Home.

Over the past couple of months I’ve been out globetrotting and living the life of a rock star as I’m generally wont to do, shopping, and wining and dining in some swanky joints and thinking I’m pretty swell. But after all that time on the road, this is what I realize (in a ruby-slippers sort of way): there’s no place like home.

This no-roots, nomadic, fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants-er never thought she would say it, but there is a time when it’s time to park the suitcase and go back to living out of drawers. That doesn’t mean I didn’t have a lot of exhilarating experiences, that people shouldn’t travel or that I’m personally through with it. I think we, especially I, should do a lot of it. I’m merely singing the praises of the home front. It’s not an either/or. I mean, for how many people could it really be an either/or? Think about it: home or travel? I know a lot of people who get ankle-shackled at home full-time, but not too many people have the option of full-time travel and no home. Seems glamorous, perhaps, but it wears on you.

We need to have a place where things are a little predictable, or where we can at least predict the unpredictability of it. When I order a cappuccino, I can imagine it won’t be too great (unless I’m at Aroma, click HERE), but ‘middling’ has fairly defined boundaries. I’m less likely to come down with a case of raging food poisoning (but Mexican sushi two days in a row was probably tempting the fates a bit), the entire national train system doesn’t strike at inopportune moments (grazie Italia), and I can cuss people out, or get cussed out (good to be back in Philly) in a shared language.

And without wanting to get too gooshy, I found I missed my ‘home fries’ in ways I didn’t expect. I missed the people I walk through life with. When I got “taken for a ride” by a Mexico City cab driver I didn’t have anyone to listen sympathetically to my rant. When I was blown away with enchantment at the Peggy Guggenheim museum in Venice, I didn’t have my art buddy to share it with. No UFC fight night, no Sunday ritual, no emergency coffee meet-ups. When I was lonely I was, well, alone. And certainly there was a real lack of people to laugh at my stories.

It’s not a big and flashy ecstasy, perhaps, but when I find myself in a place where I can say there isn’t someplace I would rather be, then I’d say I’ve found a delight.

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