This past weekend, against my valiant attempts not to, I came down with a cold. It was nothing to cry over, just your regular sore throat and sniffles, but I began to feel homesick all over again. As I’m in the beginning of week 3 in London, I’ve started to feel truly at home. Taking the Tube has become second nature, classes are routine and enjoyable, and the refectory food is decent, if not always what is desired. I’m feeling so comfortable in fact, that the idea of studying in New Hampshire again is sounding distasteful. I don’t want to leave!
But despite London’s charisma, it does have one major drawback: I can’t go home when I’m sick. I can’t jump in a car and drive home for a relaxing weekend in my own bed where my mother brings me tea and soup, and I watch Netflix and sleep all day. I am living in a place that has a giant ocean separating me from my friends, my parents, my boyfriend, and my comfortable familiarity. Is this what adulting is all about?
By Sunday, I was feeling much better, and spent the afternoon browsing a bookstore and drinking tea. My sentimental feelings for home disappeared, and I began to love London again. But my heart feels divided between my love for this wonderful city and all she offers, and my hometown, that somehow provides a comfort that I have yet to find elsewhere. It makes me wonder if this is occurring because I have never been this far away from home before, or if it’s just a fact of reality that your true home will be where you grew up. Or, perhaps home is where you are with the people you love.