We ate in an Irish pub last night. Burgers and Guinness.
It can’t be tapas and seafood all the time. Well, it can, but last night I wanted something more home-ish.
I miss home. I don’t normally get homesick when I’m on vacation but we left on such weird terms. I hadn’t slept in my house for at least four nights before we left and for the week before that we slept in darkness and cold and it was so unlike home. My house is always warm and inviting and cozy.
So I miss my powered-up home. I miss my couch and the early morning talks over the news and my coffee maker and my bed and watching the world out my living room window while the dog barks at everyone. I miss the noises my kids make when they’re up at 1am, I miss cooking, I miss my backyard.
It has very little to do with being here in this lovely city and everything to do with how things were when we left and the fact that I haven’t really been home in three weeks.
We’re about to head out to the Barcelona aquarium now, which will give me a few hours of forgetting I’m holding a the world’s most self centered pity party in my my head.
Who goes on vacation and thinks about being home?