Sitting in Heathrow Airport, on layover before the last leg of my journey, I can’t help but think of all the things I want to do when I get home. I find it shocking that when I had vacationed in the past I would come home, rev up my car, and dash to Jack-in-the-Box for chicken strips, curly fries, and an oreo cookie shake. The thought of more food disgusts me as the majority of this trip was spent eating and drinking. Always two bottles of red and two bottles of white to start, and stern advice to the waiters: “We don’t ever want to see a glass empty. Got it?”
No food cravings this time. Instead I foresee raw veggies in my diet for the next week–for the pure blandness of it. I have maxxed out on my quota of steak, duck, and chicken mayonnaise sandwiches.
I long to read an American newspaper, to check my stock portfolio with the hope that the gains will offset even a small portion of my pricey vacation. I want to flip through the trashy media: Us Weekly, People, and the celebrity gossip blogs I’m used to reading on a daily basis.
I’m curious to log on to my laptop and see what has progressed or not progressed on the work front given the Thanksgiving holiday. I was pleased with how I left things–nothing critical on my end.
I can’t wait to talk to my friends and family, to sit and read on my couch, to sleep in my own bed.
But most of all, I cannot wait to lace up my well-worn New Balances and hit the Golden Gate Park track with my iPod. After the constant interaction with others, the solitude and serenity of it… After the numbing 22+ hours in an economy seat and sitting in taxis and tour buses, the full-body movement of it… A particular kind of heaven. It’s good to be home.