I woke with everyone else this morning: stolen from dreams and infinite time to our inevitable departure. I wolfed down a croissant and packed and left for our last bus. Along the way to the airport, we played games, sang along to Sabrina Carpenter’s Espresso before it turned to weird French party music, and watched the passing tableaus of sheep and cattle. We pointed out the waterfalls which mold into a stream of mist before returning to running water. We watched our map as it edged the border of Switzerland.

We arrived at the airport, gave our luggage as many of us were asked odd identification questions, and then said “Bon Voyage!” to Sean and Véronique—our wonderful tour guides. I gave her this tight hug as I felt my eyes swell with small tears. The hug was interrupted by the many straps and loose plugs which pressed against our chests, yet lacked any real effect by fault of the emotions that accompanied it.

We dashed to the gate, only to realize that about 75% of the students ached for a sandwich, to which Liam comedically led an army to a single sandwich-stand.

We took off for our last time. Again, I felt the rush of magic as my breath held and released with the relax of the plane. I mourned the end of this beautiful experience as I—quite literally—saw it fade with the fog of the Alps. And then I prepared for the next 8 hours.

—

We got the 25 minute warning. I looked out my window in anticipation. We popped out of the clouds and suddenly our flat strip was clear. It’s surprisingly comforting. Long Island is uncomplicated. It’s just flat, contrasting to the enigma of the Alps. It’s simplistic. Houses lined in neat rows with the occasional school and track field; mass graveyards in delicate design; oversized malls with empty parking lots. I used to hate it—suburban sprawl—and in many ways I still do, but in that moment, I saw beauty in its simplicity. It’s my home.

As we got off to get checked, I slowly started saying goodbye to all these people that I met throughout the trip. When I first met each of them, seeing their faces was like rendering in an application on the computer—like a loading screen—new terrain that my mind attempts to compute. After these few weeks, they become part of your brain’s file cabinet—each sorted by name and memory. Saying goodbye in such cacophony was like closing the office, putting files in storage. I had quick hugs as we moved to talk to customs, planning out private messages I would send to those on instagram. I hugged those I could.

I got home and looked around at all I had left and all I will leave next month. I saw the copious amounts of cat fur that my cats had left on my bed throughout their usage in the past weeks. I saw all the work I had left myself to complete. I saw the Cheers bar when I closed my eyes (that’s all I watched on the plane)! I saw all that I had missed while in France.

—

That’s it for me. Thank you so much to MYO for this life changing experience. Thank you to Dr. Jackson, Dr. Fryling, Mr. Stickley, and Ms. O’Hanlon. Thank you to Em and Max and Liam. It’s the best experience watching an organization run by entirely competent, intelligent, compassionate people. It’s a quality hard to find.

I now depart for a final time. To say ‘au revoir!’ or ‘bon voyage!’ is too flowery to me and to find an ending to match the abject magic of this trip isn’t a fight I want to take either. So, I leave with a quote from, coincidentally, my namesake, Dashiell Hammett: “The shortest farewells are the best. Adieu.”