Ah, the thrill of travel – of adventure, discovery, novelty. Of playing tourist, even if in familiar places. Of visiting family. Of eating out and reading more and staying up late and sleeping in.
Nothing beats travel.
Except coming home.
We live in our ruts, our pathways of habit and routine. By their nature, our routines prompt boredom. ’Tis a salve to interrupt them, and travel is one antidote, a rut-crushing dose of fun.
But our ruts, our routines also bring comfort, because nothing is more comfortable than the familiar. The scents of my neighborhood. The cozy squish of my bed. The taste of my brand of coffee brewed in my drip coffee maker and hefted in my mug, the mug that has delivered my morning jolt for years.
Travel is the grilled shrimp and coleslaw in the po’ boy sandwich of our lives. But bread, as plain and unremarkable as it seems, completes the sandwich.
Coming home is the bread in our travel. It’s the necessary epilogue in the story of a week or month away from …
Home.
Good read, Jeff.
Thank you, Nancy.