Upon arriving at our little Bozeman airport, laden with too much luggage and not enough control to keep the stinging tears from pooling in my sleepy eyes, I didn't know what to expect. I certainly didn't expect the numerous strapping young men who all offered to help me with my suitcase as I attempted to lift it over my head into the bins. (I politely declined the offered assistance, and needed only to demonstrate my angry feminist grunts a few times to get the message across to some of the, er, gentlemen.) I have now arrived in my new home, having taken car, plane, train, and my own two tired feet as I dragged my oversized luggage towards a place I was promised to have a memory of, but as of yet have drawn blank. Funnily enough, what I do remember is the sidewalk. From this I can only assume that as a young, blossoming child of 9, I either had a magnificent eye for detail, or decided it was best to spend my European experience staring at my feet. Either way I still feel I was prodigious at heart.
The people have been amazing. I haven't met a single person who hasn't been smiley, welcoming, and patient as I struggle my way through their language. Except for this one French lady on the plane who just squinted around at everyone and sucked on her e-cigarette. And the flight attendants.
Well, I'm here. Its gorgeous. Welcome home, Kate?
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