Dear Friends,
This time last month, I was moving out of my shared house in the Ravenna neighborhood and awaiting keys to my sweet little apartment in North Beacon Hill. I’d moved into the shared house back on April first, after quarantining for fourteen days in a friend’s apartment in the U District. For the six months prior, Europe had been my home, although an unstable one. First I was in the Czech Republic for a Fulbright, then Italy, France, and the UK. I flew back from Iceland, where I’d planned a “vacation” before returning to the U.S., on March 16th.
In those early Covid days I was in the UK, and spent a few lovely days in Edinburgh, where I walked the emptying streets, bought a pink scarf in a lovely shop, and drank a Lagavulin in a pub, by myself, while watching the news unfold. I didn’t know that would be my last good Scotch (I’ve been sober nearly five months now), nor did I know that I was on my last travel adventure for a long time, but I was aware that something terrible …
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