I was sitting at the table in a beautiful apartment in a darling yellow house built in 1811, about to fill out the rental application, when the tears came. Like a flood. Like a dam break. They were tears of frustration, and anguish. And most of all, desperation. And in that moment of despair, I pleaded to my guardian angel. “Please, Aubrey. Please help me.” I know this probably seems melodramatic, but I assure you, dear reader, that in that moment, I had been pushed to the brink. Two and a half months trying to forge a new life for myself in Salem, and I could not find the most crucial piece of the puzzle. A home to call my own. With every setback or defeat, my fighting spirit would fade just a bit more, while the fear that I had made a gigantic mistake grew like a fanned flame. So I sat at that table, in that lovely apartment, and I cried. (I should probably mention that the owner of the house had left me alone to fill out the application, so I wasn’t having a complete emotional meltdown in front of a stranger. Just in his house.) I prayed to my dear friend whose spirit shines so brightly. Then I wiped away the tears, finished the application, thanked the owner for his time, and went on my way.

I walked down to the waterfront and sat on a rock, gazing out over the sparkling waves, breathing in the salty sea air. I closed my eyes and prayed again, this time to both of my angels — Aubrey and my grandmother Helen. I asked them to help me find my home. After a few minutes in silence, just staring into the ocean, I made my way back to work. And I tried not to dwell on the apartment in the cute yellow house, tried to go about my regular business. Tried to stay optimistic. And checked my phone like I was expecting a call from Michelle Obama. Or RuPaul.

That was yesterday. Today, I had plans to go into Boston, for a fundraiser at the MSPCA Adoption Center which involved snuggling with kittens. Tough work, I know, but someone’s got to do it. When I woke up, it was pouring rain, and about 85 degrees, so not the kind of day that really inspires you to jump out of bed (or leave the house). But… kittens. So a couple of hours later, I was on the train pulling into North Station. On my way to the MSPCA, I stopped in Copley Square and paid a visit to one of my old favorite haunts, the Boston Public Library. When I lived in Boston before, I swear it was one of the city’s best kept secrets. Its courtyard was an oasis in the midst of a crowded, bustling city. And the murals adorning the walls made it feel like my own personal museum. Oh yeah, and it’s also a great place to use the bathroom. It’s always clean and there’s never a line.

So then, kittens! This hardly needs elaboration. Other than the fact that I have never been so happy as when a kitten named Oswald Cobblepot fell asleep on my lap. The end.

I also spent some time visiting the adult cats at the adoption center (because, CATS), where I met 9 year-old Lilo, who would almost certainly be Anthony’s new girlfriend if he wasn’t already spoken for. And I was absolutely floored when I saw a little room devoted to cats with FeLV (Feline Leukemia Virus). In most shelters, FeLV is, very sadly, a death sentence. The volunteers there told me very proudly that they’ve had great success in adopting out cats with FeLV, as well as cats who have FIV (Feline Immunodeficiency Virus), and a whole host of other special needs and behavioral issues. It was inspiring to say the least.

Next stop on what was increasingly starting to feel like a personal pilgrimage: the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, which houses one of my favorite works of art in the whole world. El Jaleo, by John Singer Sargent. I will never forget the first time I rounded the corner and ran smack into it, this behemoth of a painting depicting a flamenco dancer and her accompanying musicians. It is breathtaking in the most literal sense of that word. I’m pretty sure I gasped the first time I saw it. Having studied flamenco for a brief stint, the scene comes to life for me immediately. I can hear the musicians strumming their guitars and clapping their hands, I can hear the dancer’s shoes stomping out a rhythmic beat on the floor. Sargent captured this scene with uncanny detail, right down to the intricate gesture of the dancer’s hand. I love this painting so much. I could stare at it forever.

As part of its contemporary art program, the Gardner is currently featuring an exhibition called Listen Hear: The Art of Sound, consisting of a group of sound installations scattered throughout the museum. It will come as no great shock to hear that my favorite installation, Sound for Insomniacs, by Su-Mei Tse, is about cats. Specifically, their purrs. Seated in front of a series of large, close-up portraits of cats, you put on a pair of headphones and listen to each cat’s distinctive purr, which the artist says reveals another aspect of each one’s personality. Or purr-sonality. Genius, I say!

While waiting to catch the train back downtown, I saw an older couple puzzling over the subway map. I approached them and asked if I could help them find their way, and they were so appreciative. It was at least the third or fourth time that I had helped to direct someone today. When I lived in Boston, people would stop me constantly to ask for directions, starting right after I moved there. Maybe I have a friendly face, but I also like to think it’s because people could tell I was at home, that I belonged there. Sitting on the train this afternoon, my heart so full from all the places I had been, I thought to myself, I’m home. It was the first time I had felt that way since moving to Salem over two months ago. And it was the first time I didn’t wonder if I was in the right place.

Later in the evening, making my way back to Salem, I checked my email and saw the message that made my heart drop into my stomach. From the owner of the cute yellow house. His friend, who was my primary competition for the apartment, had decided to take it. And just like that, the dream was over. Tears stung my eyes. I was still grateful for the wonderful day I’d just had, but now I was also stunned. And hurt. I had really connected with the owner of the cute yellow house, who was about my age, married with small children and a cat. In his message, he even wrote how great it was meeting me, telling me that I have “such a kind, bright spirit.” Somehow those warm words made the whole thing feel even worse.

I rode the train home awash with self-pity. I posted on Facebook, lamenting that I would never get an apartment, sparking sympathy from a few friends. On the walk back to my [temporary] house, when I had almost reached my street, a motorcycle approached. And as it passed by, blaring from the speakers, I heard these words: “Don’t stop believin’! Hold on to that feelin’… ” And I burst out laughing, right there on the sidewalk. I smiled, and I said out loud, “Okay, Aubrey, I get it.”

But it wasn’t until I sat down to write all of this that it really hit me: the thing that I prayed for yesterday in my darkest hour. Help me find my home. Today, on the streets of Boston, that is exactly what I did.