So, when people were snobby or things didn't go smoothly for me, I said, "Whatever, that's just Charlottesville." The restaurants were good. It was nice to be able to walk wherever I wanted. But it never felt like the city in which I lived. Rob was a student, and I was almost a tourist; his live-in girlfriend, along for the ride.
I love Charlottesville, and I love my friends here, but I hadn't planned to feel bad about moving away.
I got to Para and ordered a latte, chatted with the barista, and took a seat at the bar to write a couple things down in a notebook. "Alright," I thought a few minutes later, "time for me to get back home." Home. I use the word loosely, and then I confuse myself with my many homes.
I walked back to the apartment, feeling a little down. There were things to pack, and the weekend would begin with Rob catching a flight to the other side of the world. But then I walked into our bedroom and crawled into the familiar arms of my still sleeping and scruffy-faced boyriend, and I felt at home, realizing that the great restaurants and that library and the coffee shop with homemade pistachio milk certainly help, but in the end, it doesn't matter if it's Charlottesville or Charlotte or Roanoke or China, because home is about who you find when you get there.