IT’S FUNNY HOW SOME PLACES can become your home when you least expect it. After another dreary day in Cagli, I trudged back to my apartment from the Atrium ready for a break.
      I turned my key in the old wooden door to exactly the right angle, slipped my fingers around the door’s wrought iron handle, and forcefully pulled before gently pushing to open the door. I smiled to myself that it took a few days for me to master such protocol. I reached out in the dark and flicked the timer button second-naturedly—click!—the entire stone hallway was illuminated. Every time I walk through our entrance tunnel of rocky ground and white arched ceiling, I wonder how old this place is and who used to live here.
      I rounded the two flights of stairs up to my door and entered with a sigh of relief. The comfort that washed over my body came as a shock. The only place I’ve ever known to allow my body a sense of relief, like somebody had just let all the tension drain out, is my home. Was I home?
      I looked around our little apartment of two bedrooms, a bath, kitchen, and living room. Somehow it had become mine. Our keys lay on the table in the entry way, various shoes and notebooks lay scattered about, and from the kitchen I could smell the hearty flavors of our usual chicken and asparagus dinner.
      Somewhere between the culture shock, deadlines, and even homesickness, this place had become my home. Not like the place I grew up in of course—but one that took me in and wrapped its arms around me after a long day, soothing me into leaving my worries behind. It took me in, and so had Cagli.

--Allison James
(Loyola)