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My slowly developed love for Madrid—10 years in the making—reflects this search for a lifelong mate.I first wandered Madrid when I was 20, in the spring of 2000.One of my favorite bloggers, Miranda, says she still window-shops for places to live even though she calls Oxford her home. I’ve wandered cities like Montreal and Berlin and Austin and Granada and Tokyo and imagine living in these places, searching for a cute apartment building to live in and the neighborhood coffee shops and bars to frequent. But like all good things, it will end—it changes, or we do—and we spend our lives searching for that perfect fit again.

And in regard to love, I’ve figured out that I won’t ever figure things explain my writing process, and also to hint at how I see the world.This early 1500s painting is a triptych (composed of three panels): the left depicts Eden; the center displays a whimsical orgy of nude figures, creatures, and surrealist iconography; and the right panel, dark and moody, depicts hell.And so this house will always be “home,” though it’s much more than that: it’s the rich, blessed intersection that Celeste describes.But it’s something into which I was born—a natural, blood-tied web. But between these walls, the space feels empty—and the air is stagnant—despite the sofas, the dishes, the lamps, and the pieces of art from around the world. So I’m always intrigued, even comforted, to hear that others who have a home keep on looking. Or call it that illusion of endless choice that Elisabeth Eaves writes about: the option to work for this employer or that one, or to live in Hong Kong or the Outback. Bart Schaneman writes about living in the right place at just the right time.

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