Coming Home

No, it's not what you're thinking. We're just back from a fall vacation to sunny Spain, and upon our arrival we see the obligatory airport sign that says "Bienvenue à Paris," but we think it should just say "Welcome Home." It certainly feels like we've come home, and I feel it more strongly than ever. Driving through the streets of Paris, it feels familiar, comfortable, and just as much like "home" as any place else to me. We've been here over two years, and I love all the things that have become a normal part of my life: the rippling waters of the Seine from my desk, our neighborhood markets, the view of Notre Dame, the leaves turning yellow along the quai, fresh croissants from the boulangerie, the walk to the metro stop through medieval streets, my dance class, tea with friends, and even -- slightly, affectionately -- the way our water heater occasionally conks out for no known reason while someone's in the middle of a shower (the sound of the scream sends us with matches to reignite the pilot light).

I have to say that I feel more at home in Paris than anyplace else I've ever lived, with the exception of San Francisco. Even having spent around six years in Tokyo in my twenties, I never felt like that was home in the same way. That's understandable, perhaps, given the linguistic, cultural, and racial barriers, and also because I was there when I was young and single. Here, I've got a real family life, and friends and community through schools, activities, work, and neighborhood.

Home is where the heart is, where the family is, and where the comfortable pillow is. Vacations to exotic places are wonderful, but it's also nice coming back to our simple ole' home by the Seine.