Temporary Home

He was lost in the reflections as his feet played across the wet asphalt. All the signs and neon were bouncing back at him with such vibrance that he couldn't help but become absorbed in them. He was lucky that it had rained - otherwise the colors that were shining upon his face would not exist. It didn't matter to him that he couldn't understand what all the signs meant. Actually - it made the stroll even more special. It was a surprise to find the words he knew - pharmacy, hardware store, cafe. Every time he was able to translate something in his mind, a smile crept across his face.

As he continued down the street - he soaked everything else in. He made sure to wander off the sidewalk and into the middle of the street - between the cars. Taking his time. No rush to go anywhere in particular. The cobblestones bulged against the soles of his shoes, pushing into the bottoms of his feet gently. They felt old. Weathered. Even through the rubber. He could feel their age. Imagine the time they were being laid. Men and women, down on their hands and knees. He was humbled by the mere thought - forever indebted to them. Their work made his stroll possible.

All around him, people spoke languages he didn't understand Their tongues seemed to move at light speed - spitting out consonants and vowels that his mouth wasn't familiar with. But there was something mesmerizing about it. How it flowed out of their mouths and into the air effortlessly. Absolutely beautiful. He walked in silence, just letting the words find their way to his ears. Never before had he felt so vulnerable. Or alone. But at the same time, he felt completely engulfed. Cushioned by foreign words. Hugged from all sides.

Eventually his eyes drifted from the passing faces to the architecture that stretched out above and before him. And again he was lost. In the hues of the paints, the arches above the windows, the plaster work of storefronts. He loved how close every building was. Neighbors by construct. The narrow streets felt more like home than the bustling highways he was accustomed too - more secure and inviting. Safe. Flares of old mingled with tinges of modern. Every building oozed history. Proud of their heritage. Who built it and where its roots began.

Even the air was special. Clean and pure. Intoxicating to his lungs. Changing as he meandered between the different neighborhoods. At times he smelled fresh produce, other times stale beer seeping from a bar. Depending on the street he chose to wander down, he could run into the lingering smell of french cuisine or a kebab stand. But for now, since the last corner he had rounded, the smell of fried dough invaded his nose with a slight accent of warm, melted chocolate.

As he continued on, further and further into the heart of the city, he quickly realized he no longer felt like a tourist.

This felt like home.