Wistful

Let me start out by saying: I am happy with my life. Happier than I've been with it in a long, long time. Happier than I was when my sister and I still called Europe "home".
There are days though. Days like this, around the holidays, when all my TCK friends are talking about flying home- to Wien, to Luxembourg, to Bourg d'Oisans- and about going to Christkindlmarkt's. On those days, part of me wishes that I could fly home for the holidays, home to my Europe.
Yesterday I went to a choral performance with my roommate. We got there early, and as we waited we looked around the church where it was being held. There was a smallish wooden nativity scene there, with a few carved figurines, a bit of dried grass, and a wood hut to house them. The wood was beautiful and all, but I was struck, when I saw it, with an emotion I did not expect: disappointment. And a bit of disdain, too. I missed the elaborate Belens of Catalunya. So, to make the memory come to life before my own eyes, I started to describe it to my roommate, whose face lit up with the very wonder I had hoped for.
So though I have come to terms with the fact that going home to my parents means a twenty-minute drive into the suburbs of the city, there are some things I reserve the right to miss; like the streets of Europe at Christmastime.
(to see some examples of what I'm talking about, search "Belen navidad" in google images.)
over 'n out.
E.O.