Holiday nostalgia hits you in delay.
The first day after that fantastic fortnight, you are surprised by the ease by which you re-accustom yourself with the mundane boredom you call your life.
In the week that follows your mind still sporadically wanders, though it feels like some distant, half-forgotten memory already when you dish up that semi-funny anecdote to one of your buddies.
And as the weeks progress you kind of not think of the good times anymore at all, amid the deadlines and the dates and the dishes and the whatnot.
Yet when you least expect it, the nostalgia will hit. It will seem insignificant at first, but in no time its ripples will expand in colourful detail and back will come flooding the sights, the sounds, the smells. You will vividly remember how that ti-punch of Neisson rum tasted on the terrace of L’Empératrice after the cloud-burst had emptied the streets. Instantly feel the cool splash of the waterfall on your overheated body once more. You will recall the sun and the fun and kissing the undressed girl on the shore.
And you will thank your lucky stars that these fond memories have hit you in delay.
For had you not been reminded you’d almost forgotten them, you would not have been able to cherish them to the fullest.
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