The Problem With Being a Home Collector

I've had a few moments, usually occurring on the train (prime thinking time), where I realize how much I like living in a foreign country. Things have become newly familiar, but not so familiar that I'm bored with it all.

I really like walking to the grocery store and buying my fresh produce, even having a laugh with an employee about what half and half is (they don't really carry this in England).

I like making the train last minute just as the doors are shutting, giving me a sense of validation that I am beating the system, or am athletic, or something.

I love all the stone buildings around me, everywhere I turn. It's constant beautiful architecture that makes my soul smile...and I cringe when I think of the strip malls America insists on building.

This place. It's starting to feel like home.

So where does that leave San Diego? Another home, far away but still in my heart.

So now I am a home collector. But the problem with being a home collector is you are always missing someone or something or somewhere. Sometimes I wish I could merge the cities together, but even if that were possible, it would fail miserably. Putting an ocean by London would change its cool dark aesthetic and urban feel. Placing a bunch of stone buildings in Cali would put a damper on its sunny disposition.

And so I love both, separately. And when the time comes to choose one, the once clear choice has become a bit cloudy. Maybe I'll know better when that time comes.