I admit it. I reacted fiercely to the purse theft in Paris last week. From the moment it happened, all night, the next day, up until the flight home 36 hours afterwards, I wanted only to come home. In one of the most beautiful and beloved cities in the world, all I wanted was my husband, my dog and my house. I stood in front of the Eiffel Tower as it sparkled and shone the following night with my friend, admiring it in a purely perfunctory way. Fully aware that I should snap out of it and enjoy my last few hours in Paris I just couldn’t. I wanted home.
This is new for me. I cried once as the plane landed back on American soil after a trip, so dismayed I was it was over. Most trips leave me longing to move to [fill in the blank of the country I’ve visited]. And I certainly haven’t given up that little dream. But I have never longed for home with such a visceral need as after my purse and belongings were stolen from under me.
I’ve been home nearly a week now and that need for home has continued. I didn’t leave my house the first two days I was home. During the day I look forward to coming back to my little house and my little dog and making a nice dinner for myself, then burrowing into the couch.
I’m sure it will wear off in time, as the distress at what happened fades. But for now, anyway, home is where I want to be.