The Ritual of Return
We often speak of travel as a pursuit of the new—unmapped cities, foreign languages, and hotels we have yet to experience. But for us, the most essential itinerary is the one that leads backward. We do not travel to family simply to visit; we travel to return to calm.
Both of us have lived lives defined by movement. Through childhood relocations and adult career shifts, we have changed zip codes more often than most. Because of this, "home" has never been a static point on a map for us. It is a fluid definition, moving wherever our immediate families happen to be gathered. It is not the walls that define the destination, but the people inside them.
Yet, there is a specific, grounding magic to the landscapes they occupy.
Returning to where I grew up means returning to a different pace of oxygen. It is a walk along the water that clears the static of the city, or a hike in the forest where the silence feels heavy and protective. It is watching the sunsets from my parents’ house—still some of the most beautiful I have ever seen—painting the sky in colors that feel uniquely familiar. Even the biting cold of a Christmas morning run along the boardwalk is part of the ritual; the freezing air is not harsh, but rejuvenating, a sharp reminder that I am back on solid ground.
I remember a trip to the Lake District in Italy where this reached its peak. It wasn't just a vacation; it was a culinary symposium.
Every aunt, uncle, sibling, and cousin arrived not just with luggage, but with a menu. The days were not measured in hours but in courses.
One cousin claimed breakfast, an uncle commandeered lunch, and my parents orchestrated dinner.
The kitchen was a chaotic, joyful ballet of flour and wine, a competitive collaboration where "I love you" was said with a perfect risotto or a braised lamb. We bonded through the work of our hands.
My husband’s family, rooted in the warmth of Latin culture, offers the perfect counterweight. In his world, the magic happens after the food is served. They are masters of the sobremesa—the Argentine art of lingering.
In his family home, the meal is merely the prologue. The main event is the conversation that follows, stretching for hours after the last plate has been cleared. There is no rush to wash dishes, no urgency to move to the living room.
There is only the table, the wine, and the suspended time of being together.
It is a culture that prioritizes presence over production, teaching me that sometimes the most productive thing you can do is simply sit still with the people you love.
Whether it is the "all-hands-on-deck" energy of my family’s kitchen or the marathon conversations of a Sunday lunch in Argentina, the lesson is the same. We travel not just to see the world, but to be restored by our people. In a life of high-speed pursuit, these are the anchors that hold us fast.
