This time of year reminds me of travelling, of train stations, and carting around bread and cheese in my back pack and sun drenched moments sitting on the edge of forests and rivers and city parks. The combination of blue skies, wood smoke and diesel take me back to a stoop in Istanbul, a fruit vendor in Delhi and a canteen in Budapest.
Yesterday, in my own city, without a passport, that feeling suffused the air.
I was walking downtown on an errand and that wood smoke laced crisp air sent me on a different route than usual. I went left instead of right, up the hill, instead of down. I took the next street over when I usually never do.
I ended up seeing the city through new eyes and the food trucks and market vendors could have been anywhere.
I walked through the train station and I could have been going somewhere.
I came home having travelled somewhere.