Sitting on a deep maroon couch – ripped crisply through the center, revealing its aged experience with many others who sat on it many times before I – I thought of where I was. San Diego. Around 130 miles south from home: West LA. Whether it was briskly walking along Seaport Village or swiftly gathering ingredients on a Ralphs’ excursion, the accents of home trailed behind me, with conversations in Spanish covered in chocolate and silk. The sun was out, but the vehement wind from the coast remained – disallowing us to forget the proximity of its existence – and I knew that this was where I wanted to be.