Coming home… not the same.
When I first started travelling, coming home was a very exciting time. The whole ride home I’d be thinking about what I’d do different, as if a trip gave me a new lease on life, and I’d be anxious to make calls and see people. These days there’s a realization before even getting off the final plane (if not earlier) that real life is waiting and that basic responsibilities are lingering. That feeling is really depressing. I’m now never ready to come home. I’d prefer to travel just a few more weeks and I’m far less inclined to show off my pictures to anybody, outside of what we post on our website. I could travel, I believe, for months before I got tired of it.
Of course, the best trips are the hardest to let end. Other trips, those that at least end roughly, actually encourage us to come home, much as our trip to Italy did when we got stuck at a London airport an extra 24 hours due to a Florida Hurricane. While the airport was nice enough, sleeping on its benches got really old really fast. I was so frustrated that particular evening that I broke part of a tooth from grinding my teeth.