This past weekend I took the train home to my parents’ house. The two hour train conveniently starts in Hoboken and ends in Hackettstown, so my new favorite pun is that I literally moved to the other side of the tracks. (Cue hysterical laughter.)
Going “home” to my parents (still not sure where that word should refer to) is always relaxing because it’s easy to go out to dinner, watch tv, sleep late, and wake up to birds chirping without feeling the obligation to be active and busy every second (although I never can sit still). I love that I come from the country, even though I love city living. My real goal for the weekend was to go our local farm to get the BEST apple cider and some pumpkins, just like old times. My hometown is filled with nostalgia.
In the city, I see sights like a man in a pink bunny costume walking through the crowd on Broadway. No one gave him a second glance. I didn’t notice the film crew until a block later which just goes to show, everything is considered normal. NYC doesn’t even need extras, we all play the part of “disinterested passerby” flawlessly.
In the country, everyone at the restaurant on Friday was staring out the window because the road crew was out late at night putting reflectors in the street. This was big news.
Having made the transition to the city and coming home time to time, I’ve learned to appreciate both. Eventually, I’ll have to choose, and I know where my roots are. Right now, I love where I came from and where I’m at.
Oh yeah, and I got my cider, pumpkins, and spaghetti squash!