obviously it was coming to make its appearance, as the sky's colors were transforming and bleeding into one an other. They were on fire, colors so vivid there was no way they could be real. The oranges and the reds were blazing. The dunes were illuminated. And still, with each long, stretched minute, the shades grew even more pronounced, even more brilliant. Finally as though bursting through an unseen barrier with extreme force, the sun's head exploded in the sky. 

BOOOOOOM. 

And suddenly it was day. 

To this day, after other travels and seeing even more amazing things, that was one of the best experiences of my life. To witness that sunrise- just wow. It still gives me shivers to think about it. 

I had woken up that morning feeling like straight up ass. I wore about 65 layers that night, but the desert's frigid night was no match to my fruitless attempts at staying warm. It was damn cold. Anyway, I woke up to a sore throat, a nose that wouldn't stop running, a fever, and a blaring headache. My sore throat faded and was later replaced by an emphysema-like cough and the worst sinus pressure of my life. I am just now finishing up this awful monstrosity of a cold. What an awful place in the world to get sick. 

But, continuing on:

Then we rode on camels. We climbed a giant dune bigger than the tallest building ever. 

Well, that's what it felt like trying to climb the damn thing. 

I named my camel, the one with the nose ring, Doug. Then I rode a different one after we stopped, whose name was Jimi Hendrix. 

Our camel guy tried to sell things. (As expected). 

He had these awesome desert fossils, those nautical ones that look like the Fossil Pokemon. Anyway, he pulled one out of his bag and then was like, "Oh, wait," reached back in and unwrapped another one. He put one on top of the other and said, "They are brothers, see?" They fit together perfectly. 

I didn't buy one, but it really made me smile to see that. 

When we got back and after we ate lunch, the girls and I wandered around the dunes. We took corny pictures, wrote awesome things in the sand. Then a desert man approached us and offered to take pictures of us so we could all be in them together. Gladly we accepted the generous offer. Then we sat with us and told us stories about the healing properties of the desert sand. About how ungodly hot it gets there in the summer. He wrote our names in Arabic in the sand. He tied our turbans for us so we could look like "Jasmine", as requested. He wrapped us in his turban, making us beautiful dresses. 

Then he realized by the sun's position that it was about to set. He all but dragged us up and down and through dunes, teaching us how to place our feet (by digging our toes in as we climbed) until finally we arrived on a very tall dune that overlooked many others. He said it was the best to see the sunset. Habib told us about his family. His wife and two kids- Fatima and he had a son whose name I can't recall at the moment. He lit us a fire and walked us back to camp. 

Back at camp, a man from town came in to sell us jewelry. I had been very curious about one of the necklaces with some odd shape on it. Olivia bought one the day before, and we had found out it was the compass that the Berber people use to align with the stars in order to find their way if/when they get lost. I am currently working on trying to find more information about this symbol online. 

Anyway, just to be sure of what I was about to buy, I asked the man what the symbol meant. He said, "It will help you when you are lost. This is the Berber Compass." 

I bought that necklace and I wear it all the time now. It's one of those, 'I went halfway across the world to find myself, symbolism  things, I found my way in Africa, blah, blah, blah.' But, I really do like what it represents, and maybe someday when I return to Morocco or to another desert where the Berbers live, one of them can teach me how to use the damn thing.

Also, I found it super cool to learn what the hand symbol seen everywhere meant. A Berber man selling us things near our camp said when you wear it, "Nothing bad will happen." It is a symbol of great protection and of good luck and fortune. I love that idea and the bracelet I got harassed into buying has the Hand of Fatima on it. 

Anyway, seeing and experiencing the way that Moroccans live their daily lives in the cities, i.e. in the Medina of Fes and out in the desert as the Berbers do, was extremely eye-opening. I think every person should get a glimpse of a culture different from his/her own. To see how other people live their lives, work, make money, spend free time, raise families, etc is so interesting and it also provides insight into our own lives as well. Especially coming from place of privilege (Being white. Being part of the middle class. Being an American.). I am extremely appreciative of my life and the things I have and the opportunities I am given. I can appreciate these things more and more each time I compare them to other ways of life. 

So back to what I was saying before, Morocco was a familiar place to me because it reminded me a lot of Nicaragua and the experiences I had while there. The market places, the bartering in the streets, the rich culture. And even the other, not-so-pleasant things such as the extreme poverty, the stray animals, the harsh signs of starvation and homelessness. With each scene and person I encountered, I was bombarded with memories of my time in Nicaragua and it brought a giant smile to my face. I was happy to be reminded of such an amazing part of my life and of rich experiences I have been able to be a part of. But, I also felt very lucky and very humbled, because while there, we were forced to realize how much of an advantage it is to be white. to be American. And so in Morocco, that appreciation only grew. It only became more apparent to me. And it was enhanced and made stronger. 

While I want to always remember the two trips separately, it is exciting to make connections between my undertakings. 

I can't wait for more of these associations to be made. I am so excited for my network of adventures to grow and grow and never stop growing. 

Americanization- Moroccan Style

Fes 

He smiled for the camera :) 

Berber Carpets. Sold for thousands of dollars. 

No biggie- Just seeing snow on our way to the desert

Oh Hey, Mountains. 

Are we in Wyoming?

