During the past year, I occasionally received e-mails from old friends and former colleagues whom I hadn't heard from in a long time. Seeing a publication of mine would initiate a short e-mail exchange with phrases such as “What's new?”, “How's research?” or “Remember when ... ?” The conversations seldom ventured into greater detail, which sometimes left me yearning for a beer at the bar and a trip down memory lane.

I've worked with good people over the years, and in many instances they became close friends. This past year has been no different. But I recently had a major change in my life, moving away from my friends in Israel and taking up a position at Cold Spring Harbor Laboratory in New York. There is no doubt that being here is a great opportunity, but that's hard to acknowledge as I sit alone in my overheated, under-lit temporary office toiling away on the first of three or more grant proposals this year.

I cope by taking frequent breaks during which I daydream about the people and experiences that made my postdoc such a rewarding time. Gone are the days of my two-hour early-morning trips to the north of Israel with Uri, when we'd discuss science and life as we watched the Sun rise over the hills in Zichron Ya'akov. No longer will I be making lunchtime runs with Avichai and Omri to The Prince for a warm bowl of masabacha and fresh pita, or crossing Herzl Street for a 15-minute chat with Stan and Yuval on an interesting paper, which would often turn into two hours of deep thought mixed with laughter.

Will I find that comfort again? I have always had a tendency to let nostalgia get the better of me, especially during stressful times. I left Israel and my postdoc two months ago, and returned to the same building in which I studied four years ago as a PhD student. Perhaps not surprisingly, I am suffering from some of the most severe nostalgia I've had in years — not only am I missing my friends in Israel, but am also pining for former fellow students and lab mates that have since left Cold Spring Harbor.

Of course, feelings of nostalgia do not always accurately reflect the past, and can lead to an idealized version of events. In fact, when I think about it, I won't miss trudging to the lab at 3:30 a.m. to meet Uri for three cups of black coffee before setting out, or the incredible stomach aches that sometimes followed overeating at The Prince, or realizing, as I crossed back over Hertzl Street, that my ever-mounting reading list had grown by ten papers during those two hours.

It's time to focus on my new responsibilities, which are daunting. As a principal investigator, I must generate preliminary data and write grant proposals to fund the lab. I must attend international conferences and publish reviews to gain exposure in my field. And I must be a leader and a visionary, forging the path for my graduate students and postdocs to achieve success.

But I'm not quite ready to think like that yet. As I try to tackle my present challenges head on, I will continue to seek comfort in nostalgia. Maybe I like drinking coffee with good friends, even if it is at a ridiculous hour; a bad stomach ache was a small price to pay for the taste sensations at The Prince; and reading papers outside my field has always been a pleasure. Of course, new work and colleagues mean new connections and experiences — and, with any luck, a new favourite eatery.