Patrick’s last trip took him farther into inhospitable lands, where the line between life and death was barely visible. He had travelled the world all his life, yet the final challenge, he thought, was to go back to that first feeling of triumph, of heroic discovery. As fragile as everything seemed to be, his plans, his trip, his health, he was determined. The flight took many hours, the car ride a handful of tortuous fights against gravity’s merciless determination. The worst was the walk, miles and miles, through tropical jungle, constantly tripping over nature, struggling to overcome feverish thoughts about unreal certainties and long lost recollections. Patrick knew he would succeed. He knew he would reach his goal, and the goal was nothing more and nothing less than to wander about with an apparent plan that in reality was just a broadly defined destination. What caught Patrick off guard was the fact that unknowingly his wanderlust turned into a straight line between his past and his present, a trip to see his lifelong friend Tom who had stayed all these years in the jungle. Patrick, the archeologist, was going back to see Tom. Sometimes home is not where we were born, where we bought a house, where we have lived for ages. Sometimes home is a hug from an old friend.