I don't take vacations. I don't even really like vacations the way most people do it. You leave home, go somewhere where you don't know how to get around or what to do other than spend money on junk to bring home to prove you went there. What I really love is to move every year or two. Just pack it up and take off to somewhere new and then make it home. Find out who the people are, what it smells like after rain there, how the people act when you've been to church with them, eaten with them, or been their nurse. For instance, I now know that Cuban coffee is far better from the greasy guy on the corner downtown than at the swanky Southbeach restaurant. I know that the humidity actually increases in the air after one of those spectacular thunderstorms in Miami. How do I know that Miami smells like diesel fuel and sounds like a party? Because I've lived there. How do I know that the clouds in July over the sky in Minnesota are so white and fluffy that it makes your eyes hurt to look at them too long, or that Lake Wobegon is a real place to every Minnesotan who grew up living at the lake for the summer? Because I've lived there. How do I know that in the Oregon Outback people are as hard as the rocks and horses are often treated better? Because I've lived there. Would I have really learned anything of the place by visiting? Not the way I want to. I want to know intimately. I have discovered that home has several definitions for me. First, home is where ever my beloved is. Second, it is anywhere I have ever called home for more than a few months. And lastly it is where I am from. My midwestern roots have served me well and there are times when I am pretty sure I'll retire to some little cabin on a lake. But for now, I'll pack my bags again and look for the next place that I can inhabit with all of myself. Save the vacations for going home...