I promised myself four years ago that I would return to Europe in time for the next World Cup. It was an unexpected boon for our group trip to coincide with the games because to Americans, soccer fans are like crack addicts that don’t steal your stuff. On the one hand I felt like some sort of joy was stolen from me at birth, that 16 years later would lead me to watch jealously as our Italian tour guide lost her shit over one futbol goal. On the other, I felt downright angelic as I traipsed through various European countries, rooting for a different team every few days (I did not want to get killed in any German bar by whispering England).

Every few months I would consider my goal of returning, but it just never worked out. I didn’t have the money to travel AND stay in New York for the summer, and given my impending graduation I couldn’t afford to get another listless, useless internship back home. Plus I had noone to go with. I would have been more alone over there than I am here, where I recently got a sore jaw from speaking more in 10 minutes than I had in 10 days. It’s romantic to imagine a grand adventure laced with uncertainty and forcing me to reach out to strangers. But you can find plenty of strangers in New York and I seem to be universally tongue-tied.

Still, I wish I was there now. It’s tough to break a promise to yourself.