Home away from home
  
I just returned from a long holiday on the other side of the world - Brazil. I didn't know what to expect and it didn't matter - I would be safely ensconced in my parents' home there, catching up with the family I hadn't seen in over a year. Indeed, this trip was more about family than anything else - traveling across the world from far flung destinations to congregate in South America for one month of bliss.

I have made this journey often - not necessarily to Brazil but to wherever my parents have called 'home' in the past five years. We made these journeys together when I was younger. The first of them was to Vienna, Austria, when I had just turned nine. I remember my sister attempting to explain the circumstances of the Second World War to me while improvising gory stories on the Neo Nazis [to addle my overactive imagination]. Three years later, we found ourselves bursting into tears as our plane heaved itself off the runway in Vienna, wondering what the future held for us in Sri Lanka. 

Being the daughter of a diplomat, I have become accustomed to these arrivals and departures. I find myself growing restless at the prospect of a long holiday - the wanderlust is still there. I sometimes wonder if I will ever be able to fully 'settle down' in one place - there are so many places to see, so many possibilities to choose from. 

But perhaps the truth lies in the moment I see my dad waiting outside the sliding doors of an airport.