I think it was the hike. Walking two miles up a mountain and two miles back down the other side, to be met with a private beach all to ourselves. We laid in the sun, and dipped our feet off of the giant rocks into the choppy waves for hours. That was when I understood.
Or maybe it was the lazy days on the public beach. The gentle sound of the sea reaching for our stretched-out feet, only to be reigned in once more by the pull of the mighty ocean. The naked children screaming happily as they meet the strength of the ocean waves head on, losing the face-off every time. Or watching the mothers run to wipe the sand off their laughing children's naked legs.
Maybe it was the lovers lying next to us. There were always lovers lying on the beach. Always lovers holding hands. Always lovers. It was Italy after all. I think that's when I felt it.
It could have been the food, though. It was probably the food. The lobster that we didn't know how to eat. The pasta that we didn't know could be so good. The smell of fresh pizza dough that followed us everywhere we went. The cappuccino and croissant to start each day. The wine on wine on wine.
It all felt like home. Somehow. I've never seen a beach so blue, buildings so bright, food so extraordinary. Yet, every bite, every rooftop, every salty drop of water on my skin felt like I'd experienced it a million times, and like I could experience it a million more.
But then again, everywhere I've ever been with you feels like that. The stuffy airport in Newark, clinging to the back of the boda driver in Uganda, holding your hand in the middle of the soccer field in Wichita.
It all feels like home. Everywhere I've ever been with you feels like the place I want to be forever.
Italy felt like that, too. Not because Italy feels like home.
No.
It wasn't the hike or the beach or the food or the wine. It wasn't Italy at all.
Give me two tickets to anywhere. As long as your name's on one, that's where home is.
Thanks for listening,
I'll talk to you again, soon.
JK