My wife grew up in San Diego. I grew up on the French Riviera, at the foot of the Alps. You could spin out a 1000 stories from that fundamental difference – what she thinks of the cheese I like; what I think of the cars she likes to drive - but basically, I gave her crap for her ridiculous mountains, which are secretly fungal hills. You’ll see them if you ever drive around on the West Coast, between Baja and L.A. They're covered in water efficient green stuff and clumps of round, pale boulders that look like mushrooms, and they're short (like my wife - hah). I’m convinced they’re fake. Hippie communes probably store their shag rugs under them.
I was sitting on a friend’s back patio last night, looking up at the Alps. I’d just finished doing a few laps in her saltwater pool (which is awesome btw), so I had that nice I-just-did-light-exercise glow going, a small glass of rosé, and a handful of snacks. There were a couple people there - I think we were talking about work. Then the sun slipped a few more degrees lower and painted the bare rock faces and trees the color of the aforementioned rosé.
That’s when it hit me. I don’t hate my wife’s mountains any more than I hated the elderly gentleman who walked around our neighborhood in New York in purple velour and a top hat. I was just homesick.
Home is where you can feel small and a bit tired but eminently safe.