Oh, this was a good month. Slow, and long, but good. Stretched out in bliss across countries, continents, and contrasting temperatures; in weather and of the heart. Started off the year in Istria with our dear lifelong friends, mulled gin, the most glorious sunset on the last day of the old year. A midnight concert in the tiny city centre with ćevapi the next day to ring in the first. Pula and Rovinj were, of course, the crowns of our visit but in the end it was all about our time together, laughs, and book recommendations shared. I discovered Terranino Spritz and The Correspondent by Virginia Evans; as unrelated as they might seem, they are both my wholehearted recommendations to everyone.

Books are again a constant in my life in a way that I have missed so much in the last few years. But I’m reading, dear friend, which is to say, I’m feeling alive after a long while. We spent a lot of time on the road, driving hundreds of kilometres between the Gulf of Trieste, Istria, and the Dalmatian Coast. One way or another, the sea is a constant in my life; always in the background, always there. Again, I left home with a heavy heart.

Vienna waited for me, after long years of my absence, with the usual: Albertina, Mozartkugel, Wiener Schnitzel, Melange und Apfelstrudel. The thing is though, I don’t feel like a tourist despite the fact that I intentionally behave like one every time I visit. I walked down Wollzeile and felt a familiarity that transcended my lifetime.

There were signs everywhere. A small penguin in a window shop, ex-Yugo surnames in bookstores, a vending machine with coffee, a chess set, Persian rugs, and fishing paraphernalia. The single frozen but blue and sunny Sunday, suddenly breaking up a streak of long, dreary, grey weeks. Of course, the sun was not for me but it was nice to pretend. I was on my own but still had company (the feeling of a warm sun on my skin; in the form of messages). That, too, felt like a sign. It was all in there. Austrian Airlines did not disappoint despite the delayed flight — which was also meant to be.

Seven hours back to the desert, some wine, and hundreds of written words later:“And if you’re not visiting, welcome back home.”