The pull of crumbling old buildings
Why is it I so often get restless? What is it about foreign lands, old eastern European towns, crumbling Soviet buildings, grimy trolley buses and bustling old town squares, that calls me so? Is it my own lack of satisfaction, lack of what I want, here in the USA--a substitute, essentially? Or do I, in the end, crave the excitement, the stimulus, the possibilities more than the stability and comfort I have now?

What is it that pulls me back--or keeps me from being where I am?