There’s no place like…

So I did it. I’m done, finished, finito. I’m actually sitting in a Starbucks in London waiting for the sun to come up. And late last night, as I cabbed across Paris to catch a bus to the UK, I felt… not sad, per se. But just kind of calm. Which, naturally, freaked me out even more. Yay, me.

It’s not leaving Paris that’s so difficult for me. By the end, Paris and I had kind of lost our connection. She’s beautiful, but she’s no Boston. I think I’m just tired of moving. The last time I was on my way to London, AB and I were texting and he asked if in the next year or so, I could try to be in the States as much as possible.

I think I laughed—he didn’t understand the travel bug, the glorious gypsy life of wanderlust, I told myself.

But I think traveling has lost its sparkle.

I tell myself this every time I move, every time I pack up my worldly possessions and transplant my life. I can fit my most important belongings into a carry-on and my Longchamp. That is my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a pro packer, and it’s a very FULL carry-on. But I guess what I’m saying is I feel like an old lady. I’m sure the travel bug will bite again after a year or so—she always does. But right now, sitting in a country that speaks ENGLISH (God, I love this language), I want to go home. I want to go home and have a home, make a home. I could even be happy with the whole 2 ½-kids-and-a-white-picket-fence kind of life. Okay, obviously not. But being settled is a nice concept.

Instead—for now—I’ll wait for my family’s cab to pick me up. I drink my eggnog latte and listen to people speak English. I’ll traipse around Europe with my family. And soon, gloriously wonderfully soon, I will be home. There’s no place like home.

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