When you travel, you reflect. What is "home"? Home can be your birthplace. It could be that adopted town or state or country you've spent the last months or years dwelling in. Home might be a place you've never set foot in but you feel in the depths of your being is where you should be.
I'm sitting in a hotel on Cape Cod, MA. I'm here with my boyfriend, his mom and his sister. Mom and sister have never been to the USA, my home, before. I'm American but not a New Englander, but that makes no difference. They see this as my home. I'm the link to this vast and dynamic nation. And here is here my reflecting began.
My home will always be Ohio. I was born in Ohio. I spent my formative years in Ohio. My speech patterns get a little Appalachian when I'm tired or angry. I love the green rolling hills, the red barns, the meat and potatoes, the farmer's tractor that creates a traffic jam. All of this is stored deep in me.
I'm told there is a bit of Viking blood roaming and roaring in my veins. When I stand next to a body of water, I'm sure this is true. I am pulled by the vastness and silence and power and infinity of water. If I had several lifetimes, I'd dedicate one to the Atlantic. A place with water will always have a touch of home.
There's Prague. The city that I showed up in and demanded of her that she take me in a create a home for me. Over the past 6 years, Prague has done just that. Prague is my home. There I have family and friends and work and hobbies and happiness. She will never be mine, but she is home.
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