Home Is Where the Heart Is

Like most travel writers, I suffer from wanderlust. I’m a nomad at heart, always searching for my next adventure. And as my lease was set to expire in Texas in May, I didn’t know where to go. Since becoming a freelancer, I can work pretty much anywhere, provided there’s Internet access and cell phone reception. Did I want to move to Boston, a city I’ve spent too little time in but love? Or Atlanta, where I’ve never been but am intrigued by? Or what about something more exotic, like South Africa or France? Or something international but closer to home, like Vancouver? I love moderate weather, so maybe the California coast, or something close to home but not all the way there, like Portland?

My mind reeled. After months of contemplation, I ended up home — right back in the Seattle area where I grew up. It felt like a cop-out in ways, terribly unimaginative, completely at odds with the independent, globe-trotting person I am.

But yesterday, my great-grandmother died, and I was here. I saw her a week ago, and I’ll be at her funeral in a few days. If I lived elsewhere, it’d be a scramble, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to see her one last time. Living far away wouldn’t have made me a bad person — far from it — but living near my family (my parents, sister, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all reside in Washington) offers something that none of those other options did: a true home.

I’ll always be a wanderer, but I have travel to quell that thirst — and a home to come back to when I’m ready for a break.