I have had the same recurring dream since I was in my mid-twenties. I am trying to get home and can’t speak – everything is garbled. People think I’m drunk. I can’t remember my address. Uber doesn’t work. I’m stranded and just want to get home desperately. Since I’ve lived in Paris, the dream has disappeared. Completely. I now wonder if this means I’ve found my home. The place I’m meant to be forever. I’m writing again. I’m thinking again. I’m happy again. Maybe this is my last stopping place.