One does not need to be Ulysses nor spend years adrift wandering the world to yearn for home. Sometimes, ten days away are enough. In the year of The Odyssey, everything is steeped in classical metaphors, but how could one not use them if they are bigger than life. The hero of Homer is the epitome of the longing to return to what is familiar, to what has been built. We are not heroes, but people who love traveling as much as returning home. And now we are coming back: perhaps we did so a couple of weeks ago and we are still easing down from the midnight Lotus cookie ice-cream days, from cottages in the countryside, from a beachside shack with sardines, from reading by the pool, from village celebrations, from a novel or from around the world. And if we aren’t, we will be.
To want to turn the key in the door is a privilege. It means that our everyday life is safe and waiting for us. That is why arriving on familiar ground, watching Madrid draw near from the air, with its gaunt skyline of four towers or Santa Justa from the train and the brief sound of the lock turning, which is unique to each home, feels almost arousing.
Unpacking is less glamorous. The outbound suitcase is full of anticipation. The return one is full of dirty clothes. When we open it to put each item in its place we will again wonder why, when we left, everything fit, and on return it does not; we always do it. We will also reflect for a few seconds on the difficulty of bringing back original souvenirs and will exhale a small sigh. In any case, we manage to pick up some pungent cheeses, a basil toothpaste, a ceramic piece made by a woman with curly hair who paints in her workshop in a village of 300 inhabitants, some notebooks, in plural, or a ginger cream that reminds us of other people’s showers.
