Home, Let Me Come Home

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I learned something about myself this week. Probably not what was I hoped I would learn on a week-long business trip to south Florida…but nonetheless, I learned something.

I am a romanticizer of airports, or was until this week came into play.

Until this week I thought that airports were the most amazing, glamorous places. Don’t get me wrong, they are literally the garage for the vehicle that gets us up and gone. They are the first stop before paradise/someplace else. Most of the time, at least for me, that is amazing (though not always glamorous).

However, this week was a bit of an eye opener. There was no guise of the new and undiscovered to fool me into thinking that the airport is anyplace magical. It is a place that brings out the worst in some. It is a place that, no matter how quick the flight, makes you leave exhausted and looking like a war-torn nomad – especially for travelers like me who try and carry on everything ever.

No matter how bedraggled and disoriented the airport can make you, it’s not all bad because, it makes you remember that there is no place like home/your pal/slobbery kisses from the beefs/clean pj’s and wine.

 

*image via pinterest

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