Barcelona, Paris, Brussels and London. All in the last few days of the trip. But to be honest my head was already home. I know I was impressed by the architecture of Gaudi and the famous pissing boy statue and I jerked back into the present once or twice while looking up at Big Ben and Tower Bridge, but mostly I was focused on the massive task of adjusting to standing still.

We spent two months in Australia, then two weeks in Thailand, then two days in Athens. The pace of travel was always increasing as the countries got smaller. Falling asleep in Paris and waking up in Madrid seemed not only normal but for some reason necessary. My inertia was so strong I felt sure that as soon as my feet landed in New York my knees would continue towards Chicago and my head would already be somewhere around Hawaii before it knew what was happening.

But somehow I made it, head to toe, back home. I didn’t realize how tired I was, more mentally than physically. In my hometown of Westford I can get in the car and put my brain on autopilot. Without using a single conscious brain cell I can find the gas station, the supermarket, the closest ATM (not that I have any money). All that cheeseball nonsense about how travel makes you appreciate where you’re from isn’t so nonsensical after all.

Of course one full night of prime time TV later, I’m starting to wonder where I should head to next.