We pull into the driveway in the wee hours, barely coherent. We’ve been up for about twenty-four hours and, if my calculations with time zone change allowances is correct, traveling for more than half of that time. The thought comes unbidden, but speaks a tired truth: I’m too old for this.
Finally, after a late flight, and an unplanned stopover in Saskatchewan for reasons that are still unclear, we’re home. Dorothy was right: whether it’s Kansas or Kamloops, there’s no place like it. We leave our luggage unpacked and fall into bed, exhausted.
I wake after a couple of hours, confused. I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and sit—a new and intentional practice to test for vertigo—then stand. My feet feel carpet, not marble. Home.
I pad to the bathroom on legs still shaky from having spent too long in a plane, then return to the comfort of my own bed, and sleep. It’s light when I wake. I’m still tired, but rested enough (barely) for the time being.
Soy milky frothy coffee arrives from the kitchen, delivered by another weary sojourner. No latte on the beach watching the Caribbean sun rise this morning. Instead, I sip coffee while looking out the bedroom window at the familiar brown hills of home as they, too, declare the glory.
Welcome home! I often have the thought as I labor lately, “I’m too old for this.” But then I bat it down: I have a memoir to complete – and market.
I’m glad your Prince delivers frothy warmth no matter where the latitude.
Yes, I try not to think it either,but sometimes reality means I can’t avoid it. I started reading your memoir on the plane last night, Marian. Looking forward to curling up with it again later.
Home is such a nice place to be.
I agree with Dorothy–there’s no place like home. Coming home seems to be my favorite part of travel. May your travel weariness leave you, and a renewed you be refreshed soon! Welcome home!