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I fit the past four months into two suitcases and a backpack. I made my bed one last time in Paris and closed the door behind me. I walked down the skinny hallway, placed my key on the dining room table, walked down to the foyer, and out onto Rue Saint Dominique one last time. It was 4:30 a.m. when I said goodbye while the rest of the city continued to sleep. As the taxi drove by many of the places I spent time in, a slideshow of memories, rendezvous, and eaten baguettes resurfaced. I past and left metro stops behind that I often met friends at, and suddenly my tale in Europe was ending.


I'm now home and being outside means silence. The air is crisp and the ocean continues to crash. I drive down Conanicut Avenue and notice the familiar site is comforting.

My days are filled differently. I stay in bed a little longer. I see trees outside my windows, and some mornings when I'm lucky, the birds chirp. Routines have begun and more importantly I see faces that I missed seeing. Life here kept moving as I jumped out of it for a short while, but it was just as easy to fall back into it. There is a little less to observe at home so my brain can finally hear itself think, though I'm starting to question whether I believe this is a good thing. Sometimes it's better to not pay so much attention to the details.

I have time now to catch up on those t.v. series that used to rule my world, cook in a kitchen that isn't the size of a hallway, but also eat out in restaurants where the staff remembers me (and is happy to serve). I ride on wheels now rather than trains so it's nice to see life moving above ground. Did I ever leave?