The last month was crazy – I have gone around the world – literally so, if you discount the Pacific Ocean. From Tel Aviv I went as far as Japan and then went from Tel Aviv to San Francisco. It was simply the most I have travelled in a month. This post though is not about my around the world trips but about the city I missed while I was travelling.

The first time I left Tel Aviv for a short trip I was dispassionate about leaving. You could attribute it to my excitement of meeting cousins after a long time masking any feelings I may have had for the city in which I was residing. Before the second such trip I made a trip to my favourite falafel stall and ice cream parlour because I had to create enough memories of Tel Aviv food to last me my month-long stay away the city. As if that was all I was going to miss about the city.

The third trip out of Tel Aviv was to the country of my birth, India. I was happy to be going back. Meeting parents after a year was the highlight of the trip and Tel Aviv was not missed. I did not even get a chance to miss the falafel because who thinks of falafel when there is dosa, vada, pongal, and mirchi bajji? I could not care less about falafel.

It was when I returned that it really hit me. Tel Aviv was my home. The city where I did not have to live out of a suitcase, a city where I knew the latest traffic diversions, a city where the grocery store guy recognised me, a city where I had a home.

Two years on, I am miserable when I am away from Tel Aviv. I miss Tel Aviv like anyone would miss their home city. It is strange because I never imagined to feel this comfortable in a foreign city. A city where I had no friends, no family, people spoke an alien tongue, and most of all a city where I had nothing to do.

I did not find this comfort easily. I took time to embrace this city and my life here. It took time and effort. Now I do not want to go back. Because how do I say goodbye to a city that looks like this in the summer?