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I like to believe that the only border between all of the places that my feet have touched and me, is just a plain line, much like a thread. It is everywhere, yet impossible to find- so I stopped looking. I guess that was the key to its appearance. That humid evening, I was walking aimlessly through my hometown. Turning sharply around the corner, I spot a girl coming from the opposite direction. I allow just a few centimeters to remain the only space between us- perfectly enough for preventing a collision. I didn’t care enough to move. Recollecting that moment, It is almost cartoon-like in my mind. Immensely visible lines swirling around the top of my head, making their way down to my nose at the most convenient moment of a deep inhale. A heavy sugary scent that the girl selflessly spilled around caused the thin line appear at the tips of my toes, allowing me to step right into Moscow, 2015. I was fourteen, sitting in a cramped dining room of a small apartment, typical and expected for such a densely populated city. Not that long ago, I was in my significantly bigger dining room, but in a far smaller city of Novi Sad, with the same little Russian girl, Margarita, across from me. We were her hosts during the student exchange program, and now, she and her family were mine. I stare at a plate full of pelmeni- Russian dumplings, forcing myself to one after the other. With the illusion of every bite making me closer to the lifestyle I had just been introduced to, I stuffed myself until I was sick. It couldn’t have been more than five steps that led us to the living room, where Basya, the dog that never loved me, waited (I’m convinced that even now, after 5 years, he would still growl at the sight of my face). This was the room for making life-long bonds and I felt it every time I found myself there, but it was rather hard considering the tiring attempts to make sense of our serbo-russian mixed with sign language. It truly is a bittersweet obstacle, the omnipresent language barrier, helping us create stories we'll always remember. In such a confined space, an enormous harp still managed to find her place, accompanied by an old-fashioned piano. Margarita's father suggested her to play ''the song'' for me (''Rita, you know, THE song''). To this day, I don't know the exact name of it, but it was a nice, somewhat classical piece. I was lost in the sounds her long, slim fingers were making, and all I kept thinking was – people still do this? Harps are a rarity in Serbia. Her younger sister Liza followed on the piano. From what seemed like a magic room, their father kept taking out all kinds of musical instruments and, inter alia, one old guitar. I knew a total of ten chords, but it was just enough for the memory which was about to be created. We played a new, undoubtedly easier song together, and I felt so relieved that everyone in that room, for once, spoke the same language. The song, it had a scent to it- at least in my head. The room we were in, it smelled like ginger and honey. The pelmeni I was sick of had a smell of a Russian home. All of Russia had a scent. Can you try to imagine what a Matryoshka doll would smell like? That's Russia. It all fused into one- sent here to Novi Sad in a jar, packed by someone from across the world. It landed into the arms of the girl passing me by on the street, and 5 years later, pulled me back into time when I first understood the saying , ''You will never be completely at home again, because part of your heart will always be elsewhere.'' That humid evening, for 5 minutes only, I was roaming through Moscow once more.