After writhing in pain all night I threw up more than enough this morning. I thought it may be the food we ate at Maria’s house, but everyone else felt fine. I felt so miserable and the fact that I wasn’t going home made it worse. However, this also meant I got to ride in the truck with Paul all the way to Guamalito’s (a tourist store near the airport in San Pedro Sula). Mrs. Pat rode with us too. Once we got there I tried to help panic-attack-Paul try to find gifts for his family. I bought a poncho, which filled me with excitement. Hopefully I can wear it on the way home since the thought of wearing it here in the million degree weather makes me want to have a heat stroke. We left Guamalito’s for the airport. Then it started. From the moment we walked into the airport I just wanted to leave. More than anything else in the world I wanted to board the plane with my friends and go home to my family, my friends, and my bed. I told my mom I’d call her when I got the airport, but I knew it would only make my homesickness worse. It was all I could do to let the rest of my group leave me here. We sat waiting for the other group, who came three hours later. That three hours seemed like an eternity. Then they arrived.
Strangers present an interesting dilemma, particularly after spending a week in a third world country with some of your best friends. Jim, Mrs. Pat’s nephew & Maine youth minister, was first (and only) to talk to me. They still haven’t talked to me. Each person in the youth group looks eerily like someone I know. They are from Friendship, Maine, which had more than a foot of snow when they left. They’re van broke down on the side of the road and they had to push all their bags through the snow. That’s all I know about them.
I want to go home.