Palm trees and taco trucks. Feels like home to me.
Being in West Palm this past week made me realize something — I love this town and it will forever have a piece of my heart.
I love my parents’ house. I love how loud it is — television blaring, pots and pans banging and people yelling…at 7:30 a.m. I love how comfortable it is — how we never really sit, but sprawl. I love sitting outside in the balmy heat, listening to the fountain gurgle and Chet Baker and the puppy across the lake barking at the ducks. I love the psychotic little squirrel who leaps up onto the porch screen and proceeds to lick his way across.
I love how the air always smells just a little salty and being hit with a memory whenever I’m driving around — “Gabby and I sang Macy Gray at that gas station!” “Paul’s car broke down there and we had to push it home!” “I drove around listening to Jimmy Eat World on the way home from Jerry’s…”
I love watching the World Cup with the family — collectively screaming at the television and hearing Mom call the Argentinians liars every time they take a dive (and they dive more than Jacques Cousteau).
I love knowing that this place is part of me. It’s a pretty great place to call home.
Too Sweet For Rock & Roll 