Back in London after two weeks away. I wasn’t in just any place but in the one place I’ve ever called home. It’s been a while since I figured out that this word — home — is a fallacy and still some places unsurprisingly pull me towards them more than others. This trip was supposed to happen in April 2020 — it’s unnecessary to explain why it didn’t. This delay means that I didn’t return to Argentina for five years, and for almost a decade to my hometown Rosario, since during my last trip I remained in Buenos Aires. This is the longest I’ve ever stayed away, an absence that became the source of all sorts of sufferings, so much so that for some moments I thought I had a chance of being commissioned a book of “personal essays”.
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