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Visiting Riga is always a little bit of an emotional journey. I don’t miss the architecture, the places, the smell, the people I don’t know that make up the majority of the city’s population. It’s the people I do know that always make me wish I could stay a tiny bit longer. There aren’t a lot of them, but holy crap do they make it count.

But anyway, after a two hour flight next to a woman with a tiny baby that either cried or tried to grab the book I was reading; after a two hour coach ride next to a South Korean guy, who was extremely friendly and wanted to know everything about London (because apparently I kind of look like a Londoner) - a wish that I couldn’t grant, sadly; after another two hour coach ride next to a kid playing a Star Wars game on his PSP on maximum volume and shouting: “stupid game!” at equal intervals and an Indian guy behind me talking on the phone for the whole duration of the ride - I kind of started to feel the sadness and nostalgia dissipate. I guess, as you’re immersed into life that’s still bubbling, rushing, ticking, you inevitably come to the conclusion that standing there moping, as this giant colorful carnival of the present passes you by is not an option.​

It was a delight to realize that when I say “home” now - I always mean UK, whether it’s Newcastle, Eastleigh or Southampton. And there was a moment of confident calm when I entered my flat late yesterday evening, sat down, and it was quiet and I knew I was home.