:: home ::

When I'm driving down the 8 and start to see familiar signs, ones like "El Cajon Blvd." and "2nd Street," I feel like I'm driving home. After trying to figure out Chicago's freeways for three days last fall, I remember how good it felt to know where I was going again. I was going home.

Target looks almost the same everywhere, but there's something about the one I always go to. I don't get lost looking for the baby section (yesterday I bought a green Easter dress for Ellise). I know where the photo albums are.

The Submarina near my house has only three employees that I know of, and all of them know the sandwich I want. Three inch Santa Fe on wheat, please, and she's already cutting the wheat bread.

If you spin the globe and stop almost exactly half-way around, your finger will be on a spot where another dining establishment knows what I want when I'm walking in the door. Daun ubi, nangka, rendang, and she's adding extra sauce because that's how I like my rice: wet.

It's safe to say there's no place like home, but I don't know where I'd end up if I started clicking my heels together. Today it was Jamul, and I loved today.


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