Home is not simply a house. It is an idea that is tethered to place. My recollection of home is not only the structure where I dwelled with my family, it is a much bigger place: Los Angeles.
Home is filled not only with fond memories, but with tastes, smells, sounds, sights, and more.
I miss the smell of the beach air that creeps into the car before you can see the ocean. I miss the taco stands that line the streets of the shabby San Fernando Valley. While others, including my brother, may claim that the Valley is ghetto, its my ghetto and I miss it terribly. I would give anything for the taste of authentic carne asada right now.
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