I found myself asking this question after spending 10 days road-tripping around the country and staying with family and friends. It wasn’t so much location that got me thinking, but what defines home, or what we think home is, or more to the point, what and where I might consider home.

In 2004, traveling through Europe on my own, as I crossed the French side of the Basque Region into Spain, I experienced a strong sensation I had been here before. I hadn’t. Born and raised almost 20, 000 kilometres away in Wellington, New Zealand, it would have taken some serious astral projection to get there. I had never felt so at home as I did when I dove into the ocean at San Sebastian. For some reason, I didn’t think this it at all strange. In fact, I was almost ecstatic with delight.

The more I’ve traveled, the longer I’ve spent outside the city and the country I was born, the less tied I’ve felt to a specific location, particularly the one on my passport.

It wasn’t always like this. When I was young I was very attached to the sports club I belonged and the tight circle of friends I grew up with. Thoughts of travel were entertained. Dreams only. Ideas at best. Plans were put on hold due to my, ahem, moderately misspent late adolescence and early twenties, which meant the furthest I ever traveled was from the suburbs into the city. It would take too much effort. Too much to lose, to leave behind. Fear. Doubt. Procrastination. Kept me where I was. Stagnant. Too many ‘what-ifs’ made me city- and country-bound.

Thankfully that’s no longer the case; ten of the last fifteen years have been spent either outside my hometown or my country. Experiencing all there is too offer - with an often limited budget. Drinking in the freedom, opportunity and connection that comes with travel. The strange places, the left turns, the people. Always the people. Despite this I keep returning to New Zealand. Only my parents live here now and a smattering of my closest friends. My brother and sister joined the exodus to Australia a long time ago.

This time we were supposed stay a year, then return to London, or maybe relocate to Spain. The birth of our daughter has changed things, made that decision more complex, other considerations have come into play. These considerations have a name: Grandparents. They tell us to live our dreams, be happy, go where your heart takes you, but I know theirs will be broken if we were to take their granddaughter away. You see it in the way they interact with each other. There is love, deep, unspoken, unconditional love. Their DNA survives. Thousands of years of history and culture sandwiched between two adorable chubby cheeks.

I have a feeling we’ll leave anyway. Make a home somewhere else, for a time. Peace, contentment and happiness can always be found ‘over there’. Never right here, right now.

I don’t think home is where the heart is or wherever I lay my hat. I don’t think it is necessarily where you were born, or where you are right now.

But it could be.

During my travels I often meet people who are running away from something (I don’t think you need to travel to want to avoid whatever it is you can’t bear confronting). It doesn’t need to be explicitly stated, you can see it in the way they move, what they say, how they say it. I thought I was the exception. Told myself I was running towards something (my now older self is chuckling in a way my then younger self would have found extremely annoying). This seemed a bit cooler, more self-aware. Never really knew what it was that I was running towards. Whatever it was it was going to be GREAT!

What does all this have to do with the concept of home? Well, I think we’re all trying to get to some where. Whether that be:

• Success
• Fame
• Family
• Happiness
• Joy
• Hollywood
• Timbuktu
• The toilet

These things - and many others - often make me feel as if I’ve arrived at my desired destination/outcome. For a moment it feels like I’ve come home. But it’s a lie.

I’m starting to think home is somewhere deep inside of me, untethered to the physical, geographical, or personal. Separate, even, to the human mind.

I’m working on getting there, which means I’m missing the point.