I live in France. I love France. It’s where my family is, where my youngest two children were born, where I met my husband, where I studied, worked, and played my junior year of college...
That said, I grew up in Connecticut. More precisely - ‘Moosup’ Connecticut. ( Yes, delightful town name, isn’t it? Like a lot of New England landmarks, it derived from names given by the Native American Indians.) In any case, Connecticut still feels like home, even though I haven’t lived there in seven years.
I always felt like one of the luckiest people in the world to grow up where I did. As a lover of history, Connecticut held one of the original thirteen colonies and some of the colonial architecture still stands. There were times I’d be driving through one of the abundant back roads, look to the left and see the sun shining through the tree tops onto some forgotten relic ( a piece of an old stone wall, an abandoned farm, a wheel from what was once an old fashioned wagon) and feel like I was staring into a different time.
The beach is only 30 minutes away if you take off before traffic.
It takes about two hours to get to Time Square in New York.
And an hour to find yourself at Quincy Market in Boston.
It’s hot in the summer, snowy in winter, the leaves in autumn are reportedly some of the most vibrant and beautiful in the world, and spring brings forth sharp green and wildflowers galore. After growing up there, I could never live someplace that doesn’t have four distinct seasons.
To be honest, here I am, living ten minutes outside of Paris- one of the most beautiful cities on earth- and feeling so jealous of anyone lucky enough to live in my tiny, Native-American-named state. Life is funny that way.
Is there someplace you always feel is ‘home’, even though you haven’t lived there in a really long time?