Sunset on the first night. Wearing my awesome turban, of course

Last picture taken before my camera died while in the desert.  Hey, girl, hey!

I've shared this picture before. This is the AMAZING sunrise I was gushing about. 

I've also already shown this picture as well. Anyway, this is Jimi Hendrix.

One of our last stops before popping over the Strait of Gibraltar. Feeding a wild monkey. It's funny, because I had ripped off a piece of bread from my tuna sandwich. He grabbed it from my hand, sniffed it, then furiously threw it on the ground. Tough love, monkey friend. 

Love Confession

Today I started the downgrade that is my goodbye to Sevilla. The goodbye to my home. To my best friends. I dipped out of a class that I despise an hour early so I could hang out with a friend I haven’t given much attention to in a while. I found my favorite bridge and I sat. I closed my eyes and I heard my friend breathing. I could hear her inhale, and I could feel the relief of her exhale. Birds squawked overhead.  The sun kept us warm; the rain had stopped by then. There was a chill in the breeze, one that has been hesitating to leave Sevilla, holding on to each day as though it might be its last. “It will be your last day soon,” I say to the cold wind.

I reached out and grazed my friend’s arm gently.

“Friend,” I said, “I’ve missed you.”

Then just as a light tear poked out from under my lashes, I felt my friend become emotional as well. She had missed me too. 

"I know you’ve been busy," she whispered gently, "I still love you. I still welcome you and hope to see you each day." 

Her tears misted my arms as the wind flowed through the fountain streams. We cried together today, my friend and I. both knowing that soon we would have to part, that soon we wouldn’t be able to see each other whenever we wanted. 

"I hope you know that I’m not leaving because of you. I have to go." 

She knew, I could tell she understood by the warm way she embraced me.

A boat with a laughing family rowed under the bridge we sat on. Two lovers sat close by kissing. A horse’s hooves clank, clank, clanked in a very sing-songy way. Together we bobbed our heads to the music.

I haven’t written about my friend in this way yet, because I never truly knew how to put to words the deep connection we have. 

It honestly was love at first sight, something that I have always been skeptical of. She came into my life at the most perfect moment- when I needed a friend the most. And it seemed as though she had been waiting for me all along. Like we were destined to be friends and when we bumped into each other for the first time, it just felt right.

I don’t visit her as often as I should. I pass her on the streets most days, and sometimes I’m too ashamed to make eye contact. I’m worried she’ll be mad that it’s been so long, that I haven't made the time for her. But every time I do drop by, her smile is as big as ever, and her hand just as welcoming as the very first day we met.

I have fallen in love with my friend in a way that one cares for a pet or a childhood friend. I would say she’s my soulmate, but I know Abbie wouldn’t like that. So I’ll say she’s my life partner. She and I will always be connected in a way that words will tarnish it.  In a way that only very lucky people in the world can understand, because I have found that not everyone has the ability to grow deep connections with others. Some people are very guarded, they don’t let others in. Others let too many people in and the bond for each can only be stretched so far. I think my friend and I have done it just right.

I hope the feeling is mutual. Sometimes I doubt it, sometimes I worry. I see others coming and going, passing us while we talk and catch up. She always gives a friendly smile, a nod of acknowledgment to passersby. I get jealous. 

"STOP TRYING TO STEAL MY FRIEND AWAY FROM ME!", I want to scream. But I know each time that I can’t be selfish. She is everyone’s friend. She gives out the same kindess to others as she did to me. She is that amazing. She has that much love to give. 

I admire my friend in so many ways. She is gorgeous. Her body is strong, but delicate. The intricate lines of her face and jaw are a type of exotic beauty I've never seen before. She is tall and gentle when she walks- when she glides, is more like it. Her voice is sweet, but she has an opinion and usually isn't afraid to share it with me. 

Oh, the talks we've had together! 

She makes me laugh that hearty kind of laugh that makes my stomach feel tight and my face hurt. 

Everything about her is unlike anyone I've met before. I will miss her so much when I leave Sevilla.

Although I get jealous of other people who claim her as a friend too, I know I shouldn't.  But I feel like no one can ever grasp what we have together. No one can understand it. But then again, I wish everyone could meet her. I wish everyone could see how great she is and feel the love she has to give. 

I hope my family can meet her one day. My mom would love her, would insist on having her over for dinner and we girls would talk for hours- I just know it. She would fit right in with my group of friends. Abbie and Ellie and her could discuss books and share movie quotes for days. She would eat nachos and cry while watching Sex and the City with us. I just know it. 

I think I'm going to try to meet up with her at least once a week from now on. Hopefully I can manage more than that. She lives right along my walk to school everyday. Maybe I'll spend some mornings with her too. I would love to see the people she hangs out with at different times of the day. 

I could talk on and on about her and how much I admire her strength and her wisdom. I wish I could take her back home with me so we could learn more about each other and so I wouldn't have to miss her. 

God, I'm going to miss her. 

Pics of my friend that I've been gushing about: 

Photo Credit: Tanner Beck- Photographer Extraordinaire.  

 Girl, Look at that body. But really. How gorgeous is she??

Omg. She's so beautiful. I could stare at her face all day.

Love at first sight!

 I brought Tanner (and Becky, not shown, obviously) to meet her! They loved her too!! I mean, how could you not?!

 Need I say more?

Just Stunning.