For some, home is the house they grew up in. For others, it’s a country or a nation. Some find it in family, or in the arms of a lover, while others believe it’s where we go when we die. Some say home is the “ pale blue dot ” that is our planet, and still others believe it’s only a state of mind. Despite a glorious rooftop view of the Empire State Building, when my rent doubled at the Garment District retail space where I was illegally living, I realized that New York City had become unlivable; worse, I had come to feel like a stranger anywhere else in my country of birth. I reasoned that it was time to make good on my longstanding threat of moving to Berlin. I boxed up my belongings, put them in a shipping container, and boarded a plane. I had no plan B, nor a plan A for that matter.