Stepping out of the cold airport (and airplane) into the hot, humid Houston air, I have never been so grateful for the feeling in my life. It is, as usual, like falling face-first into a rather disgustingly warm pool, but after surviving a Russian winter I am totally fine with it. I expected things to be a bit more climactic, to be honest, but my dramatic return to the closest thing I’ve ever had to a hometown, it seems, also fell on its face.
Houston, my city, not my picture.
Later, I stay up pacing the boundaries of my room for hours, even though I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the entire year living with only enough personal belongings that can fill up my backpack, and the clutter that pervades my house stresses me out like nothing else. I stare at the belongings I left behind last August and feel the compulsive need to straighten them all out, but instead I wring my hands and pace some more.
