There is no turnover, because I never turned away. I guess I knew that this trip was never about relaxation. We never got the cocktails on the beach.
The rich diet of experiences has left me bloated. My vivid dreams are a warning that I'm devouring information faster than I can process it into something coherent. During the day, related memories constantly popping into my head are like files cast aside by an overworked secretary.
The part of my brain that tracks our budget and knows how many clean shirts I've got left is watching my stability degrade as a result. Even reading something that was meant to be a light romantic comedy and turned out not to be is enough to leave me staggering for balance, like a drunk who knows it but still can't compensate.
And I am increasingly aware of the opportunity cost. We've done this trip cheap, which is like saying that we got a good deal on a used Porsche. Five grand and two months buys a lot of fun at home. More than we've had?
We both want to be home. We've been binging on travel like teenagers at a kegger. The next trip will be shorter.
Meanwhile, in just over a week I'll be landing into a storm, with no reserves. I keep doing this. I don't know how to stop.