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Until that now distant Canadian dawn in that day of summer of 2014, I had never been abroad. At no time had I felt, up until then, how culture works in every dimension you could only begin to imagine: from the somewhat different gently dry breeze my skin tasted as soon as I disembarked, going through those unfamiliar voices I heard echoing in joy and laughter — speaking a tongue that in no way reminded me of my own — and, finally, to the comfortable seat of the neatly cared bus that would take me to the countryside city of London, which only a few hours drive divided me from. My baggage were not many, albeit just enough to be the reason of a sudden conversation: a rather lanky man, appearing twice my age then, who'd helped me with my volumes moments before entering the bus, sat by my side, seemingly sensing my enthrallment with the novelty that was life as it has just began in a new country. "Long way from home, eh?", he asked in a confident tone; "I am, sir", said I in confirmation, "I'll be living here for the next months". We kept on talking, enjoying every so often comfortable intervals of silence. He waved me goodbye immediately after exiting the bus, and simply made his way through that city which emitted nothing but tranquility. It was that matter of fact attitude that hit me ruthlessly at first, and kept me contemplating if all people I'd be meeting from then on were made of that intriguing mixture of cordiality and indifference — fairly like that soft wind I felt upon arrival: gentle and dry (which in my country is another word we use when wanting to mean "aloof"). Three months went by before I would be making the exact same trajectory — but, this time, on the backseat of a car. I had made some friends over time, who eventually invited me to spend a weekend in Toronto. At that point, we, tad by tad, had been getting used to our new life; none of us came from the same place, and yet we shared some of what surely are ours most treasured memories. I had come to a different country with two luggages and a heart full of expectations — which were all either met or surpassed. In my mind rested the certainty that I had known all sensations and feelings I could have. I had. Actually, except for one. I caught myself gazing trough the window, during said trajectory, as if awaiting to see more than the occasional flickering lights that quickly passed by in the horizon of that now darkened day. My thoughts anywhere, but in that car. I can recall the feeling of loneliness when I promptly jumped out of the car, as soon as we had arrived, saying I was going for a walk at the local park. The night was gusty; the wind carelessly cuddling my hair as I walked there. At some point, I heard a unknown bird chirping, and couldn’t help but recall the words of a Brazilian poet, who, in exile, wrote: "The birds that here tweet, carol not as there they do". Our bond, at said moment, went beyond our nationality. I felt homesick. Few seconds of realisation is all I was given; a soft push was felt in my right arm. I turned around and saw Bea, my newly made Spanish friend, with a silky voice that inexplicably matched her heavy accent. "We are going to grab some poutine. Everyone's waiting. Let's go". We went to a place we'd always go, sat at the table we'd always sit. I had just placed my order when a gaze of raccoons drew the attention of all my friends. They then started pointing at me, saying that my family came to visit me, referencing the tattoo I carry in the back of my left arm, depicting a raccoon hiding amidst flowers whilst offering an inquisitive, calm, serene look. The shop echoed with our joy and laughter, which I was now acquainted with. Eight thousand kilometers away from the place I was brought up, I found something no one would have ever expected: home.