Home is something of an abstract concept for me, but this -- watching out the BART window as the streets of Oakland roll by, resuming my ongoing struggle with the cashier at the corner store over whether or not I need a plastic bag to carry my juice 20 feet to my door, digging my house key out of my backpack, and walking up the stairs to my room -- is about as close as it gets these days. I'm filled with an unseemly amount of happiness to return to my bed, my desk, my nice big towel, and the other inanimate objects that make life pleasant. I'm right back to the grind tomorrow, but I have friends and familiar places to look forward to seeing. It's good to travel. It's good to be home.