A place to call my own

With such sparse updates on my blog, I should consider quitting it altogether. Not that it really matters cause my most avid fan seems to be Auntie Christine who once asked with genuine concern, "You haven't been blogging as often have you?" To which I resignedly nodded.

For once, after so long, I do have something to blog about besides work, work, Macarune and work.

Going back to the States this time around stirred a lot of fond recollections. I remember what it's like to sleep in the car during long afternoon drives with the sun on my face. Stepping out of my room without sweating buckets. Watching chatty chefs prepare seasonal vegetables at Chez Panisse behind the counter where the big bowl of bing cherries stand. Having a cocktail lunch by myself at Spruce after a cut and wash. Rummaging through racks of Theory work wear and weekend pieces by Elizabeth & James at Bloomie's. Or walking along familiar streets that were flat, steep, crooked and straight.

Some experiences were more comforting than others, such as drinking Throat Coat tea with local honey from the farmer's market and meeting old friends.

Others were new yet pleasant, such as staying at a lovely apartment in Pac Heights cooking dinner at an unfamiliar kitchen.

The least expected were ones that helped build character: taking a last minute flight to LA for a visa I should've prepared...

Everything seemed so natural. So real. As if we never left. But we did. And now we're back, our luggages bursting with Reese's peanut butter cups and our hearts filled to the brim with more fond memories to share.

There was a time I didn't know where I belong, but now I think I do.