The other day, I had this sudden jerk of a feeling: I missed Berkeley. There was a place in my heart that suddenly longed to be back, that longed to walk down Shattuck Avenue, to downtown Berkeley, and from there to the J-school, passing along my way the Japanese restaurant that Sam and I loved, the Starbucks I never went to except that one time with S when she needed tea, the music store where I bought my audio equipment, the many bookstores I frequently visited, and the large, beautiful library that I never really did spend enough time in.

I missed the smells or maybe the lack of them, the quaint little house where I lived, the well-dressed people going along their way, hurrying along to wherever they needed to be, pulling their coats tightly around them in the winters, their fingers wrapped around their paper cups of coffee. I miss the hugs and the smiles of the homeless people, who always told me to have a good day whether or not I had given them money that day (or ever). I miss Berkeley Bowl, and the creamy cheesecake that was a must-have each time I shopped there. I miss my Korean neighbor who talked a lot, the Burmese diner owner who kept me fed, my American roommate who introduced me to all things American, the way she practiced her Mandarin every evening after coming home from work.

I miss walking into school for our Thursday class, and knowing that we’d have a fascinating discussion, no matter the subject. I miss our dinners, the hours we spent in a coffee shop after class, S and my weekly Thai dinner, M’s constant teasing.

For a moment, as I thought of my life in Berkeley, I couldn’t breathe. Then the feeling passed.