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| at home, a luxury |
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| one of the most beautiful moments of every journey: coming home. even if at home is only a stop-over on an eternal journey. |
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actually, i have never really thought about where my home is. granted, in times of long travels or extended stays abroad your home becomes a magical place of longing. you long for the place where you suspect your roots, you long for the people that make these roots come to life. i often asked myself what this place called home stands for. whether it is a material or an immaterial value. whether it’s linked to a certain location. or if it’s rather just a feeling that makes me believe i’m at home. i keep coming up with thousands of different answers – that in the end aren’t quite conclusive enough to keep me from travelling and commit myself to one certain place forever. as much as i hate all the things that inevitably come with leaving one’s home – no matter if it’s for a short business trip or a long holiday, i also love the feeling that travelling gives me. granted, there are moments of exhaustion, moments of loneliness. when i’m sitting in an italian hotel room, all by myself, zapping through italy’s prime time program, i honestly feel a great longing for home. of course, there are a thousand different ways of artificially making belief that you’re at home. people who travel a lot often desperately try to give their stereotypic hotel rooms a feeling of home. scented candles, picture frames, music, cuddly blankets and toys – when business nomads open their suitcases, you can come across the strangest things. replacement fetishes that rather make you realize even more that you’re miles away from where you belong and miss your home. sometimes it’s necessary to mystify your home, to fall in love with it from afar. suddenly, all troubles of daily life that we inevitably experience at home are wiped from our memories.
basically, i have also fallen in love with the little town where i live and work today from afar. today, i smile at people who never dared to leave their nests and therefore harbour a childish grudge against this city and its peculiarities. when my diary is full of travel dates once again, i value the luxury of having a home more than any object of artificial affiliation that i could possibly buy. in times like these, being at home is my greatest wealth. at least until the next journey. |
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| martina müllner |
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