After months of adventuring, exploring, museums, galleries, getting lost, plucking up my courage to ask questions to people who didn't speak English, eating food that I hadn't really planned to eat, explaining myself and my journey about a million times, losing things, marvelling at snow, meeting people I love and do not see enough, and spending vast quantities of money, I am back.
I love hearing my own accent reflected back at me. I love that I can make assumptions about what's expected of me in terms of social niceties. I love knowing my way around. I love the strength of the light here, so blazing after the soft, pale European skies.
The weeks of 40-degrees-plus have taken their toll. The grass in my backyard is pale yellow and crunches underfoot. The worst bushfires in Australia's history spread all over while I was crunching through the snow. I'm lucky that I only know people who lost their houses.
My mint is dead, and I didn't think you could kill that. The parsley's leaves have half turned yellow. But somehow, the curled up brown tomato stalks still have some green leaves - and are bearing tiny, scarlet fruit.
For the first time, I tasted something that I had planted, and I smiled.
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