As I stepped off the plane in NYC last week and found myself in a taxi speeding (literally) across the Triboro towards Manhattan, I typed the following as my Facebook status update:
"Country Girl says you can take the girl out of the City, but you can't take the City out of the girl. It's nice to be home."
And yet, a few hours later I was texting with a friend of mine from Smalltown, NC (aka my current home town) and I wrote: I love NY but I miss home.
She replied: You miss Smalltown? You need your head examined.
I replied: I don't miss Smalltown. I miss home.
Home. What does that mean?
I haven't lived in NYC for quite some time and yet, in ways it will always be home for me. Perhaps because my family is there. Perhaps because my friends are there. Perhaps because I learned to dart across 3 lanes of moving traffic in order to hail a taxi before I learned to walk. But there's no denying: NYC is in my blood. It is my roots.
And yet, in the 3.5 years that I have been in Smalltown, I have fallen in love with this way of life. I love that I know the name of both my UPS guy and my Fedex guy. I love that I am liable to run into someone I know at the post office. Or the grocery store. I love almost being a regular at the local cafe. I love that I am the only girl in the feed store toting a Louis Vuitton Alma. I love all of it.
And so I struggle dear readers: where is home? Can I have it both ways?
And if that ain't achingly philosophical, I'll kiss your...
5 hours ago