I've always been a wanderer. Before the age of ten, I had already lived in four different countries and grew up not truly feeling at home anywhere - a gypsy. A few years ago, when I was fluctuating between moving back to Montreal, or heading to Europe, my dad sat me down and told me: you will not feel at home anywhere until you find your soulmate. You will constantly feel restless. When you do find that person, it will not matter where you are, as long as you are together. I laughed and brushed his comment away. You don't know me, Dad.
Blessed, or perhaps, cursed, with an intense wanderlust, I have traveled with a fever that could not be quenched. And though I may say that I loved discovering new cultures, or meeting new people, the truth is, I traveled to find love. Though I never quite found love itself, the possibility, that vague promise that Prince Charming was just around a cobblestone street, tempted me. I was seduced-- in a cozy Parisian cafe, in a crowded Spanish club, at a train station in Sorrento –each encounter, each brief intermingling, each new night spent strolling along café ligned streets or, sitting along the banks of the Seine, was love, just waiting to happen. As I became an adult, my obsession with travel and, with Paris in particular, became synonymous with my future. I am destined to Paris, my soul belongs there, I thought.
Then, fate had her way and, I fell in love with the perfect man who had been waiting all along for me, here in the city I had long ago abandoned for daydreams of Paris and life abroad.
I still feel like a stranger in this city, and am still possessed with an intense and inextinguishable wanderlust. I don't know where I will settle down, where my career or travels will lead me but, as a wise man once said, what lies behind us, and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
When I rest my head on his shoulder and his arms envelope me in a deep embrace, my soul feels, finally, at home.