I am home again, and everywhere I look is a sight both familiar and alien. I am at once comforted and unsettled by the amenities I had become accustomed to live without: my car, gleaming sleekly in the driveway; my bed, waiting for only one tired body; my closet, with more clothes than I remember what to do with.
While abroad, I had gotten used to walking more than ten miles a day on considerably less food. Breakfast consisted of black coffee, some nice German breads, melon, and tomatoes. Lunch was more often than not a nectarine, bought from the street market, and a chunk of bread, maybe a pretzel. Dinner was whatever, but I never over ate there. I already miss that, the feeling of satiation without extension- full, but still light. I woke this morning to a yearning in my legs to walk. The muscles had already hardened under the stress of visiting Mozart's birthplace, walking along rivers, tiptoeing to see over old castle walls.
It's so easy to see why people over there age so very well, and are so trim.
This post is to be very short, because I can no longer sit still enough in this room to write about what's already forgotten. I just want to tell you that I miss being a guest in another land, and thinking of anything other than the here and now.
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