You get back home and no one cares that less than 24 hours ago you walked by the place where Julius Caesar was murdered 48 hours before St. Patrick's Day some years ago. Or that you had a cappuccino from that little place off the piazza just that morning and that the "cornetto" you ate with it would still be found in your stomach should an autopsy have to be performed in case someone who doesn't care murders you ala Caesar that minute for going on about "Paris this and Rome that."
There is no other way it should be, but it is always odd to get back to where you live knowing that mere hours ago you were on another part of the planet and sheep were crossing the road or a tribe of native people danced for you or you were spelunking and now all you are is holding people up because you subway ticket won't register in the turnstyle.
There I stood at Columbus Circle staring at the statue of Christopher Columbus and I wanted to stop this woman with Ann Taylor bags and tell her, "See that Columbus there? I was just staring at the ceiling of Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore on the Esquiline Hill in Rome not a day ago and it was covered with gold he brought back from the New World and here I am staring at him in front of Whole Foods!"
But I knew she just couldn't care.