Our last night was spent having dinner at a fancy restaurant, on an open terrace over looking the city at sunset. We began with too many mojitos and ended with too many desserts—both of which I doubt “too many” is even an appropriate measure—and we talked endlessly about unrequited love and role-models, self-proclamations and how lucky we were to be where we were, not leaving the restaurant until what must have been midnight.
We returned to our room met with an array of chaos: two unorganized girls’ weekend bags having exploded into hardly recognizable pieces, our clothes, shoes and make up intertwined and scattered across a tiny room, all which needed to be sorted and strategically packed to fit too many souvenirs, all within five hours for our entirely-too-early flight. It was all so overwhelming—I was miserable and exhausted and wanted nothing of it.
Naturally, I knew only one solution. I silently slipped into my bathing suit, bounded across the terrace and down the stairs—”Where are you going?” Kirsten laughed. “Fucking swimming!” “Wait for me!”—and into the pool once more. It was as cold as ever, colder than remembered, but peaceful, and necessary.