I caught a plane the next day and realized that the city was still as much a stranger to me as it was when I arrived. In Paris, I had hoped to reconnect with someone I once loved, to find myself anew in a foreign culture. I hoped that Paris would heal me, not realizing that I needed to heal myself or that in running away from my problems, I was just creating new ones. I could blame all my problems on Paris, but it was my fault for expecting the city to fix them. Paris didn’t need to be held accountable: I did.

When I landed at O’Hare, the boy I barely knew picked me up, and after I stepped off the plane, he held me so tight. He held me like I had needed to be held for so long. I would get held a lot in the next couple weeks, by family, by friends and by people I didn’t even know missed me.

Paris might always stay a stranger to me, but when I got back to Chicago, I found the connection I needed. I found home again, where people at least have the decency to masturbate to you on the train.