I arrived a week ago yesterday. Left a cold, bright London, flew through the night. Arrived to the heat and the sunshine, the dust, the mirages on tarmac.
I already feel like I have been here far longer than a week. I am reminded of the Maura Dooley poem, History, and its opening: It's only a week but already you are slipping... London and her cold February days seeming a long way away. The missing of people, places, is there, yes, but also the relief, after the months of preparation, to be here, finally.
To have arrived.