You head straight to the local Highly Sensitive Haven. It’s tucked away on a quiet side street not far from where the action is. There’s a small, unobtrusive sign beside the gate in the stone wall to let you know you’re in the right place. The solid wood door is beautifully carved, and heavy as you push against it. The moment you step into the shaded courtyard, into the haven designed with you in mind, all your senses tell you that even though you don’t know anyone in town, even though you’ve never been here before, you’re home.

There are a few people scattered around the little tables in the dappled light. A couple of them glance up at you, but not for long. Most of the people are sitting alone, writing or reading. All of them are quiet, even the people talking and laughing. To the right is a beautiful old building with an open door. You head that way, your heavy luggage banging against your weary legs, but before you reach the doorway, a man comes out, smiling in welcome, and helps you take your bags inside. He introduces himself and directs you to a table with a comfortable chair into which you sink gratefully. He offers you water or tea or juice – perhaps a piece of fruit or something from the little café just to tide you over. When you’ve caught your breath, had a few sips, feel a bit restored, you catch his eye and he comes over to sit across the table from you. He asks about your trip, and as he listens attentively to what you want from your visit to this town you find yourself stopping to take a huge breath as you feel the lost bits of you that weren’t travelling as fast as the plane was begin to find you and start to make you whole again. You smile.

By the time you leave the haven, a couple of hours later, you’ve made arrangements to meet the nice couple (locals who work nearby, here as usual on their lunch break) who sat at the table next to you in the courtyard for dinner later, you’ve mapped out your first forays of exploration (and have the brochures and maps already tucked into your bag), you know the location of the health food store that’s nearest the place you’ll be staying (and its hours of operation), and you’re headed to a small hotel (only four rooms) run by a woman about your age who’s also highly sensitive. A taxi is waiting for you just outside the gate of the haven, called for you by the haven folks. You’ll thank them again when you’re back here tomorrow to hear the string quartet that plays every Thursday in the spacious library on the second floor. And you’ll be back for another dose of home.

It’s mid-afternoon when you emerge from the little hotel. The sun shines, the jet lag has been pushed back by the warm welcome and smooth transition. You’re safe. You’re among friends. You’re finally here, where you’ve dreamed of coming for years, with an afternoon all to yourself. You consult the map once more, then tuck it away in a pocket. Your strides as you step away from the stoop are bold and strong. It’s time to explore.