Twenty six kgs, that's heavier than I can lift, and an orange sticker smacked on the suitcase agrees. Heavy, it says. There are bags rolling through the machines, trolleys jammed into each other, people leaning over the railings to say a last word. I fill in forms, stand in queues while a cat hisses across immigration, and then the plane lifts and the only city I've known drops. I remember my little family, watching from a window as a white metal object blinks and softens in the haze above clouds. Then I feel heavily and confusedly sad, though I try to catch excitement, and it is all of those in beautiful reverse when the city, squares of brown and green, flits into my window and I know they are waiting there.

We are foodies with no money, so we decide to explore the grocery store one hungry dusk. Broadway Market, it's called, down the gently sloping road with brick houses whose lit up windows contain a family warmth we miss at college. The winter air settles and storms as it wishes, and we dig our chins deeper into our coats and scarves and fairly bounce off the pavement in our hurry to get there.