After spending a too short two weeks in Australia I find myself thinking about what home means - and how many homes can a person have?
I live in Dubai and have lived there for over ten years. I have good friends, friends I want to see regularly and often, in Dubai, the UK, Switzerland, Canada, Macedonia, Poland ... These are all people I have met since I moved to Dubai - they are the friends of my midlife and I love them dearly.
That said, I have friends in Australia who I have known for way longer and who I wish I could see more often. Two or three weeks a year visiting the country of my birth doesn't allow me to spend the time with them that I would wish to spend.
Then of course there is family. Love them or hate them, we can't live without them. They made us who we are. They shaped our lives, supporting us in times of trouble and grief, cheering us in times of triumph, and they are just there during the plodding days of ordinary life. And that's the important thing. They are there. Always. No matter what family ties tie. I have found that even remote cousins can sometimes seem at least as close as good friends because of our shared background; the family ties we have in common making up for any lack of shared experience.
So when it comes to ideas of home, and where I will spend the rest of my life, I confess I am torn. Sure I live in Dubai, but that's more because it's convenient than through any sense of belonging there. And Australia as the country of my birth, the home of my family, the place with which I am most familiar, well, it's home.
At this stage I find it impossible to say where I will end up - but I have a strong feeling that no matter where I keep my belongings, airport lounges will remain familiar places.
