I read a lot of travel blogs, but I also read a lot of blogs based in the USA. I love those blogs because they remind me of home, my roots. At times, though, I have trouble identifying with them. Why? Well, they’ve got a hankering for travel, while I’ve got a hankering for home, sweet home.
My home, as you might say, is nothing anything to write home about. Crawfordsville, IN, will never be named as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s not exactly a tourist attraction. In fact, I’d venture to guess that our out-of-town visitors come solely to visit friends and/or family, and not to see our old jail museum. It’s not beautiful or mountainous or quaint. Our main restaurants include Culvers and Applebees, not top-of-the-line cuisine or fun, ethnic restaurants. There’s not a whole lot to do—that is, as you might have guessed, one of the main complaints of the town’s high schoolers. Boredom. Despite all this, I want to be there. Why? Simple—it’s home.
The word home invokes in me strong emotion. At times, my eyes well up just thinking of the sun shining on our house and the green grass in the summer. Home is comfort, love, relaxation, nostalgia. Home is where I am free to be the unhindered version of myself. Home is a memory, a myriad of memories: grilling on the deck, my first car (a white 1993 Mitsubishi Eclipse), Thanksgiving baking, pumpkin carving, thunderstorms, meals upon meals at the table (always in my spot), but most of all my family.
Since coming to Spain, I’ve realized what a different person I’ve become while here – withdrawn, quiet, more introverted, less prone to raucous laughter or silliness. It’s not Spain’s fault. But I think it is that this isn’t the place for me. It’s not mine. I’ve enjoyed it, met wonderful people (ahem, the nov), ate plates of delicious authentic Spanish food, learned a new language, but it’s not for me. I wanna go home.