Home is more like a feeling, not like a place.

For three years I was involved in squatting movement. During those times I had wandered most of European countries. Taking part. Taking pictures. I can't be thankful enough for the people who had just been there. For those afternoons and evenings, collective dinners, discusions, music, hard guestroom floors, trust, this movie No man's land watched together, letting me the keys for someone's room. New Year's Eve on the roof. This moment when somebody was yelling 'get the fuck out, this is our home!' while swiging a hockey stick when nazis were raiding a party. J.'s ridiculously big balled rat named Garlic. This moment when I was awakened by seven newborn puppies humming. Sleeping naked on the roof in Barcelona. A. in white jacket. A squatted bridge in Roma. Hitchhiking in south France. An enormous amount of dumpster dived bananas, and too much chocolate to carry. Masala smell, club mate, nicest dogs ever, and this feeling of being at home.