The closest I can come to calling a place home is Cannes. I was born there and spent the bulk of my first four years there. Even when we left, until I was 16, my sister and I return during the holidays.
The picture is of a ramp going down to the beach directly in front of the apartment we lived in. It's at the very end of the Croisette, just off of a little park where I learnt how to ride a bike. Where, when I was three I lost my favourite toy: a doll named Piccolo.
My grandmother taught me how to swim in the shallow waters you can just glimpse in the picture. I remember her hand pressed under my stomach as she urged me to kick and keep my head up. I learnt quickly, but always preferred to swim under water. Once my sister and I could both swim, she'd take us swimming up to a little platform just off the beach. The trip there and back terrified me and I'd keep my eyes open and in the sea looking out for predators.
Later, we took sailing lessons in little toy-like boats with names like Mikado and Lucky Lady. In teams of two at first, and then alone, we sailed around the bay. I had one friend, so androgynous I still have no idea wether it was a boy or a girl, who I partnered up with most often. The two of us pretended we were sailing in a pot of Gargamel stew and that our boats were potatoe wedges.
Over the years, Cannes lost it's appeal. I wasn't old enough to enjoy the nightlife and missed my friends back home. Over the summers, the city became too full to manouver, and in the winter, it was a dull vaccuum as only vacation towns can be. When I turned 16, my mother finally let me decide where I wanted to spend my vacations and I didn't set foot in Cannes again for 8 years.
When I finally returned last year, my grandfather had died and my grandmother had sold the only apartment I could call home. My father was recovering from cancer and he too had moved away, to the place he was born. I returned alone, in the dead of winter and walked the first streets of my life. I wasn't sad because I missed them, but because I didn't - because at some point, I'd like to have a place to call home.
One of my New Year's resolutions (or wishes) is to escape to Salema, Portugal for a few months. It just looks heavenly and peaceful. Idealy I'd like to make it out there in April or May and stay of for about six months. Nothing but me, a backpack and a typewriter. No books, no email, no phone. Just good old fashioned letters and postcards back to my loved ones. Then, after six months, I'd like to travel north to Porto and walk to Santiago de Compostela to complete the pilgrimage I have been wanting to make for years.
The actual campsite was a lot more organized than I think we expected, but it was still an incredibly beautiful place with tons of wild animals that kept creeping up to us. After the long drive from NY I think we all wanted to just relax for a bit - but luckily th guys put the tent up before we opened too many beers...
It was a lucky thing too, because no sooner was the tent up then it began to pour! I have never seen sooo much rain in my life. So, half an hour after having arrived, all three of us huddled around our miserable little campfire getting drenched by the rain.
It rained pretty much all night long, so we had no choice but to change into dry(ish) clothes and hide-out in the tent with a copious amount of beer. When we finally passed out, we all discovered the foolishiness of not having sleeping bags. The storm was so bad that at times it blew the tent almost flat onto us, and rain streamed in all night long. 
