Befriending the local hound outside a Salzburg cafe one lazy morning last spring, Sacagawea observed “Mom, when it’s two months or more, it’s not a trip, it’s a way of life.” She’s right. It’s happened, and I didn’t even notice. Home on the road or home at home . . . . the edges have blurred. Our lifestyle has changed, just as we’d hoped when we started down this path.
We love home, no doubt. But after a few weeks back, we start to get itchy. Me first, then the kids, then Columbus. “Where next?” our friends ask. There is no great plan to our itinerary, our schedule. Somehow, fate and the universe always seem to intervene. Maybe its a cheap flight, or something we’ve read about, a place we’ve studied. There’s always someplace calling. It starts to feel like a call home, and we take it.
The downside, of course, is the occasional sense of being suspended between two worlds. We have a terrific house, friends, stuff, cars and all the requisite beach toys at “home” in Hawaii, not to mention our own bedrooms and bathrooms. “Out there” we share small spaces, live out of a single bag each, and know all the best sleeping angles on planes, trains and even a few buses. Which one is home, for us? Not sure yet. Probably depends on what day you ask.