It always begins with longing, this wanderlust. Longing to see, to smell and feel all the newness that travel brings. I have always welcomed the adrenaline rush that defies jet-lag–encouraged by espresso and croissants– and the anticipation being mid-flight brings. Also, at least at first, the ability to watch each city almost with objectivity as an outsider, noticing the differences between it and the last, the nuances, the beautiful details that make it what it is, and the people who make it come alive.
I sit at the home I was raised in, a home I left almost eleven years ago and think of all the dreams that were dreamed here, and all the things I never thought would happen and actually did. I sit here alone, while the family is at Sunday Mass. I recognize the sounds and smells of the city, the strong taste of spices in my breakfast and the roll of my tongue as I speak in the language I first learned to laugh in. It is also strange, for I feel as though I no longer belong here, which used to bother me in the past, yet I have learned to embrace the rootlessness. I embrace the fact that I don’t need a place to call my home as every place shows me a bit more of myself. In doing so, I find my self comfortable in my own skin, owning my values and ideas, opening my heart to the good each place has to give. It is as if I have found that my home is inside me, I am residing in this body for God knows how long, and I get to carry it to places unimaginable to the kid that once sat in this couch, all those years ago.
It all started here, in a tiny city in the heart of Mexico, with a pair of sister friends who lived and dreamed and grew up alongside me under the color scheme of a tropical hat, with a family that was loving as it was a mess. Sitting here, full-circle, I know now is the start of something new, and I intend to relish in it whatever may come.