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Tokyo called us back for one last night, a fight and a drink. In that order. After getting lost twice trying to find the New York Bar from Lost in Translation we ended up on the 50th floor of the Mitsuri-something building in an overpriced s***hole which served pretty good beer and tequila sunrise but chips that looked like moldy pigs tails and tasted like hens poo, and whose amazingly beautiful views were ruined by offending blinds (WHY WOULD YOU PUT BLINDS UP WHEN YOUR ON THE 50th FLOOR AND IT IS DARK OUTSIDE I BEG OF YOU) up until 8.30 that is, when the lights went out, Beyonce boomed from the speakers and the blinds ceremoniously were raised. Hallelujah! The view was worth the pain.

And so here I am the morning after, coffee steaming and mind a-racing, the excitement of getting on a plane in just a few short hours almost too real to comprehend. I am so ready to go home, I am so rich with travel that I am overflowing with it, I am sick ofsightseeing I am sick of s***ty sleeps I am sick of pillows with seeds and plastic in them I am sick of moving, after so many different, amazing, orgasmic meals I am finally full. I never thought it could happen and I am so very glad it has. This moment is for gratitude, relief at the smell of the finish, the sights of those familiar faces and places that I have missed so dearly. It is time to get back and jump on my friends and visit family and have thai food (FINALLY!) and go to see New Moon and ride my bike and go to Newtown and eat lebanese bread and hommos and hug my grandparents and smother people with love and get ready for uni and changes and move in with my Dad and become an inner Western suburbs girl once again.

Seven months. She returns with a broken suitcase and a shiiitload of stories. God its been good.