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Deep inside travelers lies a dark secret. It presents itself innocently enough, just a twinge as you're walking a foreign street, a slight ache that's probably just a little fatigue or hunger or maybe sun poisoning? Could you be -- no, you won't even let the word slip into your frontal lobe.
What is home, anyhow? I was lonesome for Europe for 30 years after returning to the States. Finally I am back here. Sometimes it's hard, but sometimes it's glorious. What does it matter when or where we die?