Paris was like some feverish dream. I arrived at night not having eaten or slept for the last twenty-four hours. Too nervous. The next morning I awoke to grey skies and rain. I felt sick, my head fuzzy, and whole body rebelling against this new foreign country. But I set out anyways. The next few days were a strange few. I roamed, no map, no real destinations. Hopping on and off at whichever metro stations stuck my fancy. I got lost several times, trying to pronounce French street names and failing rather miserably. Far from what I expected, everyone met my bad French with a hint of amusement and a lot of curiosity. Where are you from? How long will you be here? What have you seen? You should see __________! I meet people who I talk late into the night with, but might never see again. Everything seems to move quickly at first and I feel overwhelmed, but then I find the quiet. Little forests on the edge of the city, street side cafes where the waiters seem to care less whether you stay five minutes or five hours, little libraries with rows of dusty books. Home wherever I go.