Every year I interrupt my nomadic existence to go home, the place I grew up.  Every Christmas the allure of exotic locales can’t manage to outshine the brilliance of Middle of Nowhere, Michigan.  Funny what a nice family does to you.  I crave corn fields over white sand beaches, and choose metro-Detroit potholes to a skydiving adventure elsewhere.

So it’s not that I’ve never retraced my footsteps.  But up until now I’ve never re-visited one of the more exotic places I once lived.  Then last month JD and I went back to South Africa.  The reason: a fantastic family wedding in Johannesburg.  Our detour to the city of Cape Town, where we spent three years together before moving on to Vietnam, seemed innocent enough.  What I didn’t realize then was that an old home is like an old boyfriend: it can unexpectedly rekindle a fire you’d thought burned out long ago.  Really, I should’ve known better.  After two years as “just friends” on separate continents, JD and I were back together one second after we saw each other again.  I have no excuse to underestimate South Africa’s charm.

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