I've been home - back in DC, that is - since Saturday, and my emotions have run the gamut from heartbroken to joyful with stops everywhere between. While driving through Rock Creek Park over the weekend with the sun beaming down through the canopy of trees and WETA on the radio, I thought that I'd never be able to make myself return to London. While battling through the rush hour crowds at New York's Penn Station on Tuesday morning, I longed for the orderly queues at Liverpool Street Station. (If you think London commuters are bad, don't try to get in to or out of Manhattan between 8 and 9am on a work day.)
It's been a great trip so far: I met up with new blog friends in both Washington and New York, which was an absolute blast, and had a wonderfully indulgent dinner with some of my bests from college. The rest of this week will be filled with more friends, both in DC and at this weekend's wedding on the Eastern Shore.
This transitional week has stirred up some uncomfortable feelings. As I did at this time in 2010, I'm homesick. I'm sick for a home. The thing is, though, that I'm enjoying a new sensation, one that I haven't focused on in any way before. I'm feeling anchored. I'm realizing that, no matter where I am, I will have friends; regardless of how my postcode changes, my friends will come with me. New friends and old friends and friends I have yet to make - they're all beside me. And that, dear readers, is a kind of home.