There is no coming back home

We never go back, if we do we are not ourselves anymore, and the people and place we left changed as well. Time goes by, things change, it’s life. We’ve seen so much. How to come back to the place we came from? Is there a so-called “home” still? Our new home is within us, is when we arrive to a new city, when we make new friends, when we discover a new gelateria. When we see things we never imagined to see before, that is our new “home”.

There is no going back home.  That wasn’t a trip, that was life. That was days being lived in a way that made me the happiest I’ve ever been before. That was finding my destiny, my route. That was searching and finding myself. A never ending path.

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For the travelers there is no “home”. Once we hit the road, our home becomes the whole world. That home feeling was lost at some dirty road, or uncomfortable train seats. At some bunk bed in a sketchy hostel we booked on the same day. Or at some bus station waiting by locals traveling back to their actual hometown. They will never know how lucky they are, that they know where their home is.

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We lost that sense of comfort when we showed our passport to the airline attendant once more and they wished us a safe flight, again. When we put the first step on a new city. When we tried to figure out how to use the ticket machine in a foreign indecipherable language at some train station. And when we run for our train that was about to leave. We abandoned our comfort zone when we had to talk to some stranger on the street just because you needed human contact. Or when you made a friend waiting on your train to Budapest to arrive. Or because you both were lost and needed each other to find the way back.

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We left “home” behind to make the world our home. The uncountable beds our bed, for one night only. Our family behind to find new brothers and sisters at every new zip code. We left our habits and routines to create a new one that includes a toothbrush holder, showers with flip flops on, soap brands’ names we can’t even pronounce and the same clothes for weeks. That became our everyday life.

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We are in a constant search for a new home every day. Our old homes feel strange and new places feel homey. We feel we know the friends we made in the road way more than the ones we’ve known since childhood. We seem to look at the stars and moon for the first time, that night you walked down an old cobbled street on a summer night. In Firenze. Or when you watched a movie under open sky at piazza with your new friends and drank Peroni beer from the bottle.

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That is when we forgot that the feeling of ‘going back home’ ever existed. There is no home to come back to. Our home lives in our backpacks. It is a search that never ends. We never really go back home after a long trip, a one way trip.

Our home comes with us and we, with all our experiences and travel stories become our own new home.

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