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Travel. The word inspires in us the thoughts of far-away lands, eternal summer, and cultures that swirl around, gifting us with a piece of ourselves that we never knew we had. But travel is only as good as you make it; a trip to the local grocery can be the adventure of a lifetime, while two months in far-off lands can seem like a chore. My travel story? It’s simple, it’s one of falling in love. There was a boy, of course, but this particular story isn’t about him. It’s about his home. You see, a mere forty-minute drive outside of my home city, there is a tiny village in the Bulgarian mountains. The roads are gravel, the dogs are mean, the buzzing and chirping is constant, and the air is soft. Have you ever felt air that’s soft? That wraps you up in a blanket, as you perch on the patio, a drink in your hand, a cat on your lap and a feeling of fullness in your chest. It’s the same air that makes the two hammocks swing, as you lay in them, toes barely grazing a grass so green you can’t name the color, enjoying the quiet, enjoying the people. It’s the same air that hugs you when words aren’t enough to say goodbye because you have to leave for a long time. It’s the same air that was your constant companion in lazy summer afternoons as you walked around unknown mountaintops. It’s funny, those mountaintops that are so unfamiliar to you, so new, seem to have known you for all of eternity, even if you don’t know them still. They’re someone’s home, such a part of them that they have grown boring, sometimes annoying. Would you like them to be your home, you ask yourself? Would you like to stay tucked here forever, in this bubble of warmth, love and adventure? Safe adventure. Because you still see the cottage from there, you see people who love you, who you can’t refrain from loving as well. And you love their home, this big part of them that has wormed its way into your heart, that you will miss in the months and years to come. This small cottage, nestled among the mountaintops that are the definition of nature and peace. And then there was a fire. As you were packing up to go to the seaside, for one last adventure with the boy you love before you leave for college; cliché. You open the door for him, to grab your bags and head to the train, just as his phone rings. ‘There’s been a fire’, his dad says. ‘Come.’ So you do. You leave home, friends and plans, you trade out bikini for sweaters and head up to the mountain to look at the damage. The cottage you wouldn’t admit to yourself you call home now has no roof. It’s all black inside, the book covers all match as they’re the same shade of soot. You laugh, a sad sound. What else can you do, when faced with a tragedy? Be thankful it’s yours just by proxy? You pour Jaeger for everyone, sing a few songs, talk about details, sweep phone flashlights through the dark inside, that matches the dark outside. Except for the stars and the moon. Always watching you. I guess the fire was their ally, opening for them a window through which to survey you, unhindered by wooden planks. And the next day you clean. You pull out years of history, tucked away in cupboards and drawers, you listen to stories and try to decide what can be salvaged, and what should be thrown. You traveled to get there, heart full of dread, a comforting hand wrapped around his. You traveled in history, among someone else’s life. But most importantly you traveled within yourself. You find unexpected love and attachment; you find your opinions and strengths. You find courage, an unapologetic need to be yourself. Then you travel away, to the other end of Europe. But you make a special place in your heart for that one cottage in the mountain that stole your heart that summer. The one you’ll eventually travel back to.