I never quite understood the meaning of jet lag until I arrived in Brussels, propelled six hours into the future that had not yet reached Massachusetts where I was traveling from. I was tired because I spent the flight watching movies instead of trying to get any decent sleep so I was exhausted. When I arrived at the airport, my friend was there waiting for me with a teddy bear that said Belgium and her brightest smile. We hugged and it felt surreal. I could not make sense of anything and I was sure I was in a dream. My mind could be fully process the fact that I was in Europe and that I was kissing a friend that I haven’t seen in so long, a friend whom I’ve spent hours talking to on Skype, a friend I was supposed to see last year, a friend who was at the airport nine years ago, when I was leaving life as I knew it behind. So we took the train back into the city and finally we were at her house. I was at her house. I was here. I made it to Europe. The Europe she told me about when we met at fourteen years old, an age so close yet so distant from who we are now, an age where we were both just two teenage girls lost in the world. I was there and it was a dream that was suddenly as real as the fact that I am alive and I felt like kissing God and crying all the same.