I’ve gotten good at traveling, at dreaming dreams on other people’s couches, splashing my face clean in strange bathrooms, packing light.
I know how to squeeze the last drop of gas out of my car, what to put in a carry-on, how many shirts will last a weekend. I sleep better on a couch than I do in my own bed when there’s someone else in it.
When people ask “where are you from” I laugh and tell them that’s a long story. I’m from lots of places, really.
But each time I pass through here, I remember where I’m really from. I’m from Boston. New England is in my blood. It’s in the way I walk and talk and thrill to first snows. I am in love with NYC but don’t know if it’ll ever be the right fit.
When I see my oldest friend here, we fall exactly back into how we were. So few people I can actually do that with, catch up on stories and laugh about memories. We never change.
Off to the train now to New Hampshire, family and friends and New England seafood and small-town hills.
This is home.
Sarah, I know what you mean about identifying with the place you come from. I grew up in the States but live in Italy for 20 years. Recently we’ve had a big discussion on my blog about my deciding to vote as an expat. It gave me a chance to think about this question all over again. I’m much more American than I’ll ever be Italian. I think the place you grow up in is forever deeply engraved on your brain. At least that’s how it seems to be working for me.
Welcome Home!
I’ll be doing the same thing next week when I get in a flying tin can and go back to Ft Worth.
Enjoy yourself while you are there.