Three months

It's been three months. I wake up early, around 6:20, though I don't need to be up for an hour. My sleep cycle is finally back on track to American standards, so I don't need more than 7 hours max. A half hour later the dawn spills the first sparks of light onto the day and I look out my window: it's snowed overnight.

My roommates are up and I look out Emily's room, for she has a better view of the urban sprawl's first dusting of white. I make a cup of coffee with my French press, take it with a couple of biscuits and a banana. Back in my room I push open the double windows and stand barefoot on the ledge to take a photo.

It's been three months. I put on my boots over wool socks, button up the winter coat I found on my old flat's balcony. I hop on the number 10 tram, surprisingly uncrowded by the morning rush. I try to read my book but there's not enough sunlight. Snow files slowly around the tram and the riders watch, absently transfixed.

My first lesson of the day is with Centrum.cz, a company somewhat akin to AOL or Google. A "portal," they call it. We read through some advice requests I pulled off Slate, discuss them, then Patrick and Lenka write responses. We then run through some advanced conjunction exercises. I leave them at 10 to go to the Caledonian School to lessonplan for my 12 o'clock lesson.

Jake's been here three months too. He pours over a few of his own papers, his sideburns and wayward hair and military physique perhaps more Wolverine than Hugh Jackman. Three months and he still hasn't found a flat. He's been couchsurfing for the past two. I order an espresso and a piece of apple cake for 35 crowns. We talk about literature lazily, and I agree to poke my nose about for a room for him.

Get on the Yellow Line to Hloubetin. I stand the whole metro ride, reading You Shall Know Our Velocity! by Dave Eggers. Look up and I've missed my stop: I'll have to circle around, making me 10 minutes late. Damn Eggers. Hana and I read over some pre-intermediate crime stories, discuss the difference between pickpockets, burglars, and robbers, then I leave.

It's been three months. Walking back to the metro station I am caught in a flurry. It's the first snowstorm I've personally been in, and the wind changes directions frequently, angrily, restlessly, undecided on who should feel its wrath. I scroll through my iPod, put on the Beatles' White Album and try to decide which song is my favorite.

Damn, it's gotta be Dear Prudence. For an hour I am an itinerant citizen of Prague's underground, not seeing the light of the day as I am crowded in one train then move to one that's more crowded. Nevermind. Definitely While My Guitar Gently Weeps. People read a lot on the metros and trams here, but now--weary of Eggers and his pitfalls--I sink into Happiness is a Warm Gun.

I've been here precisely three months. November 3rd. And I now have a plane ticket to leave in precisely three months. February 3rd. Prague to London to Kolkata for an Indian wedding.

6 exact months is a coincidence. The wedding's shortly thereafter. Still, here I am, at the peak after a long trek, ready for the downstretch. Shit, I forgot about Blackbird.

I've been here three months. I've lived in three different flats. I've put down an uncountable number of beers, toasted with strangers and strangers masquerading as friends, with friends, with the lost and the nervous. I've taught hundreds of hours of English. I've been sick in various parts of the town, I've seen its beautiful architecture, walked over its bridges. And in three months I will slough off my heavy winter coat like a cicada coming out of its shell, ready for new climes. I will walk away from Prague as home forever.

I come out of the metro--it isn't snowing around the Flora station. The same old man who was drawing the street corner yesterday is doing it today, sans gloves. Will I miss it? Sure. Will I regret leaving after six months? Maybe, bur probably not. Three months is long enough to be unable to see the beginning correctly, to trust your memory of what you left and why. It really isn't enough time to make good friends or really sink your teeth into a town, to feel like you've got your hooks into it and vice versa.

Am I glad I came? Definitely. Absolutely. Oh man, it's definitely Rocky Raccoon, ever since the time my friend Delaney played it on her guitar in that unique, slightly squeaky voice of hers. But I think I know America is more home for me than here. Maybe it's my own fault for never expecting to make a home out of Prague: I brought a spartan amount of stuff compared to my comrades. Did I want to set up shop? Did I ever? Or did I just want to unroot myself from somewhere else?

I let Julia beautifully haunt my ears before entering my apartment. I take the money for Internet up to Kveta, our landlady, and then explain how my contract allows for me to leave early as long as I give her three months' notice. I hand her a signed piece of paper detailing my departure, along with a bogus story of how my father wants me to help him start a cafe (and I am a good son after all). This may seem lame, but Kveta looks on my roommates and I as her children, particularly me since I'm most helpful to her: I've pruned our backyard and carried a broken washer for her. She'll understand better this way.

I've been here three months. When I meet my father and brother in Heathrow Airport perhaps they'll be surprised by the hair that's grown back beyond my ears, by the ten pounds of fat and muscle that have been shed from my frame. Perhaps they will see the same boy, always the youngest, challenging. Perhaps they will see someone different, someone slightly hardened, slightly weary. Perhaps they will they see someone so, so damned happy to touch anyone of the same blood as he. Perhaps he will be that wizened, experienced man he hoped the trip would make him. It's only been three months, and yet a whole cavernous three months stands between him and that date. Who can tell which Avimaan will show up?

I make homemade soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for my roommates: I'm grateful that my chameleonic nature can attach to two such homebodies. I mix a bastardized version of warm Orchata for my sick roommate, Emily. For today, at least, it's Dear Prudence. The snow once more spills lazily from the sky. Yeah, Dear Prudence. Tomorrow, though, who knows what choices tomorrow will bring?