The more I travel, the more I love coming home

There is no way around it. I have learned that traveling is an extension of home. When I head out into this unique world, everything seems to point me back to my origins, even when I am thousands of kilometers away. A street, a smell, a dish, a simple light…

In every new city, the pattern repeats itself. A narrow street reminds me of the Alfama district in Lisbon, a wooden window-frame takes me back to the Minho region in northern Portugal, and even the smell of a simple broth on some lost corner makes me think of what my grandmother would have done with it. It is instinct. Missing home when you travel is the most human thing you can feel.

The more I travel, the clearer this becomes. Discovering the world expands me, but coming home grounds me. Over the years I have realized we all do this, even those who claim they do not. We look for equivalences, small connections that give shape to what feels unknown. A street that slopes like those in Porto, a counter café where the clatter of cups restores a sense of belonging, a plate of grilled fish that, for a moment, brings back the taste of the sea when we are close to it. We build invisible bridges, so we do not lose ourselves in too much strangeness.

It does not matter how many countries I have visited or the beauty I have crossed along the way. The beauty of return has a weight of its own, something final that no journey replaces. It feels like rest.

“Saudade”, what a beautiful and exclusive word. It is an inner compass that switches on the moment I am far away, reminding me that there is a ground that holds me. I travel to see what is out there, but I also travel to understand, more clearly, what I carry inside. And no matter how much the world pulls me, there is always a moment when I think the same thing, almost without words: it is good to be home and look in the eyes of my family.