Here’s to the Italian who couldn't pronounce your name. Here’s to the sunrise train station goodbye. Here’s to the texts you never sent. And here’s to the summer you were gloriously, recklessly, romantically drunk.
We call them "holiday flings." Anthropologists might call them "liminal romances." But for most of us who backpacked across Croatia, taught English in Barcelona, or did a disastrous semester abroad in London, we call them the ones we never quite forgot.
You have a few glasses of wine at your office Christmas party. You miss the feeling of being on vacation . You text them: "Remember that night?" They do. You flirt for a week. You almost book a flight. But rent is due.
Here’s to the Italian who couldn't pronounce your name. Here’s to the sunrise train station goodbye. Here’s to the texts you never sent. And here’s to the summer you were gloriously, recklessly, romantically drunk.
We call them "holiday flings." Anthropologists might call them "liminal romances." But for most of us who backpacked across Croatia, taught English in Barcelona, or did a disastrous semester abroad in London, we call them the ones we never quite forgot.
You have a few glasses of wine at your office Christmas party. You miss the feeling of being on vacation . You text them: "Remember that night?" They do. You flirt for a week. You almost book a flight. But rent is due.
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