My grandmother once told me, the difference between her travels and mine,

was that she had to burn all of her bridges as she moved forward.

The bridge always burned, or was destroyed. There was nowhere to go back again. Once you made another step, you couldn't step back. On September 29th, 2014, I moved to Europe. First I went to Poland to see Sergio. He gave me a home base during my travels, someone to come back to.

In the back of my head it felt unfair. I had support when my grandmother didn't.

I was supposed to be doing this alone.

Then I went to Prague.

I moved into the home of a stranger, a young woman from the Jewish community who was kind enough to let me live in her spare room.

If I was going to live the way my grandmother did, I had to rely on people the way she did.

The nightmares came quickly.

I dreamt, I came home to Boston, and my friends looked through me like I was a ghost.

One night I woke up certain that the building was on fire. My body burned. I ripped off the blanket. I curled my legs to my chest and rocked back and forth like the Orthodox men I'd seen in prayer at the old synagogue earlier that week.

It was just the beginning of my trip,

and already the loneliness was so deep.

Already, I couldn't exactly explain to anyone

what I was doing, or why.

I had no money, and given up my home.

I'd separated myself from my friends.

I felt isolated from everyone, even Sergio.

It was just me and my grandmother.

But I was committed to her and her story.

It felt more important than anything even my relationship with Sergio

Even though these two commitments never came into conflict. I knew

...