March 18, 2011

I love this city’s smell, the low-slung skyline that, in fog, could almost be Paris, the earnest agitation of people for whom ordinary days involve world leaders, or, at least, their staff. But that figure waving across the street could be someone I know, or just the spectre of then—I have become the outsider here, unsure of my footing.

When are you coming back? my friends ask.

I’m not, I reply.

I was born within this city’s borders, but learned to be an expatriate early. I can return home for a visit, but am not home at all.

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