Final destination

This is a really terrible feeling.

Yesterday morning, before I knew that I'd missed my flight to London, Philipp and I had sat on the bench outside the metro station in the cool twilight air, me with my backpack at my side and him with red, glossy eyes.

"Philipp, your eyes are all watery," I'd said. "Are you crying?"

He looked away and paused before saying, "I don't want you to leave."

An hour later, he got his wish because we went to the wrong airport and I missed my flight and had to spend another day and a half in Frankfurt. Unfortunately, most of this time was spent alone.

And now this morning, just before he walked out the door to go to work, we said goodbye again. I was still in bed, half asleep and groggy, as he kissed my face and stroked my hair, smiling down on me with kind, sparkling eyes.

"Don't go to work," I begged him. "Call in sick and stay here with me."

He hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek, saying softly, "I can't."

Hours later I sit at his desk in his flat, looking at pictures, smelling his cologne, and glancing at the door while waiting to go to the airport. It's torture being here knowing that I'm not going to see him again. Like sitting inside an actual memory. He sent me an email from work with directions on how to get to the correct airport. At the end of the message he wrote, "Don't forget to buy some chocolate for your Mum."

That's so typical of Philipp, always thinking of other people. It was impossible to go anywhere with him without stopping to help tourists find their way and figuring out the train schedule for some random, drunk World Cupper. I noticed as we walked around Frankfurt that's he's constantly on the look-out for any and all signs of distress. Yesterday at the wrong airport as I searched in my purse for an airline phone number, Philipp was halfway across the room helping an airport employee who'd fallen with a giant pile of luggage.

Sometimes I feel unworthy in the face of his kindness. When I hear about some of the things he's done, it makes my own life look shallow and superficial. For example, after living in Ghana for a year, Philipp started up a program called Kid's Club in Damongo. Books, games, toys and a playspace are provided for children who otherwise, don't have any access to such things. It took him multiple years and numerous sponsors, but he finally got the program off the ground and had over a thousand members in just a few weeks.

And then there was the story of his grandma. He moved in with her for a month because no one else was available and spent his days cooking and cleaning, helping her to undress and bathe. For her exercise each day, they walked a short path outside her home. On Easter day, he hid colored eggs all along the way so that she could find them as they walked. He told me that he'd never seen her so happy. Collecting those Easter eggs meant more to her than he'd ever expected.

I hear these stories and I see his behavior and it melts my heart. What kind of 26-year-old man spends a month taking care of his grandma and starts a program to help children in Africa? He's certainly not perfect and I can think of a few key quirks that would prevent us from ever seriously dating, but I feel privileged to have known such a gentle, caring person.

In a few hours, I'll be back in London, ready to live out my last few days in Europe. This whole trip still feels like it's been one long, incredible dream. I wake up each morning and can't imagine being anywhere else than exactly where I am, and yet, it somehow never feels entirely real. Reality will hit me in the face like a taunt rubberband when I return to Minneapolis and I can't say that I'm looking forward to it.