Drink the sangria. Miss the train. Kiss the German/Italian/Canadian.
The heartbreak comes when September arrives, and you have to merge the summer self with the winter self. The "Where are they now?" of the drunk summer romance usually falls into one of three categories: drunk sex orgy international summer fuckers
The drunk international summer relationship is a masterpiece of dramatic irony. You know the ending before you begin. You know that on August 31st, the visa expires, the Eurorail pass runs out, or the real life back home slams into you like a freight train. Drink the sangria
We aren’t talking about dating apps at home. We aren’t talking about the comfortable, boring security of a local fling. We are talking about the chaos of a Barcelona hostel balcony at 4 AM. We are talking about the Australian backpacker and the Irish pub manager in a sweaty Rome disco. We are talking about the Erasmus semester in Prague, the fireweed season in Alaska, or the full moon party on Koh Phangan. The heartbreak comes when September arrives, and you
Cheers to the chaos. ️🍹✈️