No Place Like Home
I'm traveling through Dublin airport again, on my way back to the Isle Of Man.
I'm accompanied by my usual traveling companions, sans guitar. Old worn leather backpack, passport, boarding passes. Coat that is far too warm for the inside of an airport. I refuse to carry it though. I'll never get the attire right for aeroplanes or airports.
I've lived in the States for a long time now, but as soon as I touch down on this side of the Atlantic, there's always that lovely warm familiarity that hits me. Things start to look like how they did when I was a kid. People talk funny - a bit like me. It's raining. The chocolate isn't shit anymore. It's the little things I think. I could do without the crap bubblegum Euro Pop music that blares out on every tinny little speaker though.
I'm lucky enough to have two homes. At least that's how I think of it. Hell, right now some folks don't even have one. I'm lucky. I have a wonderful life in the States, a nice, cozy, apartment in a nice part of Chicago. Lovely friends. A marvelous Fiancee who frankly puts up with way more than she should. I have a pretty cool job too. I like it. It suits me. Like I say, I'm lucky. I'm happy. Things are good.
Doesn't stop me from missing home #1 though. The original home. The one that you don't get to choose. My home #1 isn't better than yours, or anyone else's. I don't think it matters where home #1 is. This one just happens to be mine, and it is rather lovely. Lots of open space, green (it rains a lot) , the sea, friendly people (although I heard crime is spiraling out of control at the moment there. A gentleman appeared in court recently for fishing in a designated worm-dangling reservoir 30 minutes after it had technically closed. I hope they throw the book at the bastard). It's pretty idyllic really, and i'm sure I mention it a lot, but I feel very lucky to be from there.
I'm also lucky to do an enormous amount of traveling. I spend more time doing that than playing the shows i'm traveling to get to. So really, I guess i'm a professional nomad. It's brilliant. I wonder when someone will turn around and find me out. I'm not sure I can hack a real job.
I get to meet a lot of people while nomad-ing. I like people. They are inherently good, with the odd total arse thrown in that makes you squirm. They're put there to make sure you appreciate most people aren't like them.
When meeting new people one of the icebreakers is always "where are you from?". What a great question. I like that one.
We're all from somewhere. We may have moved elsewhere. Some of us may not even remember what it was like where we're from. But we carry it with us. Everywhere. It's a lovely thing. That's why it breaks my heart to see a huge portion of the world forced out of their home #1, then get treated like pests when they try and scramble a life together in possible home #2. I'm sure they didn't want to leave home #1. I guess it's hard not to when you fear for your lives on a daily basis though. I'm not going to get political, don't worry. It just breaks my heart.
So, here I am. Laden with coffee, entirely too warm in a huge coat, and feeling very fortunate and grateful to be going back to my home #1. Missing home #2 (i'm always missing one or the other), but my problems are few, my shoulders are light, and my heart is full.
I'll send you guys postcards.