I’ve spent the last year and a half traveling pretty consistently for work, and it’s been thrilling. I’ve been to Greece, Hong Kong, Jamaica, India, Turks & Caicos, Mexico, Spain and a whole bunch of other amazing places. I have had my favourite leather boots stained by milk fresh from a goat on a mountaintop in Crete. I have received a deep tissue massage from a former Mr. Jamaica. I have written about a seemingly endless array of beauty treatments — from thalassotherapy to chocolate body wraps. And I have expanded my eating repetoire to include snake, turtle, crickets, ant eggs, gizzard and pretty much anything else that has been waved under my nose.
But while all of this traveling has certainly confirmed my wanderlust — and I would certainly never complain about such wonderful opportunities, lest I be understandably threatened with bodily harm — it’s also made me realize something I didn’t expect: I’m really, really happy to be home. In fact, the last trip I took — to a beautiful resort in Los Cabos where I spent my days being pampered in the spectacular spa and my nights lying in crisp white sheets listening to the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline — made me feel a little homesick for my bed, my friends, my family and even just my favourite park.
After so many months of packing and unpacking, of sitting in airports and engaging in small talk, of waking up at 4am for flights or 6am to finish assignments, of missing holidays and the birthdays of family members, of romantic moments spent alone, and of realizing that months can pass since I’ve seen good friends, I’ve been feeling more than a little estranged from my own life.
While I’m lucky to have had so many great experiences, and I certainly hope to continue exploring beyond my front door, I’ve also realized how lucky I am to have a home and a routine and people in my life that I miss every time I pack a suitcase. I struggle with striking a balance, but I don’t travel because I have something to escape; I have a lovely life to return to — and sometimes I wish I could spend more time with my feet on the ground instead of with my chair in an upright position for landing.
And so I’ve made a pact with myself to stay put for the summer. (Cottages and long weekends excepted, so feel free to make me an offer.) I want make brunch plans and ride my bike and play badminton and not feel so rushed off my feet. I have no doubt that it won’t take long before I once again feel the overwhelming itch to travel. But for now, here in my unglamorous little apartment, surrounded by my books and eager to eat tacos with my friends and catch up with my family at something less than a breakneck pace, I can honestly say that I’m happy.