Home is a strong word, as you once said. I remember when I felt at home for the first time in London, it was in your house. I was sitting in the backyard, having some tea and a piece of carrot cake. Maybe it was the comforting tea, or the luscious cake, the melody from the water fountain, or your words … You sipped from the city as I did from the cup of Earl Grey, revealing each note of flavour in all its depth, translating all its complexity in familiar terms.
In each word a lane unfolded: an alley, the red bricks, the chimneys, the riverfront, the pubs and their food and their ales. I would never be able to see the city in the same way again. I knew about it, it knew about me. I saw it, it saw me. It was alive. I finally felt alive.
But I had to come back. I had to feel the sand, to endure the heat, to be dazzled by the colours, to smell the cardamom and the incense. I had to be in touch once again with the people who kept my heart captive. I had to undo the spell. I came back to set my soul free. I came back to say goodbye.
I wish I could show you the secrets and magic in each fold of this desert linen, or take you to every little corner of the world that I have been to and make them all your home for a little while. I would probably fail, as I can’t taste the complexity and talk about it as you do. But I can try.
I hope everything is well in our brave little corner of the world.
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