This is just before landing on Tuesday evening. It’s now Friday morning. I love this picture with the huge river, the farmland still not awake to spring. When I am in Europe part of me feels at home. When I walk some paths that thousands walked, enter a cathedral where millions lit a candle or let a prayer arise like incense, order a coffee and sit on the sun on an ancient square, I feel part of a long story.

But like so many in Montreal, where I live, I am now a page torn out and stitched, patched together in another book. The cover of that book is a harsh climate, vast spaces that, even today, are not quite tamed by technology. The pages of our story are written in different languages, sometimes ragged and torn, sometimes brilliantly illustrated.

In my little apartment, I am surrounded by pictures of my European family, souvenirs of my “ adventures”, art family members created. I sleep in my own bed, walk in the park near my home. The phone rings… “welcome home”