I don’t put on outside shoes until after I’ve left my dorm for the first time in three days. The wind (that everyone warned me of and I promised I would get used to) still feels like a slap in the face. But the promise of subtle sweetness intermingling with bitter notes in Oni Maki’s matcha keeps me going.

“Order 305!” the barista calls out, the chatter of the avid Beli-rankers drowning her out in the quaint cafe in Chicago’s Little Italy. The road bustles with people hopping between red brick buildings — restaurants, tea bars, boba shops and cafes. The cup feels familiar yet foreign in my hand, my usual masala chai swapped out. Still, something about the nutty black sesame reminds me of the til ladoo my mother makes for the harvest festival, Makar Sankranti. I don’t understand the craving until I buy it.

I’ve made it to The Art Institute of Chicago. Every time I step through the white stone pillars, I feel as if I’ve time traveled. There’s an eclectic energy in the air as people shuffle toward Henri Matisse’s Jazz: Rhythms in Color.

But that’s not what I’m here for.

Hidden in a quiet room lies the Korean National Treasures exhibit. Looking at art in a museum feels a little performative, but Park Dae-sung’s 1996 ink landscape “Snow at Bulguksa Temple” echoes the experience of Evanston winters. The expanse is white, like Lake Michigan disappearing under snow, interrupted only by deliberate strokes of ink. The temple gives me strength, standing tall and iced in snow like buttercream, quietly commanding attention from behind a veil of trees.

Downstairs, the South Asian exhibits greet me with a bare, grey idol of Ganesha. I do a double-take, almost certain the mischievous god winked at me. Suddenly, I’m back in Mumbai, with dhols drumming and manjeeras ringing during the Ganesha festival. Even though I’m miles away from home, seeing him feels like meeting an old friend.

Amidst my reverie, I’m overwhelmed by Raqib Shaw’s 100-foot-wide “Paradise Lost.” The panoply of vibrant colors, glitter and gems blind my vision. My brain struggles to keep up. Each of the 21 panels showcases various mythological beasts, anthropomorphic hybrids and collapsing kingdoms. But what catches my eye instantly is that Shaw himself painted into the mural, sitting under a pink tree in utter serenity.

Restoried Bookshop, focused on Asian American, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander authors, pulls me in next as I continue my search for my “paradises lost.” Velvet armchairs are perched in the center, like my grandmother’s living room. The green-accented wall dons a decorative fan with birds, perfectly complementing the mahogany bookshelves. In the Southeast Asian section, I spot authors my mom once read to me. I wonder what it means to belong to a story, and whether you can find your way back into one.

Soon, I’m wandering the aisles of Patel Brothers, surrounded by Magic Masala Lays, Bhujia and Maggi. For a moment, it almost feels like the wrong kind of familiar — everything is the same, but not exactly. And then I realize, maybe that’s okay. Maybe I’m not the same either.

My grumbling stomach eventually leads me to Dosa Point x Boba Junction. Hands dipped in coconut chutney, sipping mango passionfruit boba, I feel content (probably because my belly is full). At first, a dosa shop serving boba felt strange since the products come from two starkly different cuisines. Now, it feels right. I came looking for India and found something more: a whole continent of homes I didn’t know I had.