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We are here. In the Old World. In Western Europe. Maybe our ancestors came through here, but likely not. Leisure travel wasn’t common for our family trees. 

A month of surprise, struggle, and success. A month where we got sick, where we got frustrated with local banking and getting our phones re-baptized to work on local ground. A month where I started a new job and where you continued your old one. New clothes, new foods. So much walking. So much exploring. Immigration forms and other paperwork to say we aren’t tourists. We belong here. We are residents. Not citizens, but good citizens. Grateful for the opportunity. Making a home a little every day. 

We just sent off our apartment application for a place that is just a couple blocks south of here. We want to stay in the neighborhood. Quiet, west of the chaotic city. A walk into the friction and a walk out. Near enough to see it but we away. The city on our terms.

In a week, it’ll be Christmas, our first without having to see anyone under the forced dictate of family obligations. It will be small for us, distant, maybe a little sad and desolate, but people will be coming to us in the new year. For now, this is our home, our tradition, our holiday. And if we are lucky, we will have gotten ourselves a place of our own for Christmas. 

Thank you for being there for me when all this was anxiety and illness and stress of a new job in a new country. I love you.