There is something very strange about seeing Brunelleschi’s dome out of the airplane window. Brunelleschi's Il Duomo from an airplane window Please, I just want to get off. The thought repeated monotonously through my head as our plane flew slowly over Britain. I was curled up, scrunched, and twisted in my seat. My classmate in front of me had her seat leaned down back into my knees. Cheap pasta sat cold on my tray along with a full cup of orange…something—thinking of food

I was more ready to go back home, than to go home. I sulked at the pillar at the other side of the terminal, waiting for the Flyaway Bus. As much as I did not really want to go back to home, with tasteless cement boxes for houses and food with more fluff than filling, at least I was no longer on seven hours of dehydration in a plane bouncing on air. Yet it felt like I had left a home at the same time. LAX I was not the only with the same sentiment. The bus came. Luggage wa