I was sixteen when I moved out of my parents house. I started attending school at a small liberal arts college halfway across the country. I remember the day they dropped me off. They helped me unpack. My roommate had already moved in but was nowhere to be seen. She’d already covered the walls with her Ella Fitzgerld posters.“At least she has good taste in music,” my father’d say.He’d argue with me about nothing in-particular before they left. I didn’t know it then but that would become a tradition.When my parents finally left, I put on this record, Dear Old Stockholm. Then I sat in the middle of the floor, closed my eyes and listened. This was my new home–one large open room with two beds, two dressers, and two desks. My roommate’s things hung on the walls and all of mine were tucked neatly into drawers.