I have a problem. I tend to fall for places easily. For a person who isn’t sure they understand what love is or is even sure it exists in the way I believed it did as a child — I’m awfully quick to say I love a place. And quickly followed by a declaration of love is the proclamation that I am moving to the place that has made its rather swift home in my flighty heart.
This happened again yesterday. I fell in love with one village after another as I explored Northamptonshire, Lincolnshire and Rutland counties in the Midlands of Great Britain. Great it was indeed to me. One stone house, after thatch roof, after aged but ornate detail impressed me to the point that I forgot my beloved NYC – and even found myself imitating a rather posh British accent that was good enough to fool a local or two.
I’m not kidding. (In hindsight I wish I was, about that last bit. How embarrassing!)
Does this ever happen to anyone else when they travel? (Not the accent! The other part.)
The last time it happened in real extreme to me, was of course when I was in Paris. How could it have not!
But what’s the consequence, if there is one?
If I am always leaving pieces of my heart wherever I travel, will I eventually have no pieces left to give anyone, or leave anywhere? Might I find myself one day with an inability to find wonder and joy in anything … might love lose every last bit of meaning it has and the idea of home become a permanently distant phenomenon …
I don’t have the answers, yet. But I do have my little spot in Stamford, “The Finest Stone Town in England” all picked out. This cottage should suit me just fine. Come visit when you can, eh?