I'm still here.

The apartment smells almost like a bar:

cigarette smoke, stale a priori

and inexpensive alcohol.

I'm still here:

I have not gone to Asturias.

I have not gone to Barcelona.

I have not gone to Malaga.

I have not gone to Vienna.

I have not gone to Berlin.

I will not make the trip across France to London to fly back.

I will leave in the mid-morning on a plane to New Jersey.