"Not all who wander are lost." -J. R. R. Tolkien

There is no greater feeling than that of a homecoming. The smell, the sounds, the air… You know you’re at peace when the feeling sinks through your skin and into your bones. The problem, for most of us, is that we don’t reside at “home.” 

For some, home is where they were born. For others, it’s the place they grew up. For me, it’s the place where I finally felt like I belonged. I do not live there now. I do not have family there. I rarely escape for a visit. But, when the wheels of the plane touch down, my whole body rejoices. When the air hits my face, and the stifling humidity washes over me like a warm blanket, I know I’m finally home again. And, if I hadn’t ventured outside my little world, expanded my horizons and took a huge risk, I’d never have come to understand that home is not where your roots are, it’s not what your familiar with, nor is it where you live. 

A few years ago I lived in a tiny little farm town, an hour outside of Seattle. It was, for me, awful. Eight thousand people, the stench of cows, and an hour to civilization aside, this town was the polar opposite of my version of home.  The people were narrow/closed minded, the lack of ambition enveloped the landscape like whitewash on a picket fence.  Culture, opportunity and diversity nonexistent. A sad little corner of the world, in my opinion.

Listening to the radio one day, I heard one of the most depressing statements of my life; a caller announced that she lived in a town barely more than an hour from Seattle, she’d been a resident there all 33 years of her life, and she’d never been to the city. Never. Not once. My jaw dropped. She said this with pride. As far as she was concerned, there was no need to venture outside her tiny little hamlet; the world outside had nothing to offer she couldn’t find in her immediate area. 

I. Was. DUMBFOUNDED.

According to a 2012 Forbes article (a touch outdated, but you know how things with statistics go), approximately 35% of all Americans have a passport. Only one-third of our nation finds a reason to travel outside our borders. That, to me, is appalling.  The entire lack of pursuit of travel to the countries which comprise our great nation is disheartening. We are not a nation with a rich history more than a millennium old, but rather one built on the backbones of so many others. So, why is it that so many find traveling to the rest of the world lacks appeal?

Mark Twain once wrote, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime.”  As a nation, we’re so narrow minded about our way of life being the right one. We believe, on the whole, that we’re the greatest nation on earth and spout our ideals as if they’re paramount. Yet, our focus is solely on ourselves, our way of life and even our food choices. How sad, how unfortunate.

So it happened that in 2008 I was given the opportunity to uproot my little family and move 3000 miles away to a city and culture (not to mention climate) completely foreign to my own. It was terrifying. I knew that for the first time in my life I’d have no support system, no family to reach out to for a random BBQ, no places to be on any given holiday. With much trepidation, I chose to embark on this journey, knowing that I’d have no social circle, and no outside stimulus. Just my husband, my children and myself.  And it was the best decision I’ve ever made. When the novelty of living where so many go to vacation wore off, I settled into the feeling of “home.” I was born in the wrong place. I was raised in the wrong place.  Not to say there is anything wrong with the cities in which I spent my more tender years (although, I could go on rants about any of them…) but more to the point, my soul belongs in Florida. This is my home, and will always be the singular place I feel perfectly at peace. But, my stay there was short lived, and although I hope to someday live there again, I understand that life has a way of showing me where I belong. I don't make that decision; it is made for me.

From the move to Florida on, the travel bug was in my blood. I need to travel. I need to know. I need to see the rest of the world, experience the cultures, taste the foods and wander down the sidewalks in places I’ve never dreamed. 

I’ve seen the Eiffel Tower, ridden the London Eye, walked along the beach in the Mediterranean, gotten lost on cobblestone streets in Mexico. 

I’ve hiked Arlington National Cemetery, sat on the edge of the Forsyth fountain in Savannah, wandered Bourbon Street, placed my hands in the cement at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, shopped Rodeo Drive, looked down over Manhattan from the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and ridden a fan boat through the Everglades. 

I’ve wandered through Fisherman’s Wharf, gazed into the amazing lakes amid Glacier National Park, danced under the bright lights of Las Vegas, rubbed elbows with celebrities in Toronto, skied the mountains of British Columbia, and walked along the Hoover Dam. 

I had the pleasure of exploring old plantations in Alabama, floating on a sandbar in Indiana, watching an air show over the Chicago skyline from Lake Michigan and wandering aimlessly through thousand-year-old churches in Oxford. 

And yet, I’ve seen nothing. I’ve experienced nothing.

I'll never tire of the trips, never grow weary of the new adventures. I prefer travel to any other form of entertainment. Yes, I have lovely things, a nice home, late model cars and Tiffany sunglasses. Yes, I spend money on eating at restaurants, going for a drink and a snappy new pair of sandals. Yet, given the option, I'd rather make memories than buy "stuff." For me, life is not a game of dying with the most toys, but rather living with the most experience. My home is decorated with photos of places I've been and moments I've experienced. I do not wish for posed portraits, for famous paintings or fantastic decor. The photos of my kids which adorn my walls are of moments, not perfectly assembled and balanced images, but of running and laughing and living. I refuse to get so caught up in life that I forget to live it. And I will never again settle for my current locale - this is temporary, as will be each and every stop from here on out.

When I die, scatter my ashes to the wind, as I do not want to be in one place for eternity. I am a vagabond, and I love it.