Two weeks and I’ll be home.

I know I was back in the States a month ago, but it wasn’t home. It’s for an incredibly short ten days – but at least I’ll be home.

Home means something different to me than to other people out here. I know a lot of expats who don’t even think about going home. They have been out here so long that they don’t feel comfortable back where they came from. They visit family and relatives, maybe go to old haunts. But they don’t live there anymore. Then quite a few people I’ve met made homes out here. Got married and started families. This is home for them.

Not me. An expat is an expat for various reasons… and I will save that diatribe for another time. Because it seems to me some of the folks I spoke to about this understood the underlying reasons why someone becomes an expat (besides money), but never mentioned that to me. I’m not an expat. Home is important to me. When I mention home, I am often asked – “Is your family coming over to live with you?” To which I reply – no. Not that they wouldn’t if I asked. But I know my wife and son and I know where I live. It would be fine for about two weeks and then they would kill me in my sleep. They are active people – and this world out here is not for active people. It is for slowing down and retiring people. If you want to sit in your room, watch movies and read books – this is your place. If you want to see live music or drive around the countryside or go to a new restaurant from time to time – stay home.

Home is my family – both in Jersey and Connecticut. Home is my house and my front lawn. Home is shoveling my sidewalk in the snow. Home is my neighbors – the good and the bad. Home is my dog, rest his soul. Home is the harbor and the beach and a walk to the water. Home is the local movie theater, the bagel place and my favorite restaurant (hi Bellas!). Home is being close to New York. Home is my culture. Home is my country.

I think quite a few people I know out here have lost that feeling. I won’t be one of them.