Sometimes I miss home.
There, I said it.
In all my talk about being adventurous and brave, here I am: living in the country of my dreams, feeling homesick.
I miss working right across the street from the Rogers Centre and the CN Tower. I miss the TTC, even though it was late more than half of the time. I miss walking through Queen West after work just to window shop. I miss Sense Appeal Coffee Roasters and being a complete snob about the perfect cappuccino. I miss my house outside the city and my roommates who treated me better than I deserved. I miss the snow on the sidewalks and the smell of road salt. I miss walking through the forest on my way to school and reading philosophy books on the bus.
I miss home.
But you know, maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe it’s not so bad to be homesick. Maybe this is all some grand plan to get me to enjoy what it is that I do have.
I live in rural Ireland, in a double-landlocked county, full of some of the nicest people the world over. I live in a world of hurling and sheep, and ruined castles. I can fly to awesome places in Europe for less than 50 Euro. I can spend my days off in Dublin or wandering around the Rock of Dunamase.
You know, sometimes you have to push through the pain, as it were. Sometimes things aren’t okay, and that’s okay, but you can’t always just wallow.
And I know this, and I get it. But sometimes I miss home.
And that’s just the way it is.