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Always feels like a minor victory to reach back home after these mad trips. That nice, chalky smell. The familiar everything. No more having to dash off outside for every meal, or count in strange currency and convert, not having to psycho-analyse waiters, or take pictures of everything because you don’t see it everyday and therefore must document. No having to rummage in suitcase or wake up and get dressed before you have your first shot of caffeine. Not having to use those silly little bath gels and bottles of “shampooing conditioner/ conditioning shampoo”. But also no new sense of discovery, no surprises around every corner, no exotic foreign language, no coffee house from the early 1800s. Or illuminated bridges and castles upon hill tops. No trams. A fine balance – the reasons for travelling and the reasons for feeling happy to be back home.

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