I got home two days ago from my two week summer in Istanbul. I had dreaded the prospect of returning, of relenting the liberties that are afforded by being away from home. My flight ticket, booked months in advance, brought to mind not the weightlessness from soaring thousands of feet above ground, but the fright of becoming tethered for the month starting my arrival. I definitely wasn’t a death row inmate working through my last meal, but I sure did savor the said flight and its little pleasures. I spent my time reading a curious novel by a Czech author, watching a lovely coming of age movie, and napping on the entire row that I had claimed for myself. Then, I cleared the arrival check, and spoke very little on the drive home until I got home a little after midnight.
a love letter from home
a love letter from home
a love letter from home
I got home two days ago from my two week summer in Istanbul. I had dreaded the prospect of returning, of relenting the liberties that are afforded by being away from home. My flight ticket, booked months in advance, brought to mind not the weightlessness from soaring thousands of feet above ground, but the fright of becoming tethered for the month starting my arrival. I definitely wasn’t a death row inmate working through my last meal, but I sure did savor the said flight and its little pleasures. I spent my time reading a curious novel by a Czech author, watching a lovely coming of age movie, and napping on the entire row that I had claimed for myself. Then, I cleared the arrival check, and spoke very little on the drive home until I got home a little after midnight.