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Slow night tonight. Some nights, like this one, when I'm feeling a bit gentler and warmer than usual, I stay in because I've nobody to share it with. That's alright. A warm and humid day, which is usually not my favorite combination; the fog came out again at night, though. Good old Baltimore fog that I've missed; it never got this foggy in Taiwan, for some reason. It's warmer here than in Taiwan, too. That isn't right.

Been back in Baltimore for a few, mostly comatose, days. GRE review classes started. Total shit. Teacher doesn't know what he's talking about half of the time. Spend a lot of time doing "the math," when "the math" is really the last thing I'm worried about. What the heck, better than nothing. I hope.

Saw John and Sterling tonight. Made Sterling fix my Gallien-Krueger; guy's always fixing shit that I break for some reason. I'm just lucky to know electrical engineers. Later on we met up with John at the Deli, where they had food. John bought a six of Sparks. He offered me one. I stared at the can and thought of my uncles and my dad. I declined. It helped that I can't stand the stuff. I had two sips later for absolute lack of other things to do, and it was as terrible as I remembered it, but left it at that. I'm not sure if this is going to turn into a long-term moratorium on alcohol--I don't think so, but we'll see.

A few days before I left Taiwan, I met up with two more of my friends from boarding school. Musee and Ali were their names. Born in Taiwan, raised at TAS (Taipei American School), sent away to New Jersey to become disciples of the Big Red. We went to this coffee boutique my mother recommended; supposedly it sold the best coffee in Taipei. The place was called "Lee's Abode" (or something to that translation), and that's what it looked like: a living room, but decked out with more antiques, statues, paintings, ornaments, and decorations than we could pay attention to. The centerpiece of the room, right inside the front door, in front of an old couch, was a huge inner-lit globe. Ali ordered herbal tea, and Musee and I ordered straight coffee. Mr. Lee asked if we wanted a milder coffee or something with character. Musee and I both went for the character. He brought the coffee to our table as he was grinding it, letting us smell how the aroma changed as it heated up. When it finally came to us, in liquid form, at $14 a cup, it was the absolute best coffee I'd ever drank. The aftertaste was incredible, and lingered on for almost an hour after I was done drinking it. Not hyperbole. Truth.

We talked about things, obviously, as old schoolmates are wont to do; I didn't tell them I called them mostly because they were the only people I knew in the city. We hit upon an interesting topic; although they've both been away from Taipei as long as I have, they both still consider it "home," while for me it had long ago lost that certain comforting aspect. Maybe it's because they have more friends there? Maybe it's because they're better adjusted to the culture? They decided it was because they liked the food there, and food was important for them, while it wasn't for me.

Later on, though, when we went to Musee's house for dinner, her mother came up with another theory: I no longer considered Taiwan home, because I was already breaking away from my ties to "home" and searching for a home of my own. That's probably an accurate description, although I'm not sure I would call any of the other places I've lived in "home." Home implies a certainty, an invulnerability, that I've yet to sense from any location. I guess that's why I don't take trips too well; when I leave, I don't have the assurance that there will be a home for me to come back to.

That whole deal about remaining "in a state of constant departure while always arriving"? Bullshit. That's for tourists. That's for people who want to swoop into somewhere, skim its surface for the sweet bits, then fly away back to where they came from, remain who they were. That's for people who want novelty and adventure but are afraid to be changed by those things.

I think I do better living in a place than visiting it; I'm always uncomfortable and disoriented the first time I arrive somewhere, but after a period of time, I try to pick up on the place's rhythm and rationale. I think that's why I like Baltimore. It's not a tourist locale, except for the Inner Harbor, and it doesn't easily cough up rewards to those who blow through town, stealing from it its sights and sounds like looters. People who sightsee through life hate Baltimore. They think it hard to get around, dilapidated, and boring. I tend to scoff at those people. On the other hand, I believe this city does reward those who take it on its own terms, realize cities aren't just breadbaskets one sticks one's hand in and out of, and try to dig through the unseeming surface to the weirdness underneath. And there's a lot of that weirdness. I've been to shows where they played instruments that didn't have names; danced in warehouse apartments where they cranked funk and served wine and the fire escape was good to chill your head on when it got too sweaty inside; played a show in a basement with no stage or instrument mics after the owner of the venue, which was also an art gallery, made us and another band pasta. I can't say I'm a conoisseur of Baltimore, like I'm sure a lot of the "artists" or MICA students are, but try to have some sort of relationship with this city, on a personal level.

Intense, mutually intimate relationships; I tend to either have those, or none at all. With places as with people, I suppose. Or is it the other way around?